by MARY HOCKING
‘I think Francis will win,’ Isabel said, feeling that participation would make the event more interesting.
‘No, Richard will win,’ Anne said.
Richard was the more assured horseman and his reactions were quicker; he pulled his horse up immediately he had passed his opponent so that he had turned and was ready to charge again while the more exuberant Francis thundered on, carried away by excitement in the sheer joy of the exercise.
‘Francis rides the best, doesn’t he?’ Isabel appealed to her father.
‘He rides well enough.’ Warwick liked the boy’s dash and vigour, but he regretted the fact that Francis seemed unaware that he was training for combat in which he might be killed.
‘Oh, look!’ Anne said. ‘Richard is upon him and he is not ready!’
Richard had wasted no energy on bombast; no thunderous assault for him, only a precision which would one day become deadly.
‘Remarkable!’ Warwick muttered. He rode across to congratulate the boy who had now unseated his opponent. Before he could speak, however, Richard had taken off his helmet and dashed it on the ground.
‘That . . .’ he spluttered, pointing a shaking finger in the direction of his opponent, now remounting laboriously, ‘That . . . is all I get . . . day after day . . . How can I possibly test myself against that!’ He was white-faced and spitting with rage.
A pity, Warwick thought, that so admirable a control should be destroyed by this spewing up of passion. ‘You have much to learn yourself,’ he said. ‘Put on that helmet.’
The boy looked at him in surprise.
‘You’re dissatisfied,’ Warwick said grimly. ‘You shall have another bout.’
The lad was all to pieces now and the chance was that Francis Lovell, who had a more equitable disposition, would make a fool of him.
‘Will Francis win this time?’ Isabel asked her father.
‘I think he may; and it will encourage him and teach young Richard a lesson.’
But it was Warwick who had to learn a lesson, for Francis might have saved himself the trouble of remounting he was so soon on the ground again. This time the fall was a heavy one. Richard’s temper might cloud his reason, but on horseback it was an almost miraculous stimulant.
‘That temper,’ Warwick muttered, angry at his own lack of judgement, ‘is surely of the Devil!’
The two little girls were taken back to the castle, and when evening came devil and victim must return also, sweat cooling on their brows as they rode from their exertions into the deep shadow of the keep. Isabel and Anne, lingering by a window in the gallery to catch the last of the day, watched them dismount and lead their horses into the courtyard. Richard, who seemed pleased with himself, looked up and called to them, ‘Are you damsels in distress? Shall we rescue them, Francis, or leave them to their fate? What think you?’
The girls felt it was impudence to involve them in such nonsense and Anne, nose scarce above sill-level, piped disdainfully, ‘Until you have mastered the art of the tournament, you hadn’t better try anything more difficult.’
This very adult statement from so small a girl sobered her would-be rescuers.
‘You’d have to climb out of the window, anyway,’ Francis said. ‘I don’t suppose you could do that to save your life.’
‘To save my life I certainly could,’ she retorted. ‘But not for a silly game.’
The two warriors turned their backs on the girls.
‘Boys don’t like being talked to like that,’ Isabel said. ‘You made them look foolish.’
‘They are foolish.’
‘But you mustn’t let them see that you know it.’
‘Why not, since it is so?’
‘Oh, Anne, I pity your husband!’
‘You’re quite right to, if it means I have to puff him up and play silly games when I haven’t a mind to. Ughh! I shall never do that willingly.’
‘But don’t you feel you want to go down to them and soothe them? I do. Particularly Francis. He has such a fair skin and it flamed so painfully when you were sharp with them.’
‘What rubbish! And if I were to go down to either of them, it would be Richard. Richard at least knows how to fight.’ She sounded very fierce for so small a child.
They continued to their chamber, arguing.
