He’d never come this close to panic in his life. Never before lost faith in himself, seen himself as beaten, seen them all as dead men.
He lost track of time. The silence seemed to endure forever, had neither beginning nor end to it. In reality, only seconds passed. He felt now a light touch on his arm. His brother had come to stand beside him. He turned to face the boy. Dickon was afraid. It showed in the rigidness of his posture, the way he hunched his shoulders forward, his sudden pallor. Too stunned for pain; that would come later…if he lived long enough. But the eyes didn’t waver, looked back at him steadily. Edmund’s eyes, full of trust.
Edward drew an uneven breath, found it hurt to breathe, as if he’d taken a jarring blow to the midsection. When he spoke, however, his voice was very much his own, held no hint of panic.
“It’s a well-timed trap he’s sprung on us. I always said Johnny was the soldier in the Neville family.” And saw he alone was surprised that he could sound so controlled, detached even. To the others, it was no more than they expected of him.
“What do we do, Ned?” The question came from Richard, had in it much of that same sobering faith he’d seen in the boy’s eyes.
Will, too, was awaiting his response. Anthony, however, had begun to pace, as if movement could somehow forestall the coming catastrophe; unable to contain himself any longer, he burst out with an agitated, “What can we do but fight? If we rally our men…”
Edward turned to stare at his brother-in-law. “They have us outnumbered by damned near two to one,” he said, not troubling to conceal his scorn. “More importantly, they’re ready to fight and we’re not. Long before we could gather our forces, they’d be upon us. You did hear the man say they’re less than six miles distant?”
Anthony flushed scarlet. There was another brief silence as they took in the awesome implications of Edward’s words.
“Have we time to withdraw, Ned?” Will was watching him intently and looked pained but not surprised when Edward shook his head.
“We’d be butchered,” he said succinctly. “Whether we try to make a stand here or pull our men back. We haven’t the time, we’re greatly outmanned, and Warwick’s army is doubtlessly on the move at this very moment to cut off escape to the south.”
He paused, his eyes moving from face to face. “My father and brother were slain at Sandal Castle because they engaged a far superior force. It was daring, heroic, foolhardy…and fatal. I’ll not make the same mistake.
“Give the order to disperse. Tell our men to scatter as they will. Now…get me Will Hatteclyffe.”
Within moments, his secretary-physician was standing before him, anticipating his need, numbly offering pen and paper. With a sweep of his arm, Edward cleared the table. The others watched; there was no sound but the rapid scratching of his pen. Straightening, he handed the message, unread, to Hatteclyffe.
“Pick a man you can trust. Have him convey this to the Queen. Tell her to seek sanctuary at St Martin’s or Westminster. Better yet, take it yourself, Will.”
“Don’t ask that of me, Your Grace.” Hatteclyffe’s voice cracked, thickened with emotion. “I would go with you…be it into the very pits of Hell.”
Edward almost smiled at that…almost. “Not as far as that, Will…at least, not yet. For now, it’s to be Burgundy.”
Burgundy. Saying it aloud suddenly made it real. He knew time was of the essence, knew Johnny would reach Doncaster within the hour. Yet for a moment he stood immobile. And then, with an effort, he roused himself, looked to see the impact upon his companions. Anthony seemed dazed. Will was pale, but composed; thank God for Will…and for Dickon.
“Christ keep you, lad,” he said abruptly, “this will be the second time you’ve had to seek refuge in Burgundy.”
Richard had moved to the window. Now that the worst was known, he was finding this delay to be intolerable. His nerves were raw, taut with the need for action, to be gone from here. He’d felt as if those few moments Ned had taken to write to Elizabeth had lasted the whole of his lifetime, and with each passing minute he expected to hear the sounds of the approaching enemy force echoing in the courtyard. That the enemy was Johnny and that flight meant foreign exile…He was too numbed truly to take that in. Now he wanted only to escape this room, escape this waking nightmare into which he had so suddenly been thrust. The shutters were securely latched, resisting his probing fingers; all at once, it was crucial to him that the window be open, and he jerked the bolt until the aged wood splintered, gave way grudgingly.
