by Amy Licence
It was their cue to leave. York offered his hand to his wife, resplendent in a gown of yellow and gold, who swept out of the hall at his side. Edward and Edmund scrambled to follow, keeping their chins held high as they felt the weight of their enemies’ eyes boring into their backs. Edmund wondered how long it would take for them to show their hands.
FIVE: The Riddle of the King
Birds circled in a dark cloud against the sky. They rose and fell in a graceful wave, high above the world of men. Winter was coming. A light drizzle was falling but rain could not entirely stamp out the tang of woodsmoke as four riders thundered through Windsor Forest towards the castle. A rabbit paused in the glades, then bolted from the approaching hooves, crouching, watching, until it was safe to emerge once more.
The riders passed under a wide stone arch, clattered into the inner courtyard and dismounted: the Duke of York with his eyes scanning the windows, the Earl of Warwick tall and alert, the white-haired Salisbury and a younger, slighter figure, scarcely into his teens, excited by the moment and what the world had to offer.
The boy was on the verge of manhood. He slid off his horse with ease and caught the reins in a gesture that stilled the animal. Since the summer, his limbs had lost their childishness and were lean with new growth. The new muscles on his forearms were soft, lacking the definition of experience and effort, but full of promise. He stood almost as tall as any of them, his neck losing its roundness to show the prominent Adam’s apple and the sprinkling of light down that would soon require the edge of a blade. His lips were firm, determined, yet still trembled with excitement as he looked up at the towering grey walls.
Edward had been surprised when his father appeared in his Westminster chamber early that morning and told him to rise and dress. It had seemed like a dream, in the half-light, before the servants had even stacked the grate, the sort of dream he had frequently had at Ludlow, sleepy little Ludlow that seemed so far away. The scene of his youth was nothing but a green corner of the distant world now. While his brother slept on, he had pulled on his doublet and braies in the cold dawn and hurried down to the stables before the court was stirring.
Servants led them to the watching chamber. It seemed that they had been expected. It was a long room, low-lit with a high ceiling and thick stone walls. Tapestries depicted scenes of hunts and legends, mythological gods and goddesses with their bows drawn. Warming themselves by the wide stone hearth, stood two majestic figures, outlined in fire. The first was a woman of above average height, soft and well made, in her mid-twenties. Her dark hair was pulled up under a conical headdress, from which a gauzy veil flowed past her shoulders, concealing her features. Her figure was neat, youthful and slender. At her side was a tall youth, perhaps nineteen or twenty, with a melancholic cast to his brows, dressed in deep mourning.
York strode forth into the centre of the room and waited. The pair did not turn but steadily watched the logs being consumed by flames. When the duke dropped to one knee, Edward and the others followed suit. The minutes passed. It seemed that they remained there, bowed down to the tiled floor for an eternity. Edward’s knees began to ache but his companions did not twitch so he gritted his teeth and waited.
Eventually the lady turned. Her skirts swung in a heavy circle as she came towards them, the weight of her stare boring into their heads.
‘What is your request?’
Her voice was low and sweet. When Edward raised his head he saw her serene eyes, dark, slanting and almond shaped, her olive skin and the colour in her cheeks. She held her mouth a little pertly as she surveyed the men, her expression softening a little when her gaze fell upon him. Then her attention was drawn by his father’s commanding voice.
‘Most gracious Queen, I offer my humble thanks for this audience. I trust to God you are both well.’
He waited but no reply came. Margaret of Anjou’s black eyes lifted coldly into the distance between them.
‘The council have invested the authority in me to summon a parliament. It will meet at Westminster tomorrow but, today, we had hoped to see the king.’
‘The king is indisposed.’ Her answer was clipped. She lifted her chin and looked down at the men, awaiting their next move.
‘We understand that, my Lady, this is the very reason we wished to see him and speak with his doctors.’
‘So he must be disturbed because you have a whim to see him?’
‘Not a whim, rather a necessity. If I am unable to see the person of the king, how might I convince the parliament of his ability to rule?’
She did not reply but worked her lips as if biting back a retort. The lean dark figure of her companion ranged up alongside her and let out a cough. He had only recently risen from his bed, suffering from wounds sustained at St Albans. Henry Beaufort might have lost his father but he had gained the Dukedom of Somerset.
‘I hope you are well, cousin Henry, that your injuries are healing?’
York had gone too far. This comment seemed to unleash the young man’s pent-up venom. His dark eyes flashed with hatred and his features contorted. ‘They would have no need to heal had your lackey not tried to deprive me of my life while I was defending my father.’
The insult was directed at Warwick. He was not a man to accept such a blow, even in the presence of the queen.
‘There were losses sustained on both sides.’
‘But you targeted my father. It was murder.’
‘The parliament of the summer issued pardons for all.’
‘What good is that to me now? You may as well have killed him in cold blood.’
Warwick steeled himself. ‘We would not have engaged, if our offers of peace had been accepted.’
‘Offers of peace? You did not go there with peace on your mind.’
‘We…’
‘It was murder, nothing less…’
York raised his hand. ‘Enough! This is not the place. The urgent matter is the king’s health; we have come here with no other purpose today. We do not want to reopen the breach.’
