Son of York

by Amy Licence

  SON OF YORK

  Amy Licence

  © Amy Licence 2017

  Amy Licence has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published 2017 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  For Tom, Rufus and Robin.

  Now is the winter of our discontent

  Made glorious summer by this sun of York

  (Richard III, Shakespeare)

  Table of Contents

  Foreword

  ONE: The Blade in the Darkness, May, 1455

  TWO: The Duke of York

  THREE: First Blood

  FOUR: A Court Without a King, November, 1455

  FIVE: The Riddle of the King

  SIX: The Italian Girl

  SEVEN: Disorderly City, January, 1456

  EIGHT: Love and Duty

  NINE: Faces in the Dark, January, 1458

  TEN: The Loveday, March 25, 1458

  ELEVEN: The Lists, March 26, 1458

  TWELVE: The Encircling Net, May, 1459

  THIRTEEN: Fotheringhay, June, 1459

  FOURTEEN: Traitors at Play

  FIFTEEN: The Road to War, September, 1459

  SIXTEEN: The King in the Field, October, 1459

  SEVENTEEN: Shame

  EIGHTEEN: Wind and Waves, January, 1460

  NINETEEN: The Blood of Others, June, 1460

  TWENTY: To be a King, October, 1460

  TWENTY-ONE: Brothers Again

  TWENTY-TWO: Nemesis

  TWENTY-THREE: Acts of Valour, February, 1461

  TWENTY-FOUR: The Race for the City

  TWENTY-FIVE: The Last Battle, March, 1461

  Foreword

  In 1455, England was languishing under the rule of a weak and unstable king. The Lancastrian Henry VI had inherited the throne as a baby on the death of his father but, unlike the martial Henry V, national hero and victor of Agincourt, the boy grew up to be peace-loving and pious, more suited to the monastery than the council chamber. By the age of thirty-three, King Henry was being manipulated by a powerful court faction, centred around his unpopular French wife, Queen Margaret.

  Deep divisions opened in the realm, which descended into lawlessness and political infighting. Henry survived a large-scale uprising in the south-east under the rebel leader Jack Cade, but his own health was to prove a far more challenging obstacle. One hot summer day, he fell into a coma, unable to speak, move or feed himself, lying immobile in bed while the queen gave birth to a son. Surgeons, physicians, astronomers and astrologers were summoned to court but none could diagnose the cause or say whether Henry would recover. Nobody wanted a repeat of the long minority that came with an infant king, so the Protectorate was handed over to a senior nobleman, Richard, Duke of York, the king’s capable and ambitious cousin, himself a great, great, great-grandson of Edward III.

  After eighteen months of illness, the king recovered sufficiently to be able to recognise his young son, but the seeds of doubt had been planted. England began to fracture along family lines, torn between those who remained loyal to the Lancastrians and those who favoured York. In addition, while the king’s marriage had only produced one child in a decade, the duke was already the father of a clutch of sons, headed by the thirteen-year-old Edward, Earl of March. Still professing his loyalty to the crown, York put aside his senior Plantagenet descent and swore that his only intent was to serve his king and protect him from divisive influences. For many in the queen’s faction though, he was now too dangerous a figure to be allowed to live. The stage was set for civil war.

  ONE: The Blade in the Darkness, May, 1455

  A boy stood up from under the trees. He was nine or ten, stockily built. His jaw was still soft from childhood but his limbs were awkward with new growth. Narrowing his dark eyes, he strained to see through the falling darkness.

  ‘Alan, get down.’

  The voice from the weeds was harsh, unforgiving. The boy teetered briefly before a rough hand dragged him back down to earth, out of sight. He smelled fungus, rotting fruit, as the dark mass of his brother moved in and eclipsed all.

  ‘They will see you,’ he hissed. ‘And you don’t want that, do you?’

  The grey face before him was all teeth and broken nose. Cruelty shone in its eyes.

  The younger boy tried to reply with a laugh. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Because that would spoil the fun. And if my fun was spoiled, I would get angry. And if I got angry, I might want to do something about it.’

