by Livi Michael
When he opened his eyes he saw Lord Montague straighten suddenly and motion to the guards to bring him forward.
His steps did not drag, but because the ground was rutted they did not go smoothly; he could feel an uneven pressure between the ball of his foot, the ankle and his heel; could feel it even in his knees and the muscles of his thighs, which still ached from riding his horse so hard, and in the base of his spine and further, even into his neck; though he thought with just a trace of humour that this would not be a problem for long.
How strange that his last thoughts should be of the balance and distribution of weight in his body.
Then a priest stepped forward and asked him whether there was any last confession he wanted to make. He said there wasn’t, though it didn’t seem to be quite the right answer. He was sure there was something he should say, that he had done what he’d had to do, perhaps, but his mind wouldn’t think clearly and he appeared to have forgotten everything he thought he knew.
Someone pushed him and he was kneeling, the priest intoning a prayer over him, and his head was pressed forward so that all he could see was the uneven earth, bare between clumps of grass; tiny ants moving purposefully along a crack. He had time to marvel at this other world that existed between the blades of grass; unseen, insignificant, but of the utmost consequence, presumably, to its participants, for whom the whole world consisted of grass and cracks. He wondered what other worlds existed there and whether their God was in the shape of a human footprint, stamping down. And he knew he should shut his eyes, as he’d decided earlier, and keep them shut, but he found, after all, that he wanted to see.
Henry Duke of Somerset was beheaded [on 15th May 1464] at Hexham.
Short English Chronicle
17
September 1464: Reading
That same year the Earl of Warwick was sent into France to look for a wife for the king … However, while the Earl of Warwick was away [it transpired that] the king was married to Elizabeth Woodville, a widow, whose husband, Sir John Grey, had been slain in battle on King Henry’s side …
Warkworth’s Chronicle
The mood of the council was self-congratulatory. Many speeches were made, thanking Lord Montague for his prompt action and good leadership at Hexham, his thoroughness in pursuing and capturing so many Lancastrian lords. Regrettably, he had not captured their king, who, one wit remarked, had surprised them all by his horsemanship. Who would have thought the old king could run away so fast?
It would have been preferable to have captured the king, of course, but no one doubted that his cause was over. A king in hiding with nowhere to go? And no one left to support him. And no money. A day or so after the battle, Sir William Tailboys had been found hiding in a coal pit with bags of money that should have funded the Lancastrian cause. But Tailboys had been executed and the money redistributed, all thanks to the energy and diligence of Lord Montague.
If possible the council owed his brother, the Earl of Warwick, an even greater debt. The two brothers had marched from York, installing garrisons at Alnwick, Dunstanburgh and Bamburgh, so that now only one castle, Harlech, remained Lancastrian. And then Warwick had gone to France, where he had exercised all the diplomatic skills for which he was justly famous. Now, in addition to the truce that had been made with the Scots, England was on the brink of a great alliance with France.
Everyone looked towards the king, but Edward sat impassively in his chair.
The two brothers were to be amply rewarded, of course. All the wealth and possessions of the Duke of Somerset and the Earl of Northumberland were to be redistributed. Lord Montague would receive the vast estates belonging to the Percy family and was confirmed in his office of Warden of the East March. Warwick had been made Captain of Calais, Keeper of the Seas, Constable of Dover, Warden of the Cinque Ports, King’s Lieutenant in the north, Warden of the West March and Admiral of England. His income, it was rumoured, was greater than the king’s. His younger brother, George Neville, had been made Lord Chancellor of England and Archdeacon of Carlisle, and would soon, it was said, be Archbishop of York, though still so young.
Wealth and power had been redistributed many times since the Battle of Towton, but now it could be seen to rest securely in the hands of these Neville brothers.
No one raised any objection to this; in fact, most were pleased that the nation’s welfare rested in such capable hands. They had brought the Lancastrian cause to its knees, prevented them from giving any more land away to the Scots and consolidated England’s position with both Burgundy and France. They had saved England from the danger caused by the error of putting trust in certain unsuitable persons, one man said; though he did not specifically name the Duke of Somerset to the king.
The thanksgiving went on for some time and then the Earl of Warwick was called upon to make a speech. He spoke with all his customary eloquence and wit, outlining his many successes at the French court and the policy he would pursue when the conference at St Omer was resumed that October. And he spoke of King Louis’ eagerness to ratify the new alliance by marriage.
He looked towards the king at this point, but King Edward did not appear to be looking his way. So he continued, saying that Louis would have been pleased to offer his own daughter, but since she was only three years old she could not be expected to produce an heir for many years. But he had been keen to offer the hand of his sister-in-law, Bona of Savoy. And Lord Wenlock had met the lady and been impressed by her beauty and wit.
It remained only for King Edward to give his consent to this agreement.
Once more the conference looked towards the king.
The king appeared to be studying his hands.
When the silence went on the Speaker, greatly daring, said, ‘Your majesty, we are, all of us, hoping to hear glad tidings of a matrimonial alliance that will provide for the succession and secure the place of our nation in Europe.
