Rebellion

by Livi Michael

  But that day the messengers arrived.

  She ran to meet them, Henry hurrying behind.

  ‘Where is he?’ she cried. William Bailey hardly had time to remove his hat.

  ‘He is safe, my lady, but Lord Herbert is dead.’

  Henry caught her as she collapsed.

  Herbert was dead. Herbert. Dead. Her son was safe.

  ‘The king is captured, my lord, he is the Earl of Warwick’s prisoner.’

  So the news unfolded, even before they reached the house. It was staggering. It redefined their world.

  Henry held her, made her walk into the kitchen, where they sat round the table to hear more news, though for a moment she could hear nothing for the ringing in her ears.

  Her son had been taken to the battlefield – as she’d thought – but he had been rescued by Sir Richard Corbet, who was married to Lady Herbert’s niece. He had taken him to Weobley to the home of Walter Devereux, Lord Ferrers, who was Lady Herbert’s brother. Lady Herbert had left Raglan as soon as she’d heard the outcome of the battle. She too was staying in her brother’s house. William Bailey had gone there himself, to see Henry.

  ‘How is he?’ she managed to say.

  He told her that her son seemed well. He was being looked after by one of Lord Ferrers’ men, to whom they had given some of the money for reward. They had given a further sum to Henry himself, to buy a new bow and some shafts. They had not seen Sir Richard but had passed on her thanks. Lady Herbert also they had not seen.

  ‘She was distraught, my lady. Her husband and his brother both executed by Warwick, her son imprisoned …’

  She thought of that for a moment; the tall and queenly Lady Herbert, who had seemed untouched by misfortune. Now it is her turn, she thought. ‘Do you know how long they will stay there?’ she said.

  They did not know. It seemed likely that Lady Herbert would seek shelter with her brother for some time. She was afraid to return to Raglan.

  ‘It is terrible for her,’ Margaret’s husband said, but Margaret thought of her son on the battlefield and her stomach twisted with nausea and her heart with rage.

  ‘I’m sorry it took us so long to get here,’ William Bailey said. ‘None of the roads are safe.’ And, ‘They are saying the Duke of Clarence will be king.’

  That shifted the conversation towards speculation about what might happen next. But Margaret thought that whatever happened next she would have her son. His wardship had been granted to William Herbert only, not to his wife.

  And he was dead. Beheaded. She could see that broad, genial, wary face struck off and rolling in the grass.

  Finally, when they were alone, her husband sat looking at her across the table.

  ‘You must be very relieved,’ he said. But she’d gone beyond relief; she was plotting.

  ‘As for the rest of the news,’ he went on, staring at the wall, ‘I don’t know what to believe. There are two kings in England – both in captivity!’

  ‘We should write to Lady Herbert,’ she said.

  ‘To express our condolences?’

  ‘To say that her wardship of my son is ended now.’ She lifted her chin a little. ‘The grant was made to Lord Herbert. Who is dead.’

  ‘I don’t think this is the time –’

  ‘When is the time?’

  Sometimes her husband looked at her as if he did not know her; as if she was some entirely alien being with whom he could not commiserate. ‘Lady Herbert will not be up to grappling with legal niceties at the moment.’

  ‘It’s not up to her.’

  ‘Who, then? You’ve just heard that the king is held captive – is perhaps no longer king. With whom will you raise this issue?’

  She looked away from him, biting her lip. He was right, of course. But if the king was deposed that would leave only one person to rule the country. One person, or possibly two. Warwick was no friend of hers. But both he and Clarence had hated Herbert enough to have him executed. And Clarence was in possession of the fee of Richmond. Which was her son’s inheritance. She had to act now. She looked back at her husband.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘It is too dangerous.’

  ‘But Clarence has the rights to my son’s estates.’

  ‘Why would he give them up?’

  ‘Why would he need them, if he is king?’

  Her husband got up in alarm and closed the door. ‘Don’t say such things,’ he said. ‘It is treason.’