  The weeds around them trembled.

  ‘But Rick…’

  ‘And when you were asleep, I might take my knife and press it to your throat and make a little cut. You wouldn’t feel it but your life would slowly drain away and…’

  Something metallic glinted in the shade between them.

  The younger boy’s jaw trembled. ‘What are you planning to do?’

  His brother grinned: the terrible grin of a boy on the verge of manhood, dizzy with the new power he can wield and the stench of death on his hands.

  ‘To them?’ Rick’s breath was hot, sickly. His mouth pressed close against his brother’s ear and his voice was ominously low. ‘Why, teach them a lesson, of course. I’m sick of their puny whining and their pretty-boy faces. Sick of the sons of York, sons of the traitor.’ He ran his finger along the edge of the blade. ‘I’d like to cut a slice off their fat cheeks and roast it over their own fire.’

  And for the younger boy, that darkened spot of trees and weeds suddenly seemed hot with the fires of hell and all the avenging angels. He tried to stammer out some words of reservation but his brother’s head snapped to one side.

  ‘They’re coming!’

  At once the trees fell silent. The wind breathed through the leaves with a sort of pulse. They waited.

  *

  Edward glanced over his shoulder to check that his brother Edmund was still trailing behind him. They must hurry if they were to reach the castle before the fall of darkness, to cross this low green cradle of fields where the shadows seemed to pool and dim. Night was following closely upon their heels, snapping and urgent. They should not be out at this hour and they both knew it. Edward flinched at the thought of their father’s almoner, with his lazy eyes and cruel mouth, praying he had not missed them. His new jerkin chafed his neck: his clothes were well made, cut from expensive fabric, he could not fault the man there, but Richard Croft’s mind was too inflexible. And his sons were idiots.

  Edmund came out from behind the bushes, his longbow slung across his boyish shoulders, its strings still warm from the pull of his fingertips. Like Edward, he wore a slim quiver of arrows across his back. His aim was definitely improving: just minutes ago they had been whooping in delight as he had hit the target again, two boys in the middle of the lane with the swallows swooping low overhead. The castle, Croft, lessons and dinner, even father, had all been forgotten in the moment. The early summer evening had slipped away from them while they were engrossed in their sport.

  Edward paused to wait for his brother to catch up. He had walked at a swifter pace. His limbs were lean but powerful, a natural athlete, they moved with an easy rhythm that suggested speed and resilience, from long childhood summers spent running and riding, swinging from the branches of trees, swimming in rivers and laughing in delight at the cool water sliding over his skin. He was the sort of child who dives headlong into the water while his jealous friends dip in their toes, shivering in their fears and inhibitions. The weeds in the lane did not repress Edward, he did not see phantoms and assassins behind every tree like Edmund did. Edward was already tall for his age, coltish but well proportioned. His hazel eyes cast about from right to left, seeking the swiftest route or expecting to see it open up before them. It would se
em perfectly natural to him, for the brambles to part at his approach.

  For he was thirteen now. His birthday had fallen a week ago, long enough for him to wear his new age comfortably but still so fresh as to be a novelty. And thirteen years old, thought Edward Plantagenet, was so much more than the restraints of twelve, a definite remove from eleven and so far advanced from ten, that those childish years seemed as distant as winter on a hot summer’s day. Thirteen would soon be fourteen: it was certainty, majesty, authority, with one foot in the arena of manhood. Thirteen was promise and pleasure. It was as good as near anything a boy might wish to be, hurrying back home to a hot dinner and a warm bed.