At Edward’s surprising words, he swung around to regard his brother searchingly. After hesitating, he managed a moderately passable grin and a self-conscious shrug.
“Old habits die hard, Ned.”
The reply was unexpected. Edward stared and then he grinned, too, more convincingly than Richard but still leaving much to be desired.
“So do men, Little Brother,” he said grimly. “Therefore, I suggest we ride as if our lives depend upon it…. For they do.”
The fortified manor house occupied by England’s King still flew the Yorkist banner as John Neville entered Doncaster. But the man he sought was miles away, racing east through the night as the sky ahead paled and turned a soft misty grey.
Reaching the northern shore of the Wash, the Yorkist fugitives commandeered what craft they could and headed for Lynn, a fishing village on the Norfolk coast. Edward’s legendary luck seemed to have deserted him; their small ships were battered mercilessly in an unseasonal gale and a number of their men drowned, Edward himself barely escaping a like fate.
On September 30, they landed in Lynn, and, with several hundred of their more steadfast followers crammed into small fishing vessels, they abandoned England and sailed for Burgundy. It was a Tuesday, October 2, the Feast Day of the Guardian Angels, just twenty days since Warwick had landed at Dartmouth. It was also Richard’s eighteenth birthday.
17
London
October 1470
Not until Monday, October 1, did word reach London of John Neville’s defection and Edward’s midnight flight from the northern village of Doncaster. Sir Geoffrey Gate, a man sworn to the Earl of Warwick, immediately seized his opportunity and led a successful assault upon the Southwark prisons. Scores of political prisoners, men loyal to Lancaster or Warwick, were freed. Freed, too, however, were countless convicted felons, and they surged through the streets of Southwark, looting shops and alehouses, terrorizing the sizable community of Flemish merchants, and creating panic even in the eighteen bankside bordellos of that area of Southwark commonly known as “the stews.”
London’s Mayor ordered the city gates closed to the mob, but throughout the day the air was acrid with the smoke of Southwark fires. At dark, Elizabeth Woodville, in her eighth month of pregnancy, gathered her three small daughters and her two young sons, and sought refuge at Westminster in the abbey of St Peter. Robert Stillington, Edward’s Chancellor, fled to sanctuary at St Martin le Grand, and by dawn, the churches were crowded with those Yorkists unwilling or unable to recant their support for the White Rose.
On Friday, October 5, George Neville, Archbishop of York, rode boldly into London, took command of the Tower of London, and released Harry of Lancaster from his long confinement. A bewildered Harry, clutching his prayer missals and the companions of his captivity, a small grey spaniel and a caged starling, was taken from the spartan chamber he’d liked to call his monk’s cell. After courtesies that evoked dim memories deep within the troubled brain, he found himself a reluctant resident of the lavishly furnished apartment still fragrant with the perfume of Edward’s Queen.
On Saturday afternoon, October 6, Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, entered the city through Newgate. Greeted by his brother, the Archbishop, he proceeded in state to the Tower of London, where he knelt and swore fealty to the man who neither comprehended nor cared that he was once more His Sovereign Grace, Henry VI.
The men, women, and children of London turned out to watch as the Lancastrian
King and the Kingmaker rode slowly through the city streets toward St Paul’s Cathedral. Brightly colored banners fluttered from upper windows. The open-fronted shops and market stalls were closed. Silk streamers painted with the Bear and Ragged Staff were strung the width of cobbled streets. The conduits ran with wine as if it were a Coronation Day, and it seemed as if the entire citizenry was waving or wearing Neville crimson.
The Earl of Warwick was mounted on a magnificent destrier, an Arabian warhorse as creamy-white as frothed milk; it drew many an admiring glance as it swept by, chafing under its rider’s restraining hand.
George, Duke of Clarence, had chosen, too, to ride a white stallion. Unlike Warwick, however, he wore no armor, and a cloak of crimson velvet caught the breeze and the attention of the crowd. But the more discerning observer noted the thinned line of his mouth, the wary eyes, and found cause for conjecture.