The boys had by now left their horses to the grooms. In the courtyard, shadow encroached and there was already a candle alight in an upper window. A smell of ale wafted from a grating, metal clattered on a stone floor and there was an angry exclamation followed by an explosion of laughter. The boys, alone now, hesitated, hovering between enmity and friendship. A moth flickered above their heads and Richard thrust out a hand and tried to catch it. Far beyond the castle walls, a night bird called, a flat, sad sound, dying away slowly. The boys looked around them, shifting uneasily from one foot to another, unused to being left alone. Francis picked at ivy growing in the armoury wall, it came away, powdering his hand with white dust; he rubbed his hand against his thigh and sighed, a heavy sigh which might have proclaimed the bitterness of defeat, or the fact that he was hungry, or that he must resign himself to some great deprivation the nature of which he could not have explained. Above them, the sky was ribbed with purple cloud and torchlight threw the shadow of bars across the courtyard. Richard put out his hands as though clutching at the bars and shouted, ‘Let me out!’ with a fine assumption of madness. Francis laughed.
‘I wish we didn’t have to go in so early,’ Richard said regretfully.
Francis said, ‘I was just thinking the same thing,’ and the scales fell on friendship’s side.
Chapter Four
1
In 1463 the womere water did not run, but there was water enough without that. Rain-swollen rivers burst their banks and villages were flooded. It was bad weather for ploughing. The peasants working on their lords’ fields after Candlemas, urged on the oxen who could scarce drag the ploughs free of the mire. The oats were barely sown by the time the barley must be put in. The country folk prophesied a bad harvest with even more dismal assurance than usual. Here and there, however, in spite of the rain there were places which inexplicably remained dry. There were tales of a pond in Sussex which had dried up although the surrounding fields were sodden. Such phenomena were known to herald disaster.
One person who might have done well to take note of these ill-omens was the Earl of Warwick. Warwick thought of Edward as a lad who owed everything to him and must continually acknowledge his indebtedness. In fact, Edward was no longer a stripling; his frame was big and powerful, and though still lean, there was no doubting the muscular strength of his body and its evident determination to develop quickly into full maturity. As for gratitude, his was a more subtle mind than Warwick’s, and when he examined what it was that Warwick had done for him one thought emerged with clarity: Warwick had put him on the throne of England and there was little left that he could do for him. In the matter of the restoration of power to the throne, Warwick was an impediment.
When Warwick began to negotiate for Edward’s marriage, first to the daughter of Louis the Eleventh of France and, later, to the daughter of the Count of Savoy, the only effect these schemes had on Edward was to remind him that he must hunt again in the neighbourhood of Grafton Regis. On the first day of May, 1464, while pilgrims journeyed to shrines throughout the land, Edward secretly married Elizabeth. It was not until three months later, when his Council had met to hear details of Warwick’s negotiations with Savoy, that Edward announced his marriage.
Warwick was stunned. After a time he appeared to make his peace with Edward, but he was incapable of accepting the dwindling of his power.
Warwick was not alone in his anger. Edward’s mother, the Duchess of York, when told of his marriage, disowned him in words which she was later to regret. ‘He is no son of Richard!’
‘Not my father’s son?’ George, now Duke of Clarence and with ambitions still unfulfilled, could scarcely credit what he had heard, although he wa
s willing to be persuaded.
‘It is a way of saying things. I am angry. How do we know what we say when we are angry?’ She was still angry, but aware of the need to control herself. ‘I might as well have said “He is no son of mine”. You would have known what was meant—that I disown him.’
‘It has often been remarked how little he resembles my father.’ George went on working the matter over like dough. ‘My father was a small man, and not given to licentious pursuits.’
‘Licentiousness is not unknown in the Plantagenets,’ his mother said drily.
But it was not the arguments in favour of Edward’s right to wear the sprig of brume with which George was concerned. ‘I should like the truth about this.’ He was as portentous as if truth had ever been his concern.
His mother regarded him coldly. In no circumstances would she have considered it her duty to have told him the truth on any subject if the truth was dangerous. She said, ‘The suggestion that your brother is a bastard would be treason’, which seemed to her more conclusive than any question of truth.