  His brother was swept along with him, running every other pace to remain by his side. Edmund was shorter, slighter, at eleven years old; almost twelve, almost, almost. For the ‘almost’ infinitely mattered; he was almost as tall, almost as old, almost as strong; he proudly inhabited the space Edward had immediately vacated. His brother went before him like a God through the long twilight grass and Edmund planted his feet in those footsteps. He stepped over the furze before it sprang back up, his arms catching branches bent in their wake. Otherwise, they were physically similar. Both had thick, abundant sandy coloured hair, tousled from play fighting and adventures. Their faces were open, honest, with warm, sensitive eyes, quick to betray their emotions. The mouths were wide and generous, the lips full and finely modelled but they were still the faces of children. Something had yet to resolve in them before they took on the cast of men. And Edmund was perhaps a more ethereal character, his eyes given to contemplation, his expression suggestive of a thinker. While Edward battled his way through the physical world, Edmund was dreaming of knights and romances, jousting and chivalry, of the efforts of the tiny beetle to ascend the huge stalk or the trials of birds weaving twigs to build their nests. Yet suddenly, he was aware of the moment, bringing him back into the present. Something had shifted in his brother’s gait.

  ‘There’s someone ahead, keep close.’

  Edward’s whisper scarcely rose above the rustle of the wind through the trees. For a second, all was still. The scene stretched out before them, with the irregular green and brown fields, the overgrown track and ahead, the stone bridge crossing the River Teme. Above, a sliver of cold moon had risen behind the castle battlements. A faint breeze blew the night into their faces, touched with the acrid tang of smoke rising from the town. They could almost hear the earth breathe.

  Then came the sound of crashing; close, loud, violent, as a large creature burst through the undergrowth. Out of the darkness came violent hands, feet, claws, the rapid movement of limbs and a futile struggle. Edward was grabbed roughly on both sides and fell to his knees, arms pinned behind him amid shouts of triumph. The grass suddenly rose before his eyes, followed by a pair of dirty boots. He felt pain impact against his shoulder and his body folded in self-protection. His attacker glowered down, eyes bulging with advantage, mouth gasping wetly.

  It was the Croft brothers, sons of the castle almoner. The idiots. Sometimes they were forced to train together in the field, at jousting, or ride in uncomfortable silence, after the hart. At fifteen, Rick should have moved on, into the adult world, yet he was simple and could make nothing but mistakes and his mind ran only on cruelty and pain. In disgust, Edward pulled away, turning to see Edmund being held by Alan, the lump-like child who had not yet learned to keep his balance in the saddle. The Crofts had the advantage of surprise, as an owl might bring down an unsuspecting falcon. Yet it was their only advantage.

  ‘Walked right into our trap,’ Rick leered, tall, solid and demonic. ‘Right into our trap.’

  ‘What do you want, Croft? Unhand us.’

  The answering laugh was shrill with Rick’s surprise at his own victory.

  ‘Just a bit of sport. We all like a bit of sport, don’t we?’ He spotted Edward’s bow, which had fallen onto the rutted track. ‘Been playing at soldiers again?’

  By now Edward was composed. The pain was fading. He caught Edmund’s eye and some silent communication passed between them.

  ‘I’ll have you beaten for this.’

  ‘Really?’ The ugly mouth came back into focus, reeking and hot. ‘They’ll have to find you first, my Lords.’

  The last was delivered with a biting sarcasm, unbearable to a proud boy with an innate sense of justice. Edward balled all his power into a fist and propelled it upwards, into his assailant’s belly. Rick grunted and stumbled but if nothing else, he was strong and grabbed Edward’s ankle as he turned, bringing him crashing down again.

  ‘Wrong move. Silly little boy.’

  But in that moment, Edmund broke free from Alan, whose arms were left waving windmills in the air, and launched himself against their larger assailant. For a moment, power hung in the balance. Edmund’s fists flew quickly and Rick splayed open in defence but it was the battle of a fifteen-year-old against that of a child and, before Edward could turn and leap forward to intervene, Rick had raised his cruel fist and brought it down with brute force. The knuckles connected with Edmund’s nose. He fell back, with a dark line of blood streaking his lips and chin. It was the spur his brother needed. Rising out of the foliage, Edward appeared taller, broader, older. A natural nobility sat in his brow.

  ‘You will pay for this, Croft.’

