Son of York

by Amy Licence

  ‘Indeed,’ he replied. ‘God save the king. May it please Him to restore Him to his former good health for the relief of the country and the queen.’

  He bowed his head and strode out of the hall.

  SIX: The Italian Girl

  Through the doors at the back of the hall, there came a line of dark figures. Six, seven or eight of them, creeping stealthily, like silhouettes out of the shadows, partly of this world and partly of another. Edward watched them, transfixed for a moment, forgetting himself.

  The dark ones moved fluidly in front of the tapestries. A breathless hush descended on the crowd, which had so recently been animated by drink and talk, love and laughter. Each dark figure twisted and turned, contorting their bodies so that their limbs seemed to scarcely belong to them, thrown open wide like the wings of birds. One dancer moved close to the top table, caught in the light of the fire as he stretched out his hands, fingers entwined, face hidden behind a mask, having crept out of the world of dreams. His limbs were long and smooth, encased in silken sleeves, almost inviting a caress. Edward resisted the urge to reach out and touch them.

  Then, just as the other dancers drew nearer, the doors at the back of the hall were thrown wide and a golden glow eclipsed the late-night torches and candles. The enchanted figures turned, circled and regrouped, pulling between them a low cart, mounted on unseen wheels; it was an entertainment, a pageant, dressed with silver bells that tinkled in the expectant hush. Set in the middle of it was a huge, bright sphere, taller than three men, with muslin stretched over its frame and lit from within by a multitude of candles. For a moment, it took Edward’s breath away. This was what it must be like to be king, he realised, to conjure up such feats, to make fire burn bright like that inside those paper walls, to make the sun appear in splendour in the middle of the night.

  The light inside the orb flickered and danced. Smoothly, it moved across the floor towards them like a ball of fire. The diners on either side put down their knives and watched as it approached, burning brightly, drawing the tables, dishes and guests into its glow. Delight shone on the faces of the children. Edward watched their expressions of rapture: his sisters, Elizabeth and Margaret, on the verge of womanhood, with their innocent eyes widening in surprise. His younger brothers seated at their feet, still round and resilient from the diet and routine of the nursery and even Edmund was transfixed by the pageant, scanning its shape to try and fathom its construction.

  The giant orb came to rest before them and the dark figures melted away. Flickering shadows licked up the insides, hypnotic and captivating. The children could barely contain themselves. Six-year-old George, his body already tense with anticipation, could feel the emotion mounting in him. His little brow furrowed with concentration as he stood, hands on the hips of his little doublet. The tip of his tongue stuck out between his teeth as the wave of excitement threatened to engulf him.

  Suddenly, one of the dark figures leapt up and the top of the sphere opened like a flower. There was a brief scuffle and beating of wings and a cloud of song birds flew up into the air, released from unseen cages within. George lost control. A shrill scream of delight escaped his lips. Feathers flapped and beat about them. Three-year-old Richard buried his dark head in his mother’s skirts, overwhelmed by the enormity of it all.

  Then the hall broke into laughter and applause. The dark figures took up their instruments and the sounds of violin and flute banished the silence forever.

  ‘You enjoyed that then,’ laughed York, laying his hand on George’s shoulder. The boy’s gaze was still fixed on the spectacle.

  The two younger boys were quite different in looks. George had begun to grow out of the first chubbiness of his baby years and his green eyes were fiercely independent. He was a child who knew his mind, who had rolled on the nursery floor in a tantrum of tears when a favourite toy had been taken from him, who was happy to use his elbows, knees and teeth as weapons. Yet he had a winning smile, a charm and caressing way of laying his little brown head on his mother’s arm that could soften hard hearts. Richard, his junior by three years, stood in his shadow a little, still finding his way in the world. He was the first of their sons to have inherited the dark curls and strong brows of their father. The eyes he lifted cautiously up to survey the room were black as coals.

  ‘Can I go and touch it?’ George asked, breathlessly.

  And before York or his duchess could answer, their small son was already climbing down from the dais and heading across the floor into the orb of light.

  ‘Be careful,’ his father called. ‘Be gentle, don’t get burned.’

