I, Richard Plantagenet: Book One: Tante le Desiree

by J. P. Reedman

  Charles the Rash finally showed up at the port of Calais half way through July. We had expected to see him at the head of a great army, but no, he arrived with a meagre bodyguard numbering only a few score. Meeting us at the castle in that port town, he the hall with great fanfare and bravado, as if he had not kept us cooling our heels for ages while we spent money much needed elsewhere to feed and lodge our forces.

  Charles was a stocky, round-headed man, with thick, blunt-cut dark hair and pocked skin. He seldom smiled, for his front teeth had been knocked out in some struggle; the remaining ones were snaggled and yellow. He hooked his thumbs into his gold-plated belt and swaggered towards Edward who sat on his high seat, tapping his fingers on the arm of his jewelled chair.

  Edward looked at the Burgundian Duke with an expression that held just a slight edge of iciness, his eyes heavy lidded. “I had thought to see you earlier, my Lord Duke.” His voice was deceptively mild. “Where are the soldiers you promised me?”

  “Pillaging Loraine,” said Duke Charles, with a shrug of his shoulder. “But fear not, my dearest kinsman, your forces are so mighty, so impressive, all you need do is ride across Normandy to Champagne and meet my armies there. None shall stand in your way; the folk of France will tremble before the King of the English.”

  “Hmm.” Edward was non-committal; he glanced away from Charles and seemed to fix his gaze on something in the far distance. Beneath his quiet exterior, I knew he was raging. But he did not want to alienate the volatile Duke; Charles’s support on foreign ground was necessary. “I am not so sure the French would roll over like whipped pups, my Lord of Burgundy. I must hold a council to discuss this matter. At once! Clarence, Gloucester, Hastings, Rivers…”

  The council meeting was brief. And decisive. The army was not to go madly storming across Normandy or anywhere else in France. Instead, we would march to St Quentin, since the Count of St Pol had promised to open the town gates to us, enabling us to establish an English base within its walls. We all looked at Charles, expecting him to turn red and shout and bawl, as we heard he was inclined to do if his ideas were quashed. But today he seemed unbothered.

  “So be it,” he said, scratching a pimple on his none-to-clean face. “But first I must visit my wife, Duchess Margaret, who is still abiding in St Omer. She must be given instructions for her duties when I am away on this campaign.”

  Edward touched my arm. “Go with him, Dickon,” he whispered.

  “Do you not trust him?”

  “I trust that he is on our side. I do not believe he will be of much help.”

  I journeyed alongside Charles back to St Omer, waiting with impatience while Charles conversed with Meg, whom he treated briskly, as if she were one of his captains rather than his wife. Charles was hopping around the chamber with his squires pulling off his old boots to put new ones on for the ride to St Quentin, whilst shouting orders for the governance of Burgundy to my sister.

  As appalled as I was by his manners, the worst outrage of all was the sight of his bare feet, the toenails huge, curled, and yellow. I was amazed that a man of his rank would reveal such claws in my presence, and even more amazed he had not found a barber surgeon to remove them. I pitied Margaret; no wonder she had no children!

  Pretending I had not noticed, I stared up at the painted ceiling of the townhouse, trying to sweep the image of those toenails from my mind and imagine the great victory that would be England’s. Edward, as glorious as Henry V, perhaps even taking the crown of France from old Spider-Louis, while his two brothers, lesser lights but still glorious, basked in the glow of his Sunne in Splendour…

  The army moved out at mid-morning, marching slowly through the French countryside. That was when the weather truly turned and the rains began in earnest. We camped on the field of Agincourt itself, Ned perhaps hoping that the legends of that great victory would put fire into the hearts and bellies of his soldiers.

  I took a stroll around the field shortly before twilight fell. It was plain and uninteresting, a morass of mud; a flat field like so many others we had passed in France, with a few meagre trees springing on the horizons. Empty too…all the local peasants had fled away at our approach.

  Rain slicking down my hair, I stood breathing in the cool air of dusk and gazing out at the drizzly cloud-caps fastened on the crowns of the trees. Tales abounded of broken weapons and bones of men surfacing from the field when it was ploughed, and with a shiver I mused on those soldiers buried below my feet, denied a decent Christian burial…but I heard no troubled voices on the wind, saw no spirits in the misty haze that hung above Agincourt.