John Neville, Marquess of Montagu, rode beside his ordained brother, as somber of visage as the Archbishop was exultant. The spectators nudged each other and murmured as he passed by, this reserved taciturn man who had brought down a King and looked not at all as if he gloried in his victory.
Lord Stanley, brother-in-law to Warwick, rode in their wake. Next came the Earl of Oxford and Lord Fitz-Hugh, handsomely mounted and well attended. But only Warwick himself drew more stares than the middle-aged man clad in a long gown of blue velvet, a gown that draped him as shapelessly as a shroud, having been made for a much larger man, the deposed Yorkist King.
Warwick had prudently seen that Harry of Lancaster was astride a docile grey gelding, and the animal moved obediently along even though the reins trailed loosely through lax fingers. Milky blue eyes blinked repeatedly, as though unused to the light. An unfocused smile would shape his mouth from time to time, but he seemed not to understand that the tepid cheers of “God save the King!” were meant for him.
Will Parr watched as Harry of Lancaster rode by. For a moment, the pale eyes looked in his direction; Harry smiled, a smile of singular sweetness, and Will saluted his King, thinking, The poor witless creature, God pity him…God pity us all.
“Where do you think they will go after they make offerings at St Paul’s?” he asked his companion, low-voiced.
“Warwick will doubtlessly stay at the Bishop’s Palace, or perhaps the Herber, and I expect they will take his Grace the King to Bedlam.”
Bedlam was the popular name for St Mary of Bethlehem Hospital, London’s asylum for the deranged of mind…and Francis had not troubled to drop his voice. Laughter rustled through the crowd, and disapproving murmurs as well, motivated, perhaps, more by expediency than loyalty to Lancaster, but dangerous withal.
“For Christ’s sake, Francis, guard your tongue!” Grabbing Francis by the arm, Will jerked him back, pulling him hastily toward the nearest cross street.
“This way…and hurry! You may not care if your head graces Drawbridge Gate, but I’ve no wish to be carrion for the ravens!”
Francis didn’t resist, following as Will roughly shouldered his way through the crowd. Once they moved away from Lombard Street, the path of the procession, the congestion eased considerably and Will slowed to glare at his friend.
“Why not just shout for York on the steps of St Paul’s and have done with it?”
Francis had the grace to look contrite. “You’re right, Will. I didn’t mean to endanger you. But when I saw that poor pious fool with the crown of England on his head…I couldn’t bear it,” he concluded simply.
Mollified, Will patted his arm in an awkward gesture of comfort. “I know. I was at Middleham, too, Francis. But it won’t change things if I die a martyr for York…and the same holds true for you. Try to bear that in mind.”
Francis nodded. “Rob Percy was with Dickon; did you know that, Will?” he asked, after they’d walked a full block in silence.
“No, I did not. Be you sure?”
“I left York on September eleventh for the Fitz-Hugh manor at Tanfield, and Rob was still there, with no plans to depart.”
“They say Edward ordered his army to scatter. Rob may be back in Scotton even now.”
“You know better than that,” Francis said shortly, and Will frowned.
“Yes, I confess I do. If the tale be true that they have fled to Burgundy, then Rob is in Burgundy, too.”
“I heard today that their ship was sunk in a gale, with the loss of all aboard,” Francis said, in so neutral a tone that Will turned a sharp inquiring look in his direction.
“And I heard that they were taken by the French; would you rather believe that? Jesú, Francis, you know better than to heed idle tavern talk! Not even Warwick knows for certes the whereabouts of Edward of York.”
Francis had no chance to respond. A cascade of greasy water gushed from an upper window of an overhanging second story. Francis, cat-quick, pulled Will back in time, but two other passersby were not as fortunate and were drenched. Understandably outraged, they directed a stream of sputtering oaths upward, where a woman’s face appeared briefly to assess indifferently the damage done and slam the shutters on their tirade.
“The graceless jade!” One of the victims appealed angrily to Will and Francis. “You saw…. Look at my jerkin; I’m soaked through!” Raising his voice to a shout.