‘So handsome a monarch,’ he went on archly, when the king did not reply, ‘should not go long unwedded – or unbedded.’ And there was laughter at this, for who, among monarchs, was less likely to go unbedded than King Edward?
But the king was not laughing. He had glanced quickly at Warwick at the Speaker’s words, then resumed his downward and inward gaze.
The silence this time was laden with expectation. And Warwick broke it first.
‘I know,’ he said, ‘that there was some consideration of Burgundy in your majesty’s matrimonial plans. But now the three nations have reached an agreement there can be no further obstacle, surely, to a marriage alliance with France?’
At last the king looked up, and everyone could see that his face was very pale. His eyes looked even smaller than usual, as if he had not slept. He said:
‘I have listened to everything you have to say, and you are certainly to be congratulated. I am fortunate indeed to have such capable ministers at my disposal.’
He paused, and Warwick’s gaze narrowed in its focus like a cat’s.
‘I would, if I could, agree to your proposal – to secure the future of this nation is my dearest wish – a wish as close to my heart – if not closer – than it is to yours.’
There was another brief, dense pause.
‘And to this end I have already acted,’ he said.
Now the silence had a baffled quality. No one could imagine what the king could mean.
‘I cannot undertake to marry either France or Burgundy, because I am already married.’
He sat back in his chair.
Warwick laughed.
No one else laughed. Now the silence was as though all the air had been suddenly sucked from the room. When it broke it was with the violence of a thunderclap. All the lords were clamouring at once. What did the king mean? Who did the king mean? And how? And when? And where?
Their voices rose in a collective howl of indignation until Warwick interrupted them. Holding his hand high, he said, ‘His majesty is joking.’
And gradually the noise came to an uncertain stop, like a ca
rriage that has been driven too fast. But if it was a joke it was not funny. The lords waited, eager as children, for it to be explained to them.
‘He is certainly not serious,’ Warwick went on, looking at the king. ‘He would not take such a momentous step without consulting one of us. Surely.’
King Edward looked at Warwick and everyone could see there was no humour in his gaze.
‘You need not speak as though I were not here,’ he said, and a rumble of consternation began again.
Warwick spoke with careful courtesy. ‘Then tell us, majesty, what you mean.’
A faint sigh escaped the king’s lips. ‘I mean I am married,’ he said. ‘And have been these past four months.’
There was a collective gasp, then a chorus of Who? Who is she? Where is she?
But the king would say only that she was a gentlewoman, not from France or Burgundy but from this, their own fair nation. And he loved her with all his heart. As he was sure they would come to love her too.
Then he rose as if to leave, but Warwick said, ‘No, no – your majesty must tell us her name at least.’
The king’s gaze locked into Warwick’s and neither gave. Then the king said distinctly, ‘I am married to Lady Elizabeth Grey, widow of Sir John Grey of Groby, daughter of Lord Rivers.’
Everyone present tried to place this lady in their memory. Only Warwick seemed to know who the king meant. He said, in a voice saturated in disbelief, ‘You have married a commoner?’
‘She is no commoner. She is the daughter of Lord Rivers.’
‘And he was the son of a squire. And your enemy. Have you forgotten that both her father and her husband fought against you?’
‘I have pardoned them,’ the king said, and there was an outbreak of consternation and dismay, above which Warwick raised his voice.
‘You have married an impoverished Lancastrian widow, wife of a humble knight –’
But the king broke in angrily. ‘Her mother is the Duchess of Bedford, as you know. And she is good and fair. And I love her.’
The storm of protest broke like a tidal wave, for now everyone had recalled the lady in question. And all cried out that she was no match for him – however good and fair, she was no match for a king.
In the midst of all this the king stood like a wild boar trapped by baying hounds. There passed between him and Warwick a look of ice and venom, then Warwick said, ‘Be silent! Let the king speak.’
And the king said, slowly and massively, ‘I have said all I have to say. When you are calm again I will answer any questions you may have.’
And raising one hand to stem the tide of noise, he strode rapidly from the room.
This marriage caused the nobles to turn against Edward – later indeed he was even obliged to make war with them – while the members of his own house were bitterly offended. His mother was furious …
Dominic Mancini
18
The Earl of Warwick Speaks
I love her, he said.
Almost I admired him for the simple romance of those words.
Could you not have trusted me?
I did not say it, but the words twisted my heart. How many times could he have chosen to speak, to tell me what was going on? I would have talked him out of it, of course, oh yes – for hearts are malleable things.
Could he not have spoken before I spent months persuading the French king that Edward should marry his sister-in-law?
You have made a fool of me.
I did not say that either.
Who did he expect would break the news to Louis?
He walked out of the council and the clamour was like a rising wall of sound. All the questions were directed towards me. What did I know? Had I not suspected anything? I was the king’s closest councillor and friend – surely he would have told me something? It was my business to know. And to inform the council.
No consideration of all my efforts in France – would I have played the fool there if I had known?
There now seemed a different reason why the king had chosen me as his ambassador: so that I would be out of the way.
