by Livi Michael
They watched as the boys played football, and her husband joined in and they defeated him easily. Lady Herbert turned to Margaret with her wide smile and said, ‘He is a very amiable man, your husband.’
‘He is my closest and dearest friend,’ Margaret said. Lady Herbert seemed a little startled by her vehemence, but all she said was, ‘That’s very fortunate for you both,’ and they left her husband with the boys while Lady Herbert showed Margaret the orchard and the lake.
And after that they had a little plate of cakes and sweetened wine, and Lady Herbert said they should visit the new chapel, where a chantry had been recently endowed, but Margaret said, ‘I would like to see my son.’
Lady Herbert’s face registered surprise. She had just seen him, of course, but Margaret said, ‘I have a gift for him.’
‘The children will join us at dinner.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Now?’
‘I should like to see him.’
Lady Herbert was silent for a moment, then she said, ‘In about half an hour he will be practising with his falcon. Would you like to see him then?’
‘I would,’ Margaret said.
After a brief respite, therefore, she followed Lady Herbert through a courtyard and then through the herb garden, then a rose garden. There was no sign of the bad weather that had afflicted them at Woking. The sky was a luminous blue.
Probably the sun always shone on Raglan Castle, she thought, and she wondered, not for the first time, whether some people really could pass through life unassailed by misfortune. And if so, how could they help but feel they were specially favoured by God? Lord and Lady Herbert knew they were favoured by God – how could they doubt it? God loved the Herberts, if He loved no one else.
Lady Herbert stopped finally on a track beside a field. ‘There,’ she said.
On the far side of the field there was a small figure. Margaret’s heart contracted. He is alone, she thought. Then she saw that he was not alone. A short but very broad man stood some distance from him, holding one arm out. His fist was clenched and, as they watched, a bird landed on it.
‘That is Master Hywel, our falconer,’ Lady Herbert said. ‘He is the best falconer in all of Wales.’
But Margaret was already walking towards her son.
She crossed the field rapidly, then stopped a few yards away from him. The falconer was speaking to him. Both of them seemed engrossed and neither of them looked round.
‘Henry?’ she said, and he turned.
There it was again, that wariness in those light, clear eyes. He stood, neither smiling nor not smiling, as she approached. ‘How are you?’ she said, feeling at the same time that it was a foolish thing to say.
Henry did not answer immediately. He looked at the falconer, who nodded slightly, then back towards Margaret. Then he bowed.
That gesture, its awkward formality, almost undid her. But she would not show it. She stepped closer and extended her hand to him in a formal greeting. He took it and bowed slightly again. Master Hywel bowed also and retreated a little way. Then for a moment she and Henry looked at one another and she saw again the uncertainty in his eyes. He lowered his gaze and stood as if not knowing what to do. And all the words she had planned to say seemed to be lost somewhere between her chest and her throat.
‘What is your falcon called?’ she asked.
‘Electra,’ he said, and he turned to watch the bird, which was wheeling round the falconer.
‘The goddess of storm clouds,’ she said, but he did not reply, absorbed, apparently, in the motion of the bird.
‘Will she come to you?’ she asked.
For answer Henry gave a long whistle and held his arm out and the bird flew directly to him. He flashed her a quick smile then, pleased with himself and with the bird. It was the first real smile he had given her and she clapped enthusiastically. Then he showed her the range of things he could do, encouraging the bird to wheel round him, to respond to different calls and even to change direction mid-flight. She understood that he loved the bird, also that she must respect his reticence. So she stood a little distance from him, providing an audience, asking questions: how long had he been training the bird, was it his first bird and so on. But soon they were joined by Lady Herbert, and then she became his audience and he performed all his actions for her.
She told them that some food had been sent to the children’s room and the falconer returned the bird to its cage.
‘Henry,’ Margaret said, before he could leave, ‘I have brought something for you.’
She had imagined this moment many times, but in her imagining the two of them were alone. And the nature of the gift would communicate something between them; something of his lost father, his inheritance and the love she had felt for him would pass from the small jewelled dagger to her son.
He took it from its cover and looked uncertainly at it.
‘It was your father’s,’ she said, and Lady Herbert said, ‘It is a very fine dagger,’ and he glanced at her questioningly as though she would tell him what to do.
‘Well, Henry,’ she said, ‘what do you say?’
He lowered his eyes again. ‘It is a very fine dagger,’ he said, and he pushed it into his belt.
‘I’m sure he will make excellent use of it,’ said Lady Herbert. ‘But he will not misuse it, I hope,’ and she ruffled his hair. ‘Go along now, your food will be waiting,’ she said, and Henry turned at once to leave.
‘He has a sword already,’ Lady Herbert said, and Margaret wished her and her unborn child in hell.
But she would see him again, she told herself, following Lady Herbert back across the field. She had the rest of the week. Somehow she would break through her son’s reserve.
It didn’t happen. All week she watched him at his studies or at play; jousting with the older boys, practising archery, playing football with the younger ones.