Beaufort let out a sound of disgust and turned back to the fire.
Queen Margaret sighed. ‘You may be admitted, for a minute only, just you and your boy, no one else.’ She cast her eyes again on Edward, who bowed his head in recognition. ‘The Nevilles may wait in the courtyard.’
‘Thank you, my Lady, it is most gracious of you.’
‘Now leave, I have no wish to see your faces any longer.’
*
A servant took them through corridors hewn from stone into the cold heart of the castle. The king’s apartments were dark, as daylight had not been admitted and only a single lamp burned on the wall. The air smelt musty, with a mix of chemicals and sweat and the remains of an untouched meal sat on a table close by the door. Beside them, a phial of holy water stood beside a well-worn Bible. The curtains hung heavy at the sides of the bed. Propped up on a mountain of pillows, the king lay motionless, his careworn face pale, eyelids closed.
A boy seated on a stool in the corner jolted into life at the sign of visitors.
‘He’s been like this for weeks.’
‘Fetch the doctors,’ York ordered. ‘Tell them the Protector would speak with them.’
As soon as they were alone, the duke lifted the lifeless arm and felt the pulse. Then he lifted the coverlet slightly and winced at the odour coming off the body.
‘God’s blood! Look at the state of him.’
Edward crept closer to the bedside and looked down at the face of the king. He looked serene, as if deep in slumber, a lined, worried face in repose, prematurely older than its thirty-three years. The mouth was mild, the nose bony and pronounced and the cheeks were dark with stubble. There was something both moving and grotesque about it; a living man so deep in a sleep from which nothing could rouse him, not even his kingdom.
‘Why is he like this?’ Edward whispered to his father.
York shook his head. ‘No one knows. The first time his illness came on, two years ago, it m
ay have been the loss of his French inheritance, or it may come from his grandfather, the mad King Charles. Perhaps it is just the will of God.’
‘But why would God wish for the king not to be well?’
They both looked down at the silent form. Edward thought he saw the eyelids flicker.
‘Do you think he can hear us?’
‘Who knows what he hears, or thinks, wherever he might be.’
‘Is it a form of punishment?’
‘For his religious life? He may have been a weak king but his piety cannot be questioned. Ah, at last!’
Two men entered the room and eyed them with suspicion.
‘Who enters the king’s chamber in his debility?’ asked one, a bearded man with a squint. ‘On whose authority have you come here?’
‘On that of parliament, with the blessing of the queen.’
‘The blessing?’
‘She gave her permission only moments ago. You must be new in attendance on the king, or else you would recognise your Protector of the Realm, the Duke of York.’
The bearded man shifted his gait. ‘My humble apologies, it is my duty to protect the king’s person at all costs, I had left his side merely to mix a poultice. My name is Doctor Keymer, Gilbert Keymer, and this is my assistant, John.’
‘And what is your opinion of his condition?’
Keymer sighed and pulled at his beard. ‘Well, there are things that can be ruled out, it’s a difficult case, quite unusual, I don’t want to commit myself to one diagnosis…’
‘Have you tested his urine?’
‘Of course, of course, that was one of the first things I did and it proved inconclusive.’
‘And bled him? And his diet?’
‘Yes, yes. He is bled often and his diet is strictly regulated. I am sorry but I can’t give you the answers you hope for. It is just a question of waiting.’
York frowned. ‘For how long?’
Keymer looked back helplessly.
‘But you do see,’ said York, balling his fist, ‘that the future of the country depends upon this, that our lives and the lives of everyone in this realm are affected by the health of the king? Would you have us slip again into war?’
‘I will pray but I cannot work miracles.’
The duke strode back to the bed and looked down at the pitiful figure who had not moved throughout the interview.
‘You are sure he is still alive?’
‘Of course he is still alive!’
‘You will send word to me at court the second there is any change, any change in the least, the second it happens, you understand? And in the meantime, get these sheets changed and clean him up. Come, Edward.’
They hurried out of the room in silence and down to the stables where Warwick and Salisbury were waiting. A single nod from the duke gave them all the information they needed to know.
‘Was it bad news then, father?’ Edward asked, as he climbed into the saddle.
‘Bad news?’ answered York, with a sidelong smile. ‘No, not bad news. The very best. The king cannot even flicker his eyelid and shows no sign at all of recovery. I shall be Protector, with God’s will, for many years to come.’
And he spurred his horse on towards the forest, the river and the Palace of Westminster.
*
In the council chamber, grave faces lined both walls. Friends and foes alike stared across the table, contemplating York’s news. Edward scanned them with his eyes, wishing he might read their thoughts. It was the first time he had been in the council chamber and here, the faces of those from the dinner table last night seemed less friendly.
‘There is no doubt about his condition,’ the duke repeated, his dark eyes flashing. ‘I was a witness to it myself, with my son Edward. Henry is incapacitated, incapable of response, afflicted by some terrible humour. He is still not capable of rule. The queen and Beaufort are in attendance but there seems little hope for his improvement in the near future.’