  Leaving the gloomy battlefield, I sought out Edward’s tent, where at least there was warmth and still some enthusiasm for the cause. But when I arrived, Ned’s mood had changed; he had grown uncharacteristically sombre and thoughtful. He let out a great, aggravated sigh. “Alas…if only Louis would bring an army here and make all the errors of his predecessors…but, you know, Richard, he is too clever for that, for all that we dislike him. There will never be another victory like Agincourt.”

  In uneasy silence I stared at him, not knowing what to say. A cold wave washed over me. Edward, my glorious brother… Sitting slumped on his couch in his pavilion, he hardly seemed like the warrior who had won Towton, Barnet and Tewkesbury.

  He is just weary, I told myself, as I sought my own couch later that night. Restless and disturbed, I tossed under the blankets, trying to keep them up to my chin to keep the local midges from getting at any exposed flesh. Edward will be in better cheer soon, and we will teach these arrogant Frenchmen a lesson…

  At dawn Ned’s army ploughed on towards St Quentin, rank upon rank striding resolutely through the murk and the mud. It was with relief we finally saw the town’s grey-towered walls rising up into the scowling sky. At last, here at the castle of an ally, we could establish a base and work towards our goal of conquering France.

  Suddenly a roar shattered the early morning stillness. A cannon ball sailed through the air and thudded to the ground not far from the first line of soldiers, splitting the ground and sending earth flying in all directions. The horses went mad with fright, struggling against their bits.

  “What in Christ’s name is going on?” shouted Edward, wheeling his destrier away from the churned earth, the steaming ball. “What is amiss with St Pol? Is he blind? Can he not see our banners?”

  At that moment, the canons roared again and flame belched from the walls of St Quentin. Great clouds of foul-smelling smoke billowed upwards in a black plume over the town. Armoured men now became visible on the ramparts, archers and spearmen, row upon row.

  Even as we watched, the archers raised their bows and brought arrows to the string.

  The gates were barred against us. St Quentin was enemy territory.

  “He’s turned his coat,” I spat at my brother, struggling to keep my trembling mount under control. “Bloody St Pol must have turned his coat.”

  “Retreat!” the King shouted as the canons blasted the morning again. The air was acrid, choking hot. “Away from this turncoat’s lair! We will march on…On!”

  We marched, and the skies opened again, sluicing their waste down upon our heads. Messengers arrived, galloping over the dull landscape to inform Edward that King Louis was also on the march, approaching at the head of a huge army.

  Duke Charles, who returned for a brief reconnaissance, was the only one who seemed pleased at the news of Louis’s rapid approach; his beady eyes lit up at the anticipation of battle and he quickly took his leave and departed to ready his own army for an onslaught. Or so he said.

  “Rash by name and nature,” I muttered to Edward as Charles departed with his bodyguard. “Will he be of any use to us…or just a hot-headed hindrance?”

  “Use to us? Charles will be of no use, I can assure you.” There was a tone to Edward’s voice I had never heard before. Again, that unknown fear gripped me. Edward…did not seem himself, the warrior I knew. “I must deal with this matter in the
most sensible way possible. I am running out of money trudging around this wasteland, and the men must be fed.”

  “We are a great army—we can win a great victory!” A hint of desperation tinged my voice, and inwardly I willed Ned to reassure me that yes, yes, we would prevail against the French, that we would win a glorious victory for England.

  “We’ll see,” was all Edward said, and he would not meet my eyes but stared away at the rain-soaked and dreary horizon. “I am going to call a council.”

  Gritting my teeth, I sighed. I wanted war, I wanted victory. Instead, a wavering King and… Another bloody council…

  The great lords of England gathered in and around Edward’s pavilion. The endless rain had abated at last and the sun hovered above a rill of cumulous clouds. The unexpected heat made the ground hiss and steam rise like the hands of the slain. Norfolk and Suffolk were in attendance, alongside stolid Henry Percy with his extraordinary hair, and uncomfortable, sullen manner. Bearded and black-eyed Thomas Stanley stood ever watchful beside his lookalike brother Sir William, while suave Rivers hovered around his kinsman Thomas Grey, repulsively smug as ever. William Hastings, Great Chamberlain, was sitting nearest to the King, his craggy face holding what I could only describe as a look of hungry anticipation. Eager to impress in sumptuous robes of blue and gold, George was also making his presence known, speaking in a loud voice and laughing like an ass, despite the seriousness of the meeting.