There was nowhere they could go privately, that was the problem. The household was so large that someone was always present, and the other children were always there.
But he was happy with them. He liked them and they liked him. Slowly it came to her that it was a better place for him here, among all these children, than with her and her husband alone. And he was in Wales, which was, after all, the land of his fathers. And if he did, in fact, marry Maud, then he might well come into his full inheritance one day.
What could she offer him, by comparison?
Even as she thought this she realized how fiercely she had determined to remove him if anything had been wrong. If there had been any sign of unhappiness in him she would have contrived somehow to take him away, in defiance even of the king. But there was no such sign, she could see that. If she took him away he would miss all the other children, the falcon, the knightly training, the great mountainous spaces of Wales. And he would miss her, Lady Herbert, though she did not single him out for any special favour. Margaret watched her keenly for any sign of prejudice for or against her son, but found none. She regarded all the children with the same slightly detached affection that called forth their adoration. He would miss her, perhaps, even more than he would miss all the others.
And she had thought there could be no new dimensions to her pain.
One night she lay tormented by this, sweating and unable to sleep. Finally she got up and rested her head on the cool stone near the window, then looked across the fields to where a great yellow moon hung suspended as if by magic in the sky.
Oh God help me, she prayed, then, give me just one chance.
Nothing answered and no breath of air stirred.
But the next day, which was the day before they were due to leave, she asked if she could walk with Henry alone in the gardens. And Lady Herbert said of course, though she seemed to think it a strange request. But she arranged for Henry to take some time from his lessons and come to her.
They walked together through a series of enclosed gardens. Twice she changed direction to avoid people who were comi
ng towards them. And to avoid silence she told him the names of plants and herbs and how she liked them, and what she did with them. And he said nothing but he listened. Then they came to a wall and she said, ‘Do you remember how you used to love to look in the crevices, to see how many creatures were there?’
He looked at her doubtfully; she could see that he did not remember. So in desperation she said, ‘Your grandfather came from Wales, you know.’
And she began telling him the story of Owen Tudor and Queen Katherine, whom he had married, and how Edmund, his father, had been their first child, and how he loved Wales.
But then she stopped, because she could hardly tell him how Edmund had died, held prisoner by the man who was now his guardian. Or that the same man had beheaded his grandfather. She looked away from him for a moment and closed her eyes.
Then she dropped down on one knee before him and caught both his hands in hers as he made a small movement away.
‘Henry,’ she said. ‘If only you knew how I have longed and prayed for this – how I think of you every day. You are my first thought in the morning and my last at night. You are everything to me. I would not have us separated for the world – you do know that, don’t you?’
She gazed up at him but her eyes were full of tears so that she could hardly see him. Even so she thought that his expression had changed and was full of trouble.
But that wasn’t right – she hadn’t wanted to grieve him. She dashed a hand across her eyes and said, ‘Never mind that – I can see you are happy here – you have everything, and you have learned so much –’
She stopped again, then on impulse said, ‘But if you are not happy, Henry – if you need anything – anything at all – you can send to me – whatever it is – and I will always help you, Henry. If you call me, I will come.’
She looked to see that he had understood her and saw that he had. Still she remained kneeling, reluctant to let him go. Then slowly he withdrew one of his hands and lifted it to her face. He touched her cheek with one finger, then moved it to her lips, tentatively tracing the outline of her mouth. She did not try to stop him, she remained very still. Then as his finger stopped moving she pulled him to her in a fierce hug. And after a long moment she felt his arms move carefully round her in return.
The next day, leaving, she leaned out of her carriage to look for him and he stepped forward a little, raising one hand then using it to shade his eyes.
Her husband said all the usual things to comfort her as they pulled away: that he was doing so well, she could not wish for him to be in a better place. And he would be well provided for in Herbert’s will.
She said yes to that faintly and remained leaning forward, looking towards her son and smiling, for she would not have him see her sad.
And that was the image she took away with her, to add to her small store of memories, of a boy standing forward with one hand shading his eyes from the sun.
That year were many men appeached of treason, both of the city and other towns … Thomas Cook, knight and alderman, and John Plummer, knight and alderman … and a man of Lord Wenlock’s John Hawby [were] hanged at Tyburn or beheaded for the same matter and many more of the city …
Gregory’s Chronicle
In the sixth year of King Edward’s reign Lord Hungerford was taken and beheaded for high treason at Salisbury and Humphrey Hayward and other men arrested and treason surmized upon them whereof they were acquitted but they lost great goods to the king …
Warkworth’s Chronicle
25
The Kingmaker
In England they have but two rulers, M. de Warwick and another whose name I have forgotten.
Letter from the governor of Abbeville to King Louis of France
Once, in conversation with the king, Warwick had mentioned the fact that he would like to secure his daughters’ futures. They were still young; Isabel not yet sixteen and Anne eleven. He himself was healthy enough and not yet forty, but who knew what fortune had in store? He had only to encounter a bad storm on one of the many voyages he undertook for the king and – well, he would like to know that his daughters’ marriages were arranged.
