by Livi Michael
She stared at him and he was the first to look away.
‘Gone with the fishes,’ he said, and spat over the side of the boat.
In any other circumstances the queen might have had him arrested, but now she could not even reprimand him. She was relieved when John Reece returned. ‘I’ve found him, my lady,’ he said, hurrying down the steps. ‘He says you are most welcome to stay. He will send you his carriage.’
The queen felt a powerful rush of relief. She struggled to her feet as the boat lurched. It was not easy to stand in the boat and pass her little daughters out to John Reece, then clamber out herself while the boatman gazed out over the water and made no attempt to help. Awkwardly, she ascended the slippery steps, John Reece gripping her with one hand and holding Princess Cecily with the other.
The smell of Sanctuary intensified as she reached the top of the steps. At the entrance to Thieving Lane there was a public latrine so noxious that all of the adjacent shops stood empty. And the marshy land surrounding Westminster Abbey had its own drainage problems, though it provided running water for the washerwomen who lived nearby.
There were fifty or sixty tenements within the Sanctuary grounds, all of them dark, cramped and leaning as if propping one another up. Refuse spilled into the narrow alleys from the fishmongers, brewers and butchers, and offal ran through the streets. The queen could not be expected to pick her way through cobbles slippery with dung and tripe. John Reece disappeared again and returned with a small carriage. It bumped and lurched over the cobbles, passing alleys where the houses overhung so closely that there could scarcely be any light in daytime.
The streets were deserted and the buildings apparently derelict. The queen felt a desolate chill spreading out from her heart, numbing her. Sometimes she thought she detected a movement from the corner of her eye – some hidden life in the dingy alleyways. It came to her that all those people who thought she was not fit to be queen would say that she was where she belonged.
They came to a halt outside the most dilapidated building of all. Shorter than the buildings on either side, the windows consisted of tiny frames, several of which were broken, and part of the gable end seemed to have fallen in. John Reece started to explain something to her but he was interrupted by a small commotion on the opposite side of the street. The abbot was hurrying towards them, his robes swishing through the filth. He approached her and bowed deeply. Even before the queen, he could not kneel in this squalor.
‘Your majesty,’ he said, ‘words cannot express my distress. You must come with me to my house – permit me to entertain you as my guest.’
And so they were escorted to the three best rooms in the abbot’s house. Beds had been prepared and fires lit. The abbot offered her refreshment but the queen was too exhausted to eat, and so he appointed two of his own maids to help her and her daughters to bed.
Despite her fatigue, however, she could not sleep. The child she was carrying turned slowly inside her, pressing first against her ribs, then her stomach, her bladder. And she was kept awake by thoughts of her husband, who had deserted her; the violence and desecration in the city; the imminent approach of Warwick.
She rose when the first wash of light entered the sky, and remained for some time gazing out at the desolate city, smoke from smouldering fires still rising here and there, flakes of soot dancing listlessly in the air. One of the maids brought her breakfast, but she ate little because of the burning pain in her chest. When her daughters woke, however, she took charge of them and saw to it that they ate.
And shortly afterwards the abbot came with the news she’d been waiting for: that the Earl of Warwick’s army was approaching the city.
Finally she knew what to do. She gave orders for the abbot to notify the mayor, the aldermen and the royal guard to take command of the Tower and close the city gates. On no account must Warwick or the Duke of Clarence be allowed to enter.
These lords entered London with celebrations appropriate to their great success.
Crowland Chronicle
The Bishop of Winchester … went to where King Henry was imprisoned by King Edward and with the compliance of the Earl of Warwick and the Duke of Clarence, took King Henry from his keepers. He was not worshipfully arrayed and not so cleanly kept as should seem such a prince …
Warkworth’s Chronicle
39
Mute as a Crowned Calf
King Henry did not know if he had seen these men before. He thought he recognized them, but it might only have been in his dreams, because he dreamed frequently that men came to him and offered him back his kingdom.
But now he had been brought to the most sumptuous of the royal chambers in the Tower by a bishop, and all these others were kneeling before him.
Perhaps it was a dream, or a trick. He wondered if they were the kind of people who came regularly to abuse him; if this was a further stage of mockery, and when they had finished he would be led back to his cell.
He looked to the angel who had come with them, but that celestial being stood by the window with folded wings. Because of the light from the window he could not see clearly, but he thought that it had pressed one finger to its lips as if telling him not to speak.
One of the men knelt in front of the others. This was the one that the king thought he should certainly recognize. He had silver-white hair and an eloquent tongue.
He spoke of his majesty’s great miseries and suffering; his unlawful confinement, contrary to both nature and justice, which was ended now. He would be released and restored as king.
He looked around, but there was no other king in the room.
‘I am king,’ he said. He said it to the angel, but he thought he saw a look of relief pass swiftly across the white-haired one’s face. Then one by one they all pledged their allegiance to him, their king, and this reminded him so strongly of another world he had known that tears filled his eyes.