  ‘Not if Clarence is king,’ she said.

  They came closer to a full-blown quarrel over this than they had ever done. Her position was simple. King Edward had not released her son because he was Herbert’s great benefactor. Now, while he was – indisposed – was the perfect time to petition the Duke of Clarence. ‘I can write to him at least,’ she said.

  Henry stared at the wall, then at the floor, then the window. ‘If you put this in writing,’ he said, ‘you will jeopardize us both.’

  ‘Then I will have to go,’ she said. ‘If he comes to London I will visit him.’

  ‘I will not accompany you,’ he said. ‘I will go with you to London, but if you insist on this reckless enterprise you’ll be on your own.’

  She bowed her head. He had never left her on her own before. She felt a tremor of fear. But playing it safe had got her nowhere thus far.

  She realized that he was waiting for her to make some response, to tell him, perhaps, that she had reconsidered. When she did not respond, he got up and left.

  She sat back, expelling a long breath.

  There was so much to do. She sent their receiver, Reginald Bray, to consult the most distinguished lawyer in the capital, Humphrey Starkey, Recorder of London. On his advice Reginald Bray obtained a copy of the original patent for the wardship and marriage of her son. She sent William Bailey to Pembroke in case there was any additional documentation to be found there. At Woking she gathered the paperwork that proved no attainder had ever been served on her son’s father, Edmund Tudor, so her son should therefore be allowed to inherit all his father’s legacy and estates.

  As soon as she heard that the Duke of Clarence and the Archbishop of York were coming to London to assemble a parliament, despite all her husband’s warnings she wrote to Clarence. And received the reply that she could visit on the Thursday of that week. Triumphantly, she showed it to her husband.

  ‘It will not get you anywhere,’ he said. ‘Except prison, when the king returns.’ But Margaret said it was nothing so serious – it was only an informal visit. They set out together, barely speaking along the way.

  At the appointed time she arrived at the gates of Clarence’s house on Downegate Street.

  They were opened by a young man she did not know; lanky, with heavy-lidded eyes and unruly hair. He looked at her dismissively, as though she had just been washed up by the river. The Duke of Clarence wasn’t there, he told her. He was at an undisclosed location in the north.

  Her heart raced. ‘But he has written to me,’ she said, showing the invite. The young man shrugged. ‘He must have changed his mind,’ he said.

  It was fortunate that she did not get a chance to say what she was thinking, because just then the duke himself appeared from behind the gatehouse. ‘John,’ he said, ‘do not keep the countess waiting. She has come all this way to see us.’

  She glared at the young man who stared back at her impudently, so that she almost forgot to greet the duke, but Clarence seemed unperturbed. ‘Come in,’ he said. ‘Do not mind John. He doesn’t like visitors.’

  She accompanied the duke into his house and sat with him at his request. ‘You are lucky to catch me,’ he said. ‘I have great business in the city.’

  ‘I heard,’ she said. It would perhaps not be wise to congratulate him on kidnapping the king. ‘The whole nation is awaiting your news.’

  He seemed pleased by this, but he said, ‘It will have to wait a little longer. There are many things to decide.’

  Or for Warwick to decide, she thought, but she said that she
was sure he would act with perfect wisdom, like Solomon. And was pleased with this comment, as he was, because, of course, Solomon had been king.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ he said graciously, as a king might.

  ‘My son,’ she said, ‘has been put in great danger by his guardian.’

  She could sense a falling off of interest. He was not like his brother, attentive to the needs of those who petitioned him. But she outlined the circumstances: how her son, at so young an age, had been taken to war against the Earl of Warwick and the duke, by their enemy, Lord Herbert. Who should have protected him, but instead had put him at such risk.

  He looked at her laconically. ‘You don’t need to worry about Herbert now,’ he said, ‘since he is dead.’

  ‘I’m aware of that,’ she said. ‘That is precisely why I worry. What will happen to my son now? Since Lord Herbert is dead,’ she added, ‘his wardship of my son has ended.’