‘That’s understandable,’ said the king.
He did not enlarge on this, but neither did he change the subject, so Warwick persisted.
He had no sons, he said, just as his majesty had no legitimate sons, only daughters. But his daughters were the greatest heiresses in England, and he, Warwick, would like to know that his fortune and estates would be passed on safely to suitable men.
If he had thought to establish a bond between himself and the king by drawing attention to his lack of an heir, he was mistaken. The king’s face darkened, and Warwick passed swiftly on.
It was a difficult thing, he said, to know whom one could trust with the management of such titles and estates. And who could bring them comparable equity? So many of the noble families and their heirs had been lost in the wars.
By now the king had understood where this conversation was going. He treated Warwick to a sharp sideways look. ‘You will find someone,’ he said. ‘Perhaps not of comparable status. But you can raise them up, train them well, and they will be more fully yours, eh?’
He laid a large hand on Warwick’s shoulder in that way he had that Warwick found so irritating, emphasizing as it did the difference in their statures.
‘Has your majesty any suggestions as to whom I should train?’ he said evenly.
The king replied that he’d had other things on his mind. But now that Warwick had brought it up, he would give the matter his full attention.
Warwick nodded. The king was clearly not going to pick up this thread. However, all he said was, ‘Of course, you must have many things on your mind. You must be considering the marriage of your brother to the heiress of Charolais.’
The king’s face darkened again to an actual scowl. He did not want to consider the proposed marriage between his brother and the heiress of Charolais, because it would mean the Duke of Clarence might one day be Duke of Burgundy, if Charolais had no further children himself.
‘That matter – has not been decided yet,’ he said.
Warwick smiled.
This was the matter on which he thought – he hoped – the whole question of alliance with Burgundy would founder. Because it was a nonsensical alliance. To secure friendship with that country the king had already suspended all statutes restricting Burgundian trade in England, even though Duke Philip had not lifted the embargo on English cloth. Also the king was willing to renounce all the benefits of peace and alliance with his most powerful neighbour, France, towards which he, Warwick, had worked so assiduously. He had arranged a two-year truce, the terms of which prevented King Louis from offering any help to Margaret of Anjou and the Lancastrians, while Edward in return had promised not to help Burgundy or Brittany or any of the enemies of France. But the king had broken the terms of that truce almost immediately by arranging a treaty of friendship with Burgundy.
And even more ominously, from Warwick’s point of view, he was considering marrying his sister, Margaret of York, to Duke Philip’s heir, Charles of Charolais, whose wife had recently and inconveniently died. Warwick had been negotiating a match between Margaret of York and King Louis’ own brother-in-law, on terms far more favourable to England.
He had been made to look a fool once, over the king’s own marriage; he did not intend to let it happen again. He could only hope that the king’s resistance to the proposed marriage of his brother to Mary of Burgundy would cause him to rethink the rest of his policy.
‘It is a difficult matter,’ he agreed. ‘Not unlike the difficulty of arranging marriages for one’s own daughters.’
There it was again; that cunning, sideways look.
‘There are fewer lords than there were,’ continued Warwick. ‘And so many of them have already been spoken for by her majesty’s family.’
Now he was treading on dangerous ground. Everyone knew of his opposition to the Woo
dville marriages.
‘And so there is almost no one left for my daughters,’ he said. ‘Except, of course, for your own brothers.’
To his surprise, the king laughed. ‘Ah, Warwick,’ he said. ‘What would I do without you directing my affairs?’
But Warwick had gone too far to be warned off now. ‘It’s not a joke, your majesty,’ he said. ‘It is the soundest common sense.’
And he went on to expound the virtues of this proposition. Was he not the king’s cousin? No one else was of comparable status. And his daughters and the king’s brothers had grown up together since, after the death of the king’s father, Warwick had taken both George and Richard into his custody. So there was already an affection between them. And they were of an age, though that was hardly the primary consideration.
It was obvious, he went on, even though he could read and perfectly interpret the king’s expression, that such a match would bind together in solid unity the leading dynasties of the nation, while enabling the king to circumnavigate any difficulties regarding foreign dukes and their heiresses, any complications caused by his brothers being rulers of foreign countries.
It was a flawless plan. There was almost no need to outline its many advantages. But he outlined them nonetheless, and the king appeared to be listening. Then, when Warwick had finished, he said, ‘But you see, cousin, your loyalty is not in question, I hope.’
‘Of course not,’ said Warwick, surprised.
‘I can always count on it. I do not need to take any steps to secure it further.’
‘No –’
‘Therefore, my two brothers can be more usefully deployed, in helping me to secure alliances that are not yet certain – with other nations.
‘What I desire,’ he said, as Warwick started to speak, ‘is to raise the status of this nation in the eyes of other nations. That is what is important now – how others see us, eh? This new dynasty – this House of York.’