Because of the blurring of his eyes the light shimmered and shook and he could not be sure what he was looking at. He looked again at the angel and saw that it still had one finger pressed to its lips so he knew that he must remain silent. All would be revealed to him, the angel seemed to be saying, in time.
So he smiled and sat still and dumb while the company made their avowals of loyalty, waiting for the revelation of grace.
[on 13th October 1470] the Duke of Clarence accompanied by the Earls of Warwick, Derby and Shrewsbury … and many other noble men, rode to the Tower and fetched thence King Henry and conveyed him through the streets of the city, riding in a long blue velvet gown to St Paul’s …
Great Chronicle of London
It seemed to him that a great miracle was occurring, for the crowds on the streets were silent, but the air around them roared and the earth cracked and buckled beneath the horses’ hooves. Angels and heralds blew their trumpets, and he thought perhaps he was being borne into the kingdom of Heaven. For all the noise had colour, and the colour had noise, and both were hard as stones, but stones in motion, flying thick and fast as birds.
The king knew that he must do nothing, or only what he was told to do. He tried to curb himself and grow small so that he might pass through all the flickering stones of light and noise.
[At St Paul’s cathedral] ceremonially and in public the crown was placed on his head.
Crowland Chronicle
And thus was this spiritual and virtuous prince King Henry VI after long imprisonment and many injuries derisions and scorns sustained by him patiently of many of his subjects, restored to his right and regality.
Great Chronicle of London
All laws were now re-enacted in King Henry’s name.
Crowland Chronicle
40
Margaret Beaufort Receives a Letter
‘He is coming,’ she said to her husband. ‘He is coming here.’
Henry looked at her blankly.
‘To London,’ she corrected herself. ‘To see the king. But he says we can see them first.’
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nbsp; ‘Who?’ said her husband.
‘Jasper,’ she said impatiently. ‘Jasper is coming to London. With my son.’
The letter said that he had landed in Wales at the same time as the Earl of Warwick had landed in Dartmouth. While Warwick had advanced towards London, recruiting the men of Kent, Jasper had made slower progress through Wales, raising troops. Sometime before reaching Hereford he’d heard the great news that King Edward had fled the country, and King Henry had been crowned again at St Paul’s.
There was no further need for an army of Welshmen, so Jasper had allowed most of them to go home, and had advanced to Hereford with only his own men. But he had thought of his nephew, who was still living at Weobley with Lady Herbert.
So he’d written to Lady Herbert, who was aware, of course, of the revolutionary events, and she’d written back to say that Sir Richard Corbet would meet Jasper in Hereford town and there hand over to his custody the young Earl of Richmond, his nephew.
And so it had happened. And now Jasper was bringing him to London.
It was astonishing. A miracle. So much had happened that was unlooked for. And now this.
‘We had better get ready to move to London,’ her husband said.
Yes, they would move – of course they would. To the London house they had recently acquired. It was small, but quite adequate to entertain Jasper. And her son.
She rested the letter against her chin and closed her eyes. She was smiling.
‘What else does he say?’ asked Henry.
While he read it she began making her plans.
The tide had turned in her favour at last. Not because of her own efforts, but for reasons she could not possibly have foreseen. Warwick, of all people, had brought it about. He had invaded the country, put one king to flight and restored another. And now her son was coming back to her.
‘It says here,’ her husband said, ‘that Jasper expects to have all his old titles and offices restored to him.’
‘Yes, of course,’ she said absently, thinking that her son would have changed so much since she last saw him. He was nearly fourteen.
‘All his old offices,’ her husband said, ‘and wardships.’
She looked at him, uncomprehending.
‘I expect that his majesty will restore to me all titles, offices, lands and wardships as before,’ he read. ‘And he says that Lady Herbert handed your son over to his custody.’
‘But that would be temporary,’ she said. ‘I will have custody now.’
Henry said nothing.
They both knew that before all the battles, before Towton, Jasper Tudor had been given custody of her son. A chill passed through her.
‘But he knows,’ she said, ‘he knows that my son should come back here – to me.’
‘He is older now,’ her husband said, and she knew he was right. At fourteen, boys entered the service of the king. They did not return home to their mothers.
That was why Jasper was taking him to London, not Woking.
‘But you will see him more frequently now,’ her husband said. ‘There will be no further problems of access.
‘Don’t let it spoil his visit,’ he said, when she did not reply. ‘It’s a great thing that has happened – and there are many things to arrange,’ he added, looking distracted now. ‘I myself will have to see the king.’
And suddenly she knew what he was thinking: that he had pledged himself to King Edward; had fought for him, in fact, at Stamford, just a few months ago, at the battle now known as Losecoat Field.
Although he could hardly say he had fought; he had not killed or injured anyone, and had returned to her entirely unharmed.
She had been overjoyed to see him; she’d wept for joy. She’d spent three weeks expecting news of his death, or that he would return badly injured, or that all the old scars from Towton would have flared again in his soul. ‘How?’ she’d asked him. ‘What happened?’