  Edward stepped forward, his face leaving no doubt of his impending triumph. They stood, eye to eye, an arched, thickset animal against an upright son of York. It was a test of audacity, of bravery, which Edward would always win. But then, Rick’s arm moved slowly behind his back. His breath came in short bursts of ecstasy, as his fingers closed upon cold steel.

  ‘Rick, no!’

  Alan’s cry shattered the moment. Edward understood at once, kicked out his booted foot and the concealed blade flew into the grass. Edmund reached over and claimed it, holding the dagger up to shine in the moonlight. It was an ugly, squat, cheap little weapon, previously used to gut fish and slit the throats of pigs at Martinmas. All eyes were drawn to it.

  Slowly Edward turned back. ‘A knife? Really?’

  Stripped of his weapon, Rick’s face became querulous. ‘It was just to scare you.’

  ‘I could have you dragged before my father’s court for this. You’d be flogged until the blood flowed.’

  He drew closer, filling the space around the bully, leaving him no hiding place. Edmund scrambled to his side, the dagger dancing keenly between his fingers. Their shoulders squared together. Authority spoke through them.

  ‘But that won’t be necessary, will it Rick? Because from this day, you will never cast your filthy gaze on us again. You will move out of the way when we pass by and, if we want to take a piss, you will offer us your boot. Do you understand?’

  Rick bridled under the yoke. A kick to the shins sent him to his knees.

  ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Yes, my Lord. Say it.’

  ‘Yes, my Lord.’

  ‘We are the sons of the Duke of York. Never forget it.’

  And Edward broke away, walking with a slow, deliberate dignity towards the path. Edmund was at his side, head held high as the blood on his lips congealed. The two figures left cowering in the grass made no move to follow them.

  ‘Don’t turn round,’ Edward whispered to his brother.

  ‘Won’t they…’

  ‘No. Just don’t turn round, brazen it out. It’s a show. Never turn round.’

  They walked on, anticipating the blows to their vulnerable backs, past the trees to the river and across the bridge. The Crofts were out of sight. Then, the adrenaline rushed out of Edward’s lungs and they were children again, exhilarated and triumphant, late for dinner.

  ‘How is your nose? Anything broken?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘We’d better run the last bit, to make it to the hall in time. Don’t mention this, it’ll only cause a fuss. No one need know and all will be well.’

  Edmund nodded. ‘W
e fight our own battles.’

  And they broke into a run, two darting figures scaling up the dark slopes towards the castle walls.

  TWO: The Duke of York

  A midday smokiness settled over Ludlow Castle. It was the hour of short shadows, of dogs dozing in the sun and the slow bubble of pots on stoves. Censers swung in the chapel, filling the lungs of those at prayer with the scent of Catholicism, while just outside, chickens strutted and clucked in search of grain. The river ran clear and green. Fish lay still in the dappled shallows, waiting until the women had finished pulping their laundry clean.

  Within the thick castle walls, the time had come for Latin prayers to be translated, a time for concentration and for lazily tracing a finger down the window pane. Edmund’s eyes were drawn outside, to the distant jumbled of roofs in the town, through their smoke rising to the clouds and into the flight path of a lone bird.

  Edward looked up from his books. ‘What is it? You’re restless today.’

  His brother sighed, drawing his knees up to his chest.

  ‘You’re not still worrying about the Crofts?’ Edward darted a glance to the closet, where their tutor was writing letters. ‘Because we won’t have any more trouble from them.’

  ‘No, not the Crofts.’

  ‘What then?’ He crossed the room and peered outside. ‘Perhaps we should make a trip into town on market day, get out of here for a bit.’

  ‘Will we go to court again?’

  ‘Probably not. Father isn’t needed now the king is better.’

  ‘What was wrong with him?’

  Edward shrugged. ‘The physicians couldn’t say. Some sort of fainting sickness or madness, so that he couldn’t feed himself or recognise his friends, only lie on his back in bed. He was like that for months.’

  ‘How terrible.’ Edmund’s mouth softened. ‘A sort of death-in-life. Poor man.’