  His glance was calculating now. ‘That was my brother’s decision,’ he said slowly.

  ‘I believe it is in your power to overturn it,’ she replied, aware that she was on treacherous ground. As far as she knew, Edward was still king. But she had to appeal to the duke’s vanity, which was the vanity of a man who wished himself other than he was. ‘It seems to me that Herbert was granted many things beyond his station,’ she said.

  ‘He was an interloper,’ Clarence said. ‘He thought himself king of Wales.’

  ‘There are many things your brother has done that you might wish to undo,’ she said.

  Clarence would not dispute that. ‘Certainly he loved the commons,’ he said, giving the word an especial emphasis, to include all those whom the king had promoted: the queen’s family, Lord Hastings. ‘He allowed them to rise far above their station. Even the enemies of his own family.’

  ‘I would not want my son to be kept by a family who were enemies of yours.’

  He had to acknowledge this assertion of loyalty. ‘It might be possible to regain custody of your son.’

  Her heart leapt. ‘And his inheritance,’ she said quickly. ‘The fee of Richmond was his father’s – and Edmund was never attainted. I have the papers here.’

  She held them out to him, but his face was wary. Possibly he had heard of her case against the Earl of Warwick in Kendal. He didn’t take the package but said she could leave it there. Somewhat reluctantly she set it down on the table, aware of the change in atmosphere between them; aware also of the limitations of his power. ‘I expect you are busy,’ she said.

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Many people will come to you who have felt oppressed or injured. There will be so many wrongs to redress.’

  ‘My brother’s actions have caused much damage.’

  He hated his brother, she could see it on his face. ‘You will want to dissociate yourself from them – prove that you had no part in them.’

  ‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’ he said, then sniggered suddenly. ‘Actually, I am,’ he said.

  She smiled. ‘You will want to make sure that all those who were honoured by him will not enjoy the same favour now. They should not continue to keep the same wardships and grants and titles as before.’ She gazed at him intently. ‘That would be one of your first actions, I should think.’ She did not say when you are king.

  ‘It will take some time,’ he said. ‘The country has been overrun by predators – who have taken on themselves far more than they should. But be assured, Countess, I and my father-in-law, the Earl of Warwick, will not rest until they are brought down.’

  The Earl of Warwick. In all probability he would do nothing without the earl.

  ‘I must congratulate you on your marriage,’ she said, aware that she was treading on even more dangerous ground here, since the king had expressly forbidden it. He smiled at once, gratified. ‘Now that you are united with the earl, many things will become possible,’ she said warmly. ‘That’s why I’m here, to appeal to the new rule of justice and honour.’

  He was flattered, of course. But still he would not commit himself. ‘I will consult with my father-in-law,’ he said, ‘and I will have my lawyers look into your case.’

  He sat back as though the interview was over, then rose and extended his hand. ‘It has been a pleasure, Countess,’ he said, with exactly his brother’s inflection and manner. ‘I’m sure we will see more of one another very soon.’

  Her heart sank. She had achieved nothing. Clarence was no king. He was not like his brother. He looked like him, spoke like him, had several of his manners and gestures, but he was more brittle. Warwick would rule.

  He escorted her out of the house with a courtesy that would in other circumstances have been charming, assured her he would do everything in his power to redress her situation; that she would hear from him very soon. Then, excusing himself, he went back inside. The same young man was at the gates and he bowed a little mockingly as she left. But he could hardly make her feel any worse. Everything she had just done and said could be construed as treason. She had left incriminating evidence of her visit. Clarence had her legal documents, and in all probability he would not even look at them. He would consult his father-in-law, Warwick, who was not well disposed towards Margaret. And if the king returned he would have evidence of what she had done.

  Even as she got into her carriage she knew that Edward would return. Clarence would not be king. Which meant she had just condemned them all: her husband, herself, her son.

  The carriage moved slowly through streets that were crowded with armed guards, and with people begging or crying out their wares like so many birds. She could only sit in it with her sinking heart as she travelled back to her husband, who had been right all along.