What could be done about it? That was the next question. I should go after Edward and speak to him, I should find his so-called wife and bring her here, before them all. Royal marriages had been undone before. How did I propose to end this madness?
There was no reasoning with them – they were a pack of snarling beasts.
So I left them, walked out of the council. But not to speak to Edward, or his wife. I went to see his mother, my aunt.
She was at dinner, but I did not wait, nor take any of the food she offered. I stood before her and delivered my news. She did not pause, nor flinch.
‘That cannot be,’ she said, so confidently that despite the grimness of the situation I almost smiled. If Cecily Neville says it, then it must be so.
‘You have misheard,’ she said, dipping her fingers into a small bowl, and I felt a prick of irritation. Was I likely to mishear such news?
When I did not reply she looked at me. ‘It cannot be,’ she repeated.
‘Yes,’ I told her. ‘It is incomprehensible. But he has declared it to the whole council.’
She pushed away her plate and fixed me with her meat-skewering glare.
‘If my son, Edward,’ she said, talking slowly and distinctly as if to a fool, ‘had married, do you think I would not know? Do you think I would not have been invited to the wedding?’
I waited.
‘If this is a jest,’ she said, ‘it is a poor one.’
‘Do I look as if I am jesting?’ I said.
Something in my face must have communicated itself to her then because, just for a moment, a look of uncertainty and horror flitted across her own. ‘Elizabeth – Woodville,’ she said slowly, her tongue working the unaccustomed syllables that until now she had not bothered to pronounce. ‘He – is the son of a squire,’ she said, meaning Lord Rivers.
‘I know.’
‘And she –’ I could see the awful truth unfolding itself before her. She closed her eyes. ‘Oh my God,’ she murmured. ‘Is she pregnant?’
The thought had occurred to me also. I waited for what would follow, a tirade at least, or a series of instructions. The lady must be found and disposed of, paid heavily to leave the country. Or even …
Women do die in childbirth, I could hear her thinking.
Finally she opened her eyes.
‘Take me to him,’ she said.
‘He is in Reading.’
‘Then take me there.’
‘He might not wish to see you –’
But Cecily Neville was not one to sit back and allow the unthinkable to happen. She was already calling for her cloak and her barge.
And so we set off together, across the foul waters of the Thames. And all the way my aunt spoke not one word to me – Cecily Neville wasted no words. But I knew I had a most powerful ally; that I was taking to the king the one woman he feared in the world.
Of course, he said he would not see her, and of course she ignored him, marching past all the guards who did not know how to stop the king’s mother.
He was half sitting, half lying on a couch, accompanied by Lord Hastings, whom his mother dismissed at once. You will leave me to speak with my son.
Hastings somewhat uncertainly left the room, while the king sat up, evidently too surprised to speak.
‘Well, Edward,’ she said. ‘Tell me your news.’
He went red and pale by turns. I noticed with some satisfaction how he seemed to shrink before her, while my aunt, not a tall woman, seemed to grow. But he gathered himself sufficiently to say, ‘It seems you have already heard it.’
‘Not from you,’ she said, and then she said, in a different tone, ‘It is true, then?’
Of course it’s true, I thought. Would I make up such a thing?
Edward himself said nothing, while my aunt drew in her breath and closed her eyes. Then they snapped open and she upbraided him for his monstrous f
oolishness and demanded that he drop this charade, using words that only a mother could use to her son.
‘What have you done?’ she said, when she ran out of breath. ‘You could have had your pick of all the princesses in Europe. This – woman –’ I could see her groping for an adequate word, ‘is not even a virgin – she has two sons!’
This was not as well played as I had hoped. The king could have chosen to marry Mary of Guelders who was no virgin either, and who had several children. He saw this and was quick to press his advantage:
‘Yes, she has children, and so do I – so at least we have proof that neither of us is barren. By God’s grace she will soon have a young prince, which should please you.’
Now it was his mother’s turn to go pale. ‘She is pregnant then,’ she said, so low that she could barely be heard. The king looked discomfited.
‘She is not,’ he said, and his mother was able to recover. ‘But by the grace of God she soon will be.’
‘Do not speak of God in this!’ his mother said. ‘You have brought catastrophe upon this nation. Everything your father hoped for, fought for – died for – you have thrown away. These – people – conspired to kill him – fought him to his death – and now you would reward them – and betray him!’
This was better. For who in the country would not remember that the Woodvilles had fought on the enemy side? The king looked as if she had struck him through the heart.
‘I have not betrayed my father!’ he shouted, and I smiled. Yet he mustered himself sufficiently to say, ‘Is it not better that we should bring the warring factions together?’
‘Is it not better that you should honour your father’s memory?’
‘What I have done,’ he said, stricken, ‘is done already.’
‘Is it so?’ she said, nodding. ‘What of your prior engagement?’
He looked blank, as if memory had deserted him.
‘Have you not already given your oath? To one already carrying your child?’
He looked horrified, as well he might. He had no idea his mother knew. He looked at his mother, then to me, then to the windows, as if he might find help there.
‘There is no contract,’ he said eventually. ‘It was not – not any kind of formal betrothal –’