  Edward was closest and followed his young brother protectively, just in case he should be too hasty. The tiny pink fingers, seeming so vulnerable, stretched out towards the light. Their tips brushed the muslin gingerly and recoiled, then touched again with confidence, as George’s face split into a grin.

  ‘It’s not too hot after all!’

  The doors at the back of the hall swung open again and all heads turned in anticipation.

  This time the attraction was culinary. A new course was being brought up from the kitchens and the very air seemed to warm in anticipation of it: rich, salty and spicy. Dishes came out one by one, carried on silver or gold plate, by servants in livery. Fresh white cloths over their right shoulder, formal and courteous, their eyes never deviating from the top table as they passed the pageant by. Edward glimpsed knuckles of beef served with cloves and saffron, gleaming pink cuts of salmon roasted with ginger; crayfish, shrimps and eels stewed with lampreys. There were plates of delicious pies stuffed with venison and pork, baked until their cases were golden, bowls of pottage flavoured with rose petals and gosling roasted in pepper sauce. Alongside were placed moist custard tarts, fritters sharp with the tang of baked fruit, creamy blancmange and crispy gilded wafers. His mouth began to moisten in anticipation.

  ‘Come on George, let’s get back to our seats.’

  Tonight they would feast and in the morning, Christmas morning, they would process solemnly to chapel and make their devotions.

  Edward sat down beside his father, who was waiting patiently as the dishes were spread out for his approval. A servant held the water basin and York plunged his hands in, scattering the petals on the surface. Then he lifted them to one side, fingertips dripping, to be patted dry in the folds of crisp linen. The court waited, unable to touch the steaming food before them until the duke nodded his approval and the stillness broke. Edward was too hasty. He dipped his hands impatiently into the water bowl and wiped them dry on his braies, reaching for a cut of meat.

  ‘Wait,’ York commanded under his breath. Edward slid his hands into his lap, shamed by protocol, eyes low.

  With an imperceptible nod, permission was granted and the table lapsed into movement. Edward pierced a thick slice of meat with the point of his knife and sank his teeth into it. It was hot, salty, soft. He chewed appreciatively and watched his family do the same.

  Mother looked tired. She had little Richard beside her, whose dark eyes were dimmed by a mixture of childish emotions. Gently, she tried to coax him to eat, offering spoonfuls of sauces and pieces of white meat. He had grown fussy lately, his stomach upset by the rich ingredients and lavish Christmas celebrations. He was more used to the routine of the nursery at Fotheringhay, with its set hours, plain fare and quiet nights. Eventually, he accepted a bread roll and retreated to his seat, clasping it in his fist. At his side, George ate solidly, untroubled by the noise and the bustle. Edward had been something like that, at that age, he thought to himself. Determined, solid and unperturbed. He reached across and helped himself to a plate of baked larks.

  It was then, as he relaxed back into his chair, that Edward saw her. Across the hall, on the edge of the glow from the great orb, she sat half in shadow, half in light. Her face was a pale ellipse in the shadows, framed by the dark train of her headdress. She could have been no more than thirteen or fourteen, her hooded eyes cast down demurely as she ate and her lips
red and full. The actors passed between them and, for a moment, she was lost to him. There was a moment of dark impatience, filled with slow-moving forms. Then the view down the hall cleared again and he saw her long white neck, her exposed throat, somehow so narrow and vulnerable that it made his chest tighten a little. Her hands fluttered before her like two doves in the gloom. She was part child, part woman.

  Edward cleared his throat, hot with a sudden flush of emotion. He had watched pretty girls before at Ludlow, serving at table, washing their clothes by the bridge, walking in the marketplace. He liked their soft skin, their supple forms and the way they moved. Something about this girl was different.

  He rinsed out his mouth with wine and tried to sound casual.

  ‘Anyone new here tonight?’

  York stroked his peppery beard. ‘A few new faces, no one important, mostly merchants, ambassadors from the city.’