“Plague take you, you careless bitch! May your man lay with harlots and bring you back the pox! May you have even as many griefs as the Woodville slut!”
Francis and Will walked on, leaving him to rant under the street-wise eyes of two small boys and an emaciated mongrel dog.
“A week ago, he’d have said that at the risk of his head,” Francis said bitterly. “God, how quick they are to pick the bones clean!”
Cecily Neville, Duchess of York, had long shown a preference for her rural retreat at Berkhampsted over Baynard’s Castle, the London palace of York. But with the approach of All Hallows’ Eve, she was once more in residence by the River Thames, and each time she ventured forth to attend Mass at St Paul’s or to make charitable offerings to the hospitals of St Bartholomew and St Thomas, Londoners remembered her son, the young Yorkist King.
It was dusk. Earlier in the day a festive procession had thronged the city streets, moving from the guildhall in Aldermenbury Street through Cheapside, Fleet Street, and the Strand, toward Westminster, where the newly elected Lord Mayor of London would take oath of office. Now, however, the streets were passable once more and Francis had no difficulty in engaging a barge to ferry him from Southwark to Paul’s Wharf, within walking distance of Baynard’s Castle.
The presence chamber oriel window faced south, and Francis had an unobstructed view of the Thames, where flickering lights marked the passing river traffic. He’d not really expected the Duchess of York to receive him, and he was beginning to regret the impulse that, in the common room of a Southwark inn, had seemed inspired, but in the presence chamber of Baynard’s Castle, seemed audacious in the extreme.
She’d come in so silently that he’d heard neither the door nor the light step, and he spun around, startled, as she spoke his name.
Her first words brought her sons vividly to his mind, for she shared with all of her children an uncommonly pleasing voice, well modulated, melodious, not easily forgotten. She extended her hand to him and he kissed the long tapering fingers, barren of jewelry save an ornate wedding band of heavy gem-encrusted gold.
She held a folded paper in her other hand, and as he straightened, she passed it to him with the faintest glimmer of a smile.
“I would caution you not to commit your indiscretions to print,” she said coolly. “You’d best burn this.”
Francis crumpled the message which had gained him entry. “I am proud to be friend to His Grace, the Duke of Gloucester. Nothing which has happened in the past four weeks has changed that, Your Grace.”
“You shall not prosper, I fear, under Lancaster, Francis Lovell.”
“I should not care to, Madame.”
“Why did you wish to speak with me?”
<
br /> The grey eyes were disconcertingly direct, and he felt compelled to speak the truth.
“London has become a virtual cesspool for rumors and gossip…of the vilest sort.” His mouth twisted. “The scandalmongers and doomsayers delight in the most outlandish tales, each one warranted as gospel truth.”
“Ah…I see. You fear the stories are true? That Edward did drown while attempting a Channel crossing?”
“I do not know, Madame,” he conceded quietly. “And that is what I cannot endure. I truly believe I would rather know the worst than know nothing at all. I thought, perhaps, that you would have word…that you might know….”
“Edward came ashore at Texel in Holland nigh on a month ago, the same day that Richard’s ship put in safely on the island of Walcheren in Zeeland. They were reunited at The Hague on the eleventh of October.”
“Deo gratias,” he breathed, so sincerely that she gave him a smile such as she reserved for very few.
Scorning the cushion he offered, she seated herself in a heavy high-backed chair, and indicating the nearest footstool, bade him do likewise.
“What I am to tell you comes from the pen of my daughter, Duchess of Burgundy, written in her own hand and dispatched by secret courier as soon as she learned of Edward’s landing in her husband’s realm.
“There is some truth in those grim tales being traded in London alehouses. The Easterlings* were on the alert for the Yorkist ships; the captain who captured Edward of York could have claimed his own reward from the French King. They pursued Edward into the very port of Texel, but it was ebb tide and neither ship could dock. The Easterlings dropped anchor, were waiting till the tide would rise enough for them to board Edward’s ship.”
The Sunne In Splendour: A Novel of Richard III Page 28