But George brooded on the fact that Edward was not made in his father’s mould until the idea had quite set in his mind.
The rift between Edward and Warwick widened. A time would come when it would not be possible to owe allegiance to the one without offending the other. At Middleham, Richard had become aware of the need to make a choice. This time of learning to become a man had been sweet, and he owed much to Warwick. So it was with regret that he announced his decision to return to London. There followed a painful scene in which Warwick reminded Richard of the advantages which he had bestowed on him and the even greater advantages which he might confer on him in the future; at which point Richard saw fit to remind Warwick that the brother of the King has no need of a patron.
Richard sent word to Edward that he was on his way and when he eventually arrived at the Palace of West Minster he was impatient to see Edward and tell him what had passed between himself and Warwick. ‘I will announce myself,’ he said. He could hear the sound of music and a gust of wind carried the smell of roast meat to his nostrils. He realized that he was very hungry. He let his ear and nose lead him and came to the great hall.
The room was full of people and he saw no familiar faces. Two men standing near the door looked at him in amusement; they would have looked so at anyone who was not dressed in the height of fashion, but he thought their contempt more personal. Ever quick to accept an insult, he paused and studied their faces carefully, promising himself that when the opportunity presented itself, he would repay their incivility. One of the men, angered by this scrutiny, made a move as if to send him about his business, but the other put a hand on his arm and stayed him. Sober and sombre though the young Duke of Gloucester might be, the pride of rank was in his eye. The two men did not immediately continue their interrupted conversation, but watched as the slight figure made its way towards the centre of the room.
Richard attracted no particular attention from anyone else. He had hoped to find Edward at the centre of activity, but failing to do so he made his way to the far end of the hall and entered the corridor leading to the royal apartments. He had not gone far when he came upon his brother, who was being entertained by a bawdy tale told by a man whom Richard recognized as Lord Hastings. The two men were much amused. One should not come sober to such a scene, the participants appear incontinent, something less than men although they consider themselves never more manly. Edward inclined towards Hastings, laughter bubbling up in his throat; his skin was sweating, the bright eyes beginning to flood over with mirth, the cheeks to shake. It was as though laughter had loosed his features as lust his reason. Richard watched as the two men came together, heaving and clutching each other, clumsy as bemused bears. Over Hastings’ shoulder, Edward saw his brother’s face, so white and strained it seemed for a moment that it was a ghost come to haunt him. ‘It cannot be!’ Edward exclaimed. Hastings looked over his shoulder to see what frightful thing had put so abrupt an end to their jesting.
‘But it is Dickon! You have indeed journeyed fast.’ Edward held his arms wide and embraced his brother; then with one arm still round Richard’s shoulder, he said, ‘This lad has come from Middleham at great speed. I hope nothing ill has befallen our very dear cousin, Warwick.’
Hastings laughed; and he and Edward, who were both a little drunk, continued to laugh while Richard told his story. Richard felt awkward and humiliated. Worse was to come, for while they talked a door further down the corridor opened and Queen Elizabeth appeared accompanied by her brother, Anthony Woodville.
‘My good Dickon here,’ Edward roared in greeting, ‘finds he can no longer stay in Middleham because Warwick loves us so little.’
Anthony Woodville said, ‘One so young is to be congratulated on so much judgement.’ He intended a compliment, but had a refined way of speaking which was quite foreign, and not pleasing to Richard.
‘Such worth must be rewarded,’ Edward said.
‘Certainly he needs food after so long a journey,’ the Queen said tartly.
Lord Hastings’ eyes met those of Richard; Hastings was amused by the Queen’s quick jealousy and invited Richard to be amused also. Richard turned his head away.