  Edward nodded. He watched the girl pick at her plate, pursing her lips slightly in a delicate gesture. The man beside her was dressed in the dark rich furred robes of a wealthy citizen; his beard was flecked with grey, his brow wary. On the other side sat an older girl, perhaps eighteen, with sallow, pocked cheeks. She was as different from the other, as chalk and cheese, but they had the look of a family unit.

  ‘And them?’ Edward asked his father, nodding in their direction. ‘A merchant’s family?’

  York spooned out the content of a pie. ‘Boratti. Italians. Merchants or money lenders. He came to ask for my help, there may be trouble brewing in their community.’

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘A few attacks on their property, some horses stolen. Foreigners are often an easy target for malcontents. They resent their wealth and success.’

  And as the boy gazed across the table, the girl lifted her gaze. Briefly, fleetingly, she met his eyes in the middle distance; dark, slanting, long-lashed eyes, that quickly darted away again once they sensed his. Edward’s limbs burned with unexpected appetite. The hall receded, with its food and musicians, its rich orb of light and the family banter. His veins seemed to sing with life, almost like the moment in a hunt, before making the kill, or riding at top speed with the wind in his face, but even better. He had to speak with her, know her name, touch her skin. And then he flushed at the man’s emotions coursing through the boy’s body. These things belonged in the romances he had read at Ludlow; he did not have the words, nor the certainty to even hold her gaze.

  ‘Can we help them?’

  ‘Only so far. I’ve doubled the watch, imposed a curfew. Anyone who does attack them again will pay the full penalty.’

  ‘And the family?’ His voice broke and he coughed. ‘The wife and daughters?’

  ‘As I said,’ repeated York. ‘They need to stay inside, away from trouble. The city’s streets can be a lawless place.’

  The glowing orb was being wheeled slowly back down the hall. As it passed the place where she sat, Edward saw her face briefly bathed in golden light, setting her cheeks aflame before she was lost in the darkness again.

  Now the space between the tables filled up with tumblers, turning, twisting and walking on their hands.

  Duchess Cecily signalled to her women. ‘Time to send the little ones up to bed.’

  George did not want to go. He put his hands firmly on his hips and stuck out his belly in defiance but there was to be no argument. Richard was already rubbing his dark eyes when the nurse scooped him up in her arms and took his brother’s hand.

  ‘But I don’t want to go to sleep.’

  Cecily frowned. ‘Christmas will not come if you don’t go to sleep.’

  But to George, Christmas meant prayers in the cold abbey, devotions, processions.

  ‘And tomorrow night,’ she added, full of maternal knowledge, ‘the Goldsmiths are going to perform a play of the nativity, with sheep and pigs.’

  ‘Real sheep and pigs, in here?’

  And George allowed himself to be led off, chattering at speed about the problems of controlling livestock. Edward lifted his goblet to be refilled and looked back across the table, through the procession of acrobats walking on their hands.

  She was still there. Her head was inclined gracefully towards the man beside her, who must be her father, he decided. The old merchant was nodding forcibly as he spoke; it seemed that he was in earnest but the girl was tired and made few responses. When the empty dishes were cleared away, the trio rose. Edward glimpsed her slender shape under her embroidered kirtle as she took the old man’s arm and headed for the door.

  He turned to York. ‘Will they be all right?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The merchant and his family?’

  ‘The Italians, again? So long as they keep their heads down and their gates locked. The successful will always arouse jealousy.’

  When she had gone, he felt an almost overwhelming sense of disappointment. Yet he had done nothing to stop her, to detain her father, or to find out her name. An hour ago he had not even been aware of her existence. The tumblers spilled over the floor at his feet, contorting themselves into strange shapes. He applauded along with the others and raised his glass again to be refilled.

  SEVEN: Disorderly City, January, 1456

  The festival of Christmas came and went, amid incense, icons and prayers. The new year swept in with icy blasts down the Thames, freezing over the puddles and hanging long white fingers from the window ledges.

  York shivered as he pulled his furs closer round him and looked out across the river. The rowers pulled heavily on both sides and, blessedly, the tide was with them, drawing them on smoothly over the grey waves. It was a wide river, a high river, a hungry river. This winter, it was swollen with the debris of the city, choked with waste and filth. York winced at the stinking odour coming off it.