  32

  The King’s Captivity

  The Earl of Warwick, as astute a man as ever was Ulysses, is at the king’s side and from what they say the king is not at liberty to go where he wishes.

  Newsletter from London, August 1469

  He did everything required of him, cheerfully signing all the documents Warwick gave him. He signed several proclamations against civil disobedience, because everywhere his loyal subjects were rioting and rising up.

  The men who attended him were subdued and deferential. They were afraid of the consequences of keeping their king in captivity. But he was unfailingly good-humoured and courteous towards them.

  One of them, a man called Davies, seemed willing to keep him informed. Brought him extra blankets and wine, a book to read. Remember this when you are restored to power, he seemed to be saying. Do not have me executed for treason.

  He learned from this man that Warwick had cancelled the parliament in York. Clarence and the archbishop had been sent to London to try to arrange one there, and to keep the peace. By the end of August all the lords had assembled in the capital and were threatening to rebel against the earl. The king’s smile became broader.

  His wife was safe, apparently. The queen had been allowed to remain in the royal apartments of the Tower of London with their daughters. But he learned from Warwick himself that her mother had been charged with witchcraft.

  ‘Witchcraft? On what grounds?’

  ‘For practising the black arts.’

  ‘Has she been raising the dead?’

  Warwick didn’t answer. He was leaning against the window. ‘It is funny, is it not,’ he said, ‘how different the land looks when one rules it?’

  The king didn’t rise to this. He said, ‘She cannot be a very effective witch if she has been imprisoned.’

  ‘It is widely believed that you would not have chosen as you did if you had been in your right mind.’

  This again. Warwick would not rest until every one of his wife’s family had been destroyed.

  ‘Widely believed by you.’

  ‘And many others,’ Warwick said, turning to him. ‘There are many who cannot believe that you would risk your crown and your nation on a mad whim.’

  ‘You cannot seriously think I was under a spell.
’

  Warwick’s expression remained unchanged. ‘What then? Were you struck by one of Cupid’s arrows?’

  The king made an impatient movement. ‘No,’ said Warwick, his gaze sharpening. ‘You could have had any of the princesses of Europe – not France if you were determined to slight that nation – though God knows you set me up for long enough there – but you could have had Isabella of Castile, or the Scottish queen. Instead you marry a low-born widow. And promote her family above everyone in the kingdom.’

  He was advancing towards the king now, his voice sinking almost to a whisper. Edward could see that his eyes were red-rimmed and staring. He did not look well, the king thought. Or maybe it was just that his mask had slipped.

  ‘You have evidence, I suppose.’

  ‘I suppose I do.’

  ‘You can prove that I was bewitched?’

  ‘Were there no other pretty women in England?’ Warwick said, bending over him. ‘No blacksmith’s daughter or alehouse scrubber you could have raised up? Was your eye not caught by anyone else? I seem to remember that it was – on many occasions. Did it not occur to you to marry them?’

  The king remained silent, looking thoughtfully at Warwick.

  ‘In any case,’ the earl said, ‘we have certain items, charms and figurines.’

  The king felt a pang of fear. ‘Has it come to this?’ he said. ‘Faking evidence now?’

  ‘You have brought it to this,’ said Warwick, ‘with your incontinent fervour.’

  ‘Ah, Warwick.’

  ‘I confess I was hoping for a different outcome,’ said the earl. ‘But you cannot expect me to stand by while my own family is slighted and these commoners rise. It seems to me that some kind of spell must have been cast.’

  The king raised his hands and dropped them again. ‘And you, Warwick?’ he said. ‘Who has cast a spell on you?’

  They stared at one another and the king saw something pinched and hawkish in his cousin’s face. I should have killed you when I had the chance, his eyes said. Because now, with half the country up in arms, he could not kill the king.

  The protracted silence was interrupted by a knock on the door. It was one of Warwick’s own men, and the earl went out to talk to him.