  I saw Hastings’ gaze slide to Edward, knowing, yet vaguely uneasy. His heavy gaze drifted to me for one second then flicked nervously away.

  Beads of sweat trickled under my shirt, and I shifted in discomfort. A suspicion gripped me that I some kind of discussion had taken place without me; that my brother, who called me his ‘right arm,’ had indulged in private discourse with Will Hastings and Anthony Woodville.

  A flame of fury kindled in my breast and my lips grew tight. Those two still treated me as if I were a callow youth whose advice was not needed by the King—Will, God Rot him, who was routed at Barnet while I remained on the field, wounded though I was, and Anthony who absented himself from Tewkesbury, though he had made a great scene yelling and waving his sword when he dashed a few feet to menace the Bastard of Fauconberg’s rabble…

  “My lords,” said Edward gravely, “some days ago we subdued a French spy hiding near the roadside. I had a little…chat with the man. I said that if he told us everything he knew, he would have his life.” Ned grinned, the flashing smile that charmed both women and men. It was not charming me today. “I even said I might think upon letting him go with most of his body parts intact. If he was reluctant at first, he soon realised how gracious and kind I was being. Eventually, with just a little more persuasion, he went on his knees and swore to loyally serve me. From my little French helper, I learned much about the mind and machinations of King Louis. One fact is of great import—despite the size of his army, Louis is mortally afraid.”

  “Then let us crush him.” My voice grated, hard as a rock.

  Stony silence fell and many pairs of eyes swivelled in my direction.

  Swaying slightly I rose, colour high in my cheeks. “If Louis is afraid, he will not hearten his men. Their morale will be poor and they will have no stomach for the fight! We can prevail and win back our lost lands in France!”

  Edward took a draught of wine, licked his lips, and cleared his throat. “Sit down, Gloucester, I bid you…”

  I sat, but my mouth was dry, my heart pounding.

  Edward leaned back in his seat, glancing from one to the other of his chief lords but especially to Will Hastings. “Louis is so afraid, he does not wish to fight at all. He does not want to risk the lives of so many Frenchmen nor see the towns of France go up in flame. Once the truth of his thought was ascertained, I sent envoys to his camp, announcing my intentions towards him. Louis wishes to offer terms…terms of peace.”

  “Peace!” The word burst from my lips.

  Edward’s brows gathered darkly. “I think you heard me the first time, my brother.”

  “What are these terms?” Almost of their own volition, my arms folded defensively; I knew my chin had assumed a defiant tilt.

  Flinging aside his cup, Edward rose with a jerky movement. The goblet clanged on the ground; his squires dived to retrieve it. The King made a sharp motion with his hand, beckoning me forward, while shouting, “Leave us!” to the others.

  The lords filed out of the pavilion; I refused to look at them as they passed by. Hostility and even a mocking mirth emanated from them. The latter came primarily from George; the sight of my discomfiture would be balm to his angry soul.

  So I was left standing alone, in front of my brother, my angry brother, the King of England. It was the first time in my life I had openly questioned his actions, or shown displeasure at any of his policies.

  “What is the matter with you, Dickon?” He called me by my childhood name, so informal, but I could hear the anger bubbling under.

  My annoyance was greater than his, though; it made my tongue flap like a banner, perhaps recklessly. “Peace, you are letting Louis sue for peace? What madness is this? We brought men here to fight, to gain renown…you let the fucking Frenchman sue for peace! What is he giving you, your Grace, that you forget honour?”

  For a moment, I thought he might lunge at me; his face turned purple and he actually looked unwell…but he recoiled and began to pace in an agitated manner. “You speak out of turn, little brother,” he lashed. “The deal he has offered is good, beneficial to us…to England. A truce of seven years. 75,000 gold crowns, to be paid into the treasury immediately. A marriage alliance between my dear sweet daughter Elizabeth and his son, the Dauphin.”