  ‘Faster,’ he called to the oarsmen, whose blades bit more keenly through the water in response.

  To their left, the fortified frontages of houses and castles spilled right down to the banks, forbidding and solid. From each a set of landing steps descended, allowing access to the river. The skyline was uneven, dotted with the spires of churches and the mosaic of sloping roofs. Streams of grey smoke rose from the chimneys, fading away into the murky clouds.

  At York’s feet, his two elder sons were wrapped up tightly. Edmund had sunk down into his collar, with his hat pulled low on his sandy locks and his hands clasped under his cloak for warmth. His eyes were drawn over to the greener south bank, where fields and trees filled most of the space. There, young men frequented the taverns and stews but Edmund’s mind ran on the open spaces and religious houses, whose chanting sometimes reached them across the waves. Edward, however, had seated himself with a view of the city, eagerly searching its features for life, for colour and the landing place where they were to disembark. Both boys had been keen to attend the tournament and neither had been to Smithfield before: York had put aside business for a few hours to take them himself. He only hoped they wouldn’t be disappointed.

  They passed Bridewell and Blackfriars before landing at St Andrew’s. Horses were saddled and waiting to take them the short distance north, past the Royal Wardrobe, up beyond Ludgate to the tournament field.

  ‘Ready?’ called York. ‘Here we are.’

  ‘Ready father!’

  Admiration shone in Edward’s eyes. Looking at him, York was reminded of a young colt, long-limbed, full of energy, clambering up to try to walk unaided.

  Edmund hung a little way behind, trying to master a big grey steed. Both boys were accomplished riders but more used to chasing the hart through the woods of the Welsh Marches than these narrow colourful streets which provided much distraction. As they trotted into the city, dogs behind a gate barked fearsomely and Edmund’s horse shied away.

  ‘Rein him in,’ called York, wondering if he should reach across and take hold of the animal himself.

  The grey horse danced for a moment, hooves clattering on cobbles, head tossing before it became still again.


  ‘Are you all right?’

  Edmund took a deep breath and adjusted his position in the saddle. ‘Fine. Only stupid dogs.’

  ‘And remember you’ve never ridden him before, he’s just getting used to you.’

  ‘I’d have been fine,’ repeated Edmund, ‘if it hadn’t been for the dogs!’

  ‘Good man,’ praised his father, pleased by the boy’s resilience.

  Ahead of them stretched the open space known as the Smooth Field. The outlines of colourful tents were visible, in red, blue and yellow, with their spangled pennants hanging limply in the January air. They caught the smell of smouldering braziers, sweet and musky from the burning pastilles placed on the coals. People had gathered despite the cold; citizens and visitors, numbering in their hundreds. The lists had been set up east–west and at either side, knights were donning armour and horses were draped in matching coloured cloth.

  York headed for the tented pavilion, bright with its scarlet cloth, reserved for the mayor and his guests. There was no sign of the red-fisted butchers who generally used the field to sell their wares. The crowds parted to let them through and trumpeters in royal livery let out a burst of noise. They climbed the raised dais of the pavilion, striped in red and blue paint. Chairs with cushions stood in a row, where the beaming mayor was waiting to greet them.

  ‘My Lords, I bid you humble welcome. Myself and my aldermen are most honoured at your attendance. Please, be seated. Men, bring refreshments. Stir the knights to action, let the joust begin.’

  York nodded to his sons. They placed themselves on three carved chairs set before a velvet curtain, the duke in the centre. A brazier was dragged closer, so they could feel its warmth. Servants brought blankets, spiced wine and plates of venison pasties to take the edge off their hunger. They ate steadily, conscious of thousands of eyes turned upon them; the tall, fine-featured man with greying hair and steely eyes, his clothes proclaiming his status, and his two handsome sons, with their thick manes of hair ruffled by the wind; the noble jaws and clear hazel eyes. They held themselves aloof, regal, conscious of the press of faces in the crowd and the need for distance. York shot a surreptitious look at Edmund but the boy’s chin was lifted, eyes confident. He had learned a lot since their arrival in the city last autumn.