Jasper Tudor rose to his feet, casting his pale eyes along the length of the hall. ‘We should like to see the king and assess his condition for ourselves.’ His brother nodded at his side.
‘You are more than welcome to visit Windsor and ask the queen for an audience,’ York offered. He had expected this. ‘But you would save yourselves a journey if you put faith in my reports. My son, the Earl of March, can verify the facts.’
‘It is true,’ Edward nodded, addressing the men for the first time and feeling their collective gaze upon him. ‘The king is unable to rule, a child could see it.’
Tudor lifted his square chin. ‘What is being done for the king? Does he have new doctors, if the old ones cannot cure him?’
York spoke in low, reasoned tones. ‘I spoke with the doctors myself. They have administered the usual poultices and cures; there is talk of alleviating the pressure on his skull but the queen is not in agreement. You are welcome to send your own physicians to Windsor for the sake of your peace of mind.’
Tudor frowned. ‘There is talk of bringing in a surgeon?’
‘A surgeon is already present, he visits the king hourly. There is a procedure by which an incision can be made in the skull and…’
The scar-faced Buckingham brought his fist down on the table, making Edward jump. ‘Never! We cannot make the king undergo such a dramatic treatment. Think of the consequences if it should fail.’
‘It is merely a suggested course of action, by no means the only one being considered. There could be worse consequences if he does not recover,’ added York. ‘Surely we are united in our desire to see the king return to full health. Can we afford to sit and wait for that to happen of its own accord? What if he is never well again, never capable of rule?’
‘That is no reason to subject him to danger,’ added Tudor. ‘We may as well offer him the assassin’s blade. This is our anointed king, the son of our revered Henry V, his life is not a plaything in the hands of those who wish to replace him!’
Edward was close enough to hear his father draw breath. ‘That is not the case. We all wish for the king’s recovery.’
‘Perhaps some of us more than others?’ Buckingham delivered his insult in hushed tones but, at that moment, the voices dropped, so it was clearly heard.
York turned roundly to face him. ‘You are discontent, cousin. What would you suggest?’
The duke rose to the challenge. He looked around the room and his cheek that bore the scar seemed to twitch a little. ‘Caution before action. None of us needs to take any rash steps. There is no imminent danger, no current foreign invasion, we should just bide our time.’
‘I agree,’ added Tudor. ‘Allow the king another season, perhaps nature will run its course as it did before and all will be well again.’
‘Aye, it is likely he will soon be back among us,’ added his brother Edmund.
There was a murmuring among the lords of general assent.
A chair scraped in the corner. The Earl of Warwick had risen to his feet, his formidable presence commanding their attention. His voice was biting, cynical. ‘Perhaps all will be well? Is this the ending of some tale of romance or chivalry? Even if the king does recover, what then? A country forever afraid of the future? An England that tremors whenever its king sneezes? Are we always to be in this state of guardianship over a leader who cannot lead? Isn’t it time to face facts and stop pretending that the man can do any better at ruling even if he does get up off his backside?’
There was a horrified gasp in the room.
Tudor spoke first. ‘My Lord! You forget yourself. You are speaking of the king.’
‘Am I? Who is the real king of England? The man who lies in bed and does not know whether it is day or night, or my Lord of York, who runs the country better than Henry ever could?’
‘This sails dangerously close to treason. Would you depose the king and step into the breach?’
Warwick opened his mouth but York got in first, shooting him a furious look, ‘The earl has spoken hastily. He is a
loyal subject of the king and means no treason.’ Warwick turned away in frustration and York pushed on. ‘You are right, my Lords. It is true that we should err on the side of caution when it comes to the king’s health. There will be no more talk of such interventions. I will visit Windsor again in the new year and report back. Now let us turn to the ordinances for the household, if you are all in agreement?’
There was little movement; eyes were cast about sullenly and uncertainly.
‘We have made a thorough assessment of the king’s household and, at the last meeting, presented our findings for the alterations required. This will reduce the numbers of unnecessary servants and establish clear guidelines for the entitlements of rank. You have all had a chance to lodge any objections so, if you are all now in agreement, we will sign the document.’
He called for the manuscript and ink. Warwick sat back sullenly in his chair, surveying the hall. York frowned down at him.
‘In God’s name, Warwick, what would you do, depose the king? Such talk is unhelpful at best, treasonous at worst.’
‘What good can come from him?’
‘That is not the point. You are too hasty. Things must be done properly. See how you almost destroy our cause with your force!’
At the far end of the table, the bishops had begun to add their signatures to the yellow parchment. Edward watched the various factions regroup.
‘I have seen thirty years of things being done properly and look where it has left us.’
‘Curb your tongue now. Come and sign.’
York took the pen and dipped it in ink. He wrote his name large and high, in the centre of the paper. Passing the pen to Warwick, he looked on in satisfaction as the earl inscribed his signature below. As he turned to depart, a voice rang out through the hall.
‘God save the king!’
Buckingham was standing at the head of the table, awaiting a response. His face shone with loyalty and defiance; his words were fitting but York could feel them as a reproach boring through him.