  “And what makes you think Louis will keep his word? When has the Spider King ever done anything but spin his webs?”

  “He will keep his word; he does not want his land ravaged…Christ’s Nails, Dickon, it is not all about war. You prate of winning renown but half the men here would rather be home safe with their women than fight and maybe die in a useless battle. It is cold comfort to think men may sing songs of your valour but you will never hear them because you are mouldering in the grave, food for worms.”

  “What do the other captains think of Louis’ offer?” I asked. Rising, I began to pace also, almost in time with Edward. The great and the small, facing each other with raised hackles; the lion and the leopard. “I know you have spoken with them without informing me.”

  “Only because I guessed your unreasonable reaction,” he said testily. He then tried on his infallible charm once more. “I know my faithful brother, my loyal right arm. Dedicated…but always so serious. Never bending, even when it might do well to give.”

  Again, he failed to soften me; the rage in my heart lingered, flashing cold and hot. “You have not answered me, your Grace.”

  “Nor do I have to. I am the King of England!” he suddenly bellowed, that unhealthy purple shade dappling his cheeks yet again. Briefly he groped at his chest; alarm leapt through me in case he should have an apoplectic fit, but then he calmed himself and his visage lost its unwholesome flush.

  “Richard, we do not need to fight over this matter. There is benefit in this agreement for you, as for my other lords. Your journey from the north with your men will not be in vain. You will be handsomely remunerated; Louis will offer a lifelong pension to you and all my captains.”

  “A bribe.” My voice was barely above a whisper; it was all I could muster. So enraged, so disappointed in my brother’s actions. Edward, who fought Towton in the snow, who saw Three Sunnes at Mortimer’s Cross and spoke of the Trinity and the Three Sons of York. Now it felt as if that triad of brothers had been truly split apart—glory cast aside for shame, the legacy of the glorious Sons ash and dust upon the wind. “You want me to take a bribe from Louis of France. My lord King…” I stepped back and gave a short, jerky bow, “I bid you give me leave to go to my pavilion. I will not be bribed…not by any man.”

  Edward�
�s lip trembled with wrath; his eyes were so suffused they looked more black than hazel, but at the same time, I sensed a certain resignation. Again, so unlike the forthright brother I had known. He waved his hand in dismissal. “Do as you wish, Gloucester. Leave my sight.”

  As I reached the tent flap, the Lion of March flung back his leonine head and laughed bitterly. “I should have guessed you would be obstinate; it is your nature. The world is in two shades to you, is it not, Dickon….one side black as the devil’s arse, the other pure as a maiden’s tit. You need to learn there is a middle ground where both colours mix. But I would not force that iron will to break. Despite all, you are still my beloved brother.”

  “I know,” I said, with great heaviness, and in a sudden impassioned gesture, I grasped his hand, and kissed the ring upon it. Then I fled his great pavilion without glancing back, and hoped no man I met upon the way could see the anguish in my face.

  King Edward met King Louis at Picquigny after much feasting and riotousness in Amiens, where the news of the truce had taken hold and spread. Edward and George’s men got drunk and ran amok, raiding wine shops and insulting local women; I held mine sullenly in check and kept to my tent.

  A bridge with a division across the centre had been thrown up across the sullen waters of the river Somme; the meeting place where Louis and Edward would strike their deal. Clad in my most sombre cloak, I emerged from my tent to watch from a distance the meeting of the Kings of France and England. A shudder ran through me as my brother, my once-great brother, mounted the bulkhead of the bridge and strode toward Louis’s side, not in open warfare but with an open hand.

  A reaching hand, a beggar’s hand, I thought bitterly, uncharitably.

  Despite my anger towards this truce, I conceded that Edward looked magnificent, a true King. Although some heaviness to his jaw marred his beauty, he still outshone all other men present. A velvet cap, black as a raven’s wing and emblazoned with a fleur de lys of diamonds and rubies gleamed upon his hair, which his barber had washed for the occasion; it gleamed warm chestnut just below his chin. Cloth of gold lined in crimson satin furled his huge frame. Clarence walked behind him, preening in robin’s egg blue, but looking as insubstantial as a cheap gewgaw despite all his own finery.