Richard was made much of by Edward, but later, in his chamber, he thought of Hastings with loathing. Subsequent events never completely altered that disastrous first impression. Yet Hastings had qualities that might have commended him to Richard. He had served Richard’s father well, and now he was very close to Edward. A loyal man. A good companion, too, welcomed wherever he went. A master of the easy flow of talk, he would stand, hand on a man’s shoulder, the head laughingly inclined. He was gay and bright as new steel, but no casual jester; sometimes the head jerked back suddenly if something displeased him and there was a flash of arrogance. He tended to align himself with the old nobility. He did not like the Woodvilles, nor they him. He was too near Edward to be trusted by them. He was too near Edward to endear himself to Richard.
As the months went by, Richard saw a side of his brother he had not realized existed before. He had seen Edward, composed and resourceful, at the conference table; he had seen him ride out to battle, eager and undaunted; he had seen him unconcerned in defeat. A hero. Heroes, of course, must eat and sleep, drink and make love as other men; but that they should have a talent for such pursuits to match, even to surpass, their military prowess, was not to Richard’s taste. First impressions are strong. He could not believe that his brother had an immoderate appetite for pleasure; this seemed to Richard to be something grafted onto Edward’s personality by his companions, and by Hastings in particular. Hastings’ talk was all of women, he boasted of debauchery and Edward liked him for it. Richard saw Hastings as the despoiler of his brother.
The summer was at its height and the heat in the narrow London streets was more oppressive, the air more foetid than Richard had remembered it on previous occasions. He longed for the northern lands he had left. He even felt a traitorous longing for the company of Warwick, whose view of life he better understood than that of the men in whose company he now found himself. During this time he saw much of his brother George, Duke of Clarence, now approaching dazzling manhood and concerned with marriage plans. George kept in contact with Warwick and sought by alternate advice and raillery to draw Richard to Warwick’s camp.
‘Why do you stay at court? Are you dazzled by these Woodvilles? Do you study to become like Anthony Woodville? I hear he is reckoned second to none in a tournament though it is said he has no real liking for a fight.’
‘I certainly have no desire to be like him,’ Richard retorted. Anthony Woodville played at all the things which Richard took seriously.
‘Edward needs stronger men around him.’ George turned from scorn to persuasion at which he was even less successful. ‘Our cousin Warwick has ever been Edward’s true friend, and with my help—and yours, were you but to look ahead—the crown would become strong again.’
The power
would switch from the Woodvilles to the Nevilles; the crown would be no stronger. It was so blatant in George’s mouth that a child could see it and Richard was not a child now. He stayed at Edward’s court and Edward took note of him. The court was not everything to Edward. He had not yet lost his physique, his body was hard and his eye still bright; he had battles yet to fight and was aware of it. He saw beyond the gay circle of courtiers to a land of untamed forest and tangled vegetation which gradually encroached on pasture land, to a people grown used to misrule as to the ill-use of the land, a people as like to turn one way as another. It would require much ruthlessness and firmness of purpose to bring order to the realm and he did not see many of those who surrounded him in his hours of ease being of assistance to him in this task. But Richard had a more durable look. In 1464 he had made Richard commissioner for nine counties in the west and south-west, and now he set aside time to instruct his brother so that he should be able to carry out his duties effectively.
‘Why?’ Anthony Woodville mused when he was alone with his sister, the Queen. ‘Why should he be so honoured?’
‘You are not the only one to ask.’ The Queen had recently given birth to a daughter, Elizabeth, and although Edward was delighted, the failure to produce a son made her quick to resent the fortunes of others.
Her brother, misunderstanding, said, ‘Yes, I hear that George is beside himself with jealousy.’
‘Oh, George!’ Her mood lightened. George was liable to do foolish things when displeased and she saw no cause for dismay at the growing rift between him and Edward.
George did not disappoint Elizabeth’s expectations. During the next few years he and Warwick became more estranged from the King. In July, 1469, he married Warwick’s daughter, Isabel. The fact that Edward had not given his approval to the union was of little consequence, since Warwick and Clarence were now in open rebellion. Their purpose was to restore to the throne Henry the Sixth who, mad and frail, was imprisoned in the Tower. In August they met and defeated an army led by Lord Herbert of Pembroke whom they subsequently executed.