And he’d told her that Sir Robert’s army had fled the field, leaving their shields, surcoats, jackets and anything else that identified them as the enemy behind them. Edward’s army had given chase, overtaking many and slaughtering them as they ran. Henry had given chase with the rest, staying close to the trees. When anyone was looking he had driven his lance downwards into piles of clothing, hoping that no one would notice there was no body inside.
She’d covered her face with her hands at this and he’d thought she was crying again. But when she lifted her face he could see that she was laughing. ‘All that good cloth,’ she said, barely able to speak, ‘ruined!’
And though it wasn’t really funny, and he still had to tell Margaret’s mother that her stepson and grandson had been executed, Henry was forced to smile and finally to laugh. He was no warrior, but he had survived the field.
Neither of them was laughing now, because once again he’d served on the wrong side.
‘The king does not bear grudges,’ she said, but they both knew that Warwick did. Not only for the battle but for their legal dispute over Kendal.
‘It isn’t fair,’ she said, sounding even to her own ears like a child. Henry said nothing. He’d gone to battle with King Edward to convince him of his loyalty. Now he would have to prove his loyalty to a different king. Even if King Henry was disposed to grant them custody of her son, the Earl of Warwick would probably prevent it. And there would be Jasper himself to deal with.
The flush of joy she’d experienced on reading the letter had turned to ashes now. Was she always to be subject to these reversals of fortune?
She would see her son, and then he would be taken from her again.
Not if she could help it.
Her husband touched her shoulder. ‘You should write to Jasper,’ he said.
Yes, she would write. Already in her mind she was marshalling her arguments. Her son was still young, he did not have to go into service just yet. She had lived so long without him – surely he could stay with her a little while?
She rose with sudden energy, looking for paper. She was not defeated yet.
The morning of their departure from Woking dawned bright and cold; so clear that stars still stippled the sky as it paled. Frost whitened the rooftops of London and glittered on the pavements, but over the Thames the sky flushed to a fiery rose.
She spent the morning in a fever of expectation, checking the food, sending for different wine, until her husband told her to rest, or she would have a headache. But she couldn’t rest and by the afternoon she could indeed feel a headache coming on. But it didn’t matter and she didn’t care.
She saw the carriage, and Jasper getting out of it, then she flew down the stairs.
She ran past Jasper – fortunately her husband was greeting him – because just behind him, hovering a little undecidedly, was her boy Henry, her son.
She saw recognition flicker in his eyes and he bowed formally, but she clasped his face in her hands and kissed him once, twice, on either cheek. Then she put her arms round him and hugged him, burying her face in his neck.
She felt rather than saw him glance towards his uncle. Then he put his arms round her, not tightly, not hugging, but as if allowing the idea of her to enter his arms.
He was so tall – several inches taller than her!
She released him at last and held his face again. He was smiling tentatively. ‘My son,’ she said, and his smile broadened, reaching his eyes. She took his arm and turned to face Jasper, who was watching them with his frowning smile. ‘You’re very welcome,’ she said, and all the usual greetings were made.
They ate extensively: roast pork, capon, stuffed perch. Jasper told them that he had to meet the king the next day, at Whitehall, and the king had expressed the desire to meet his nephew, her son.
‘I will take him,’ she said at once. Jasper paused and she looked to her husband for support.
‘We have not yet welcomed the king,’ he observed.
‘You can meet with him first,’ she said, ‘and we will bring Henry later.’
Jasper prevaricated. ‘It will have to be arranged,’ he said. ‘The king will have to be told.’
‘You can tell him,’ Margaret said.
There it was; the spark of hostility that had always been between them. Jasper pulled the corners of his mouth down. ‘It may not suit the king,’ he said, and Margaret felt a surge of irritation. Had she not been the king’s sister?
As usual her husband stepped in.
‘We will wait outside,’ he said, ‘and you can send us a message. If it does not suit the king, we’ll leave Henry with you.’
And so it was arranged.
She had not seen the king for many years. She knew, of course, about all the ordeals he’d suffered but even so she was shocked at the change in him. He looked like an old, old man. His hair was entirely white, his flesh yellowing and loose. It hung from the bone as if the bones themselves were shrinking. Even the structure of his face had changed: the cheeks were hollow, the teeth more prominent and yellowish-brown. It was like the face of a skull.
But he was finely arrayed, wearing a coronet, and all his lords were around him.
Margaret’s husband had remained outside. They had agreed on this, because he had not yet begged pardon for having fought on King Edward’s side.
She’d told her son what to do, but not what to expect. She hoped he would not seem surprised, or act awkwardly in any way. He seemed much smaller here, in this great room. Taller than her, of course, but not as tall as either of his uncles.
He stepped forward and knelt before the king. ‘Your majesty,’ he said. And the king looked at him with that ethereal light in his eyes and said nothing, as though he was amazed.
When the king saw the child … he is reported to have said to the earls there present, ‘This truly is he unto whom we and our adversaries must yield and give over the dominion of the kingdom.’ Thus the holy man showed it would come to pass that Henry should in time enjoy the kingdom.
Polydore Vergil
The king’s mouth worked for a little while before the words came. ‘Is it the prince?’ he said. ‘Is it the prince who will rule after me?’
