Son of York

by Amy Licence

  Noise broke out in the hall.

  ‘So he tries to kill us and gets away with it!’ exclaimed Warwick, almost spitting in rage as he turned away to a corner of the chamber.

  York’s forehead was lined. ‘Be calm, this is not the way. He will get what he deserves when the time is right; he will show his hand again but next time we will be ready for him.’

  ‘I wish I had your patience!’

  ‘Do not let him see that he has angered you. Nod and smile, play the game. Keep your powder dry.’

  ‘You are unhurt?’ asked Salisbury, approaching with concern. He was still strong but recent years had seen the old pain in his legs return.

  York nodded.

  ‘No thanks to that dog,’ Warwick snarled.

  Salisbury levelled at his son. ‘You are angry, justifiably, but it does your cause no good to show it in this way. You give Beaufort what he wants. Bite your tongue and bide your time, his day will come.’

  ‘Hush,’ Edward urged, seeing Archbishop Bourchier leave his place at the table and head in their direction.

  As York’s brother-in-law, Bourchier trod a fine line in the council chamber, his office requiring impartiality and fairness. Yet his face was full of concern. ‘I am sorry to hear of the attack made upon you. If you have your suspicions, there are ways you can lodge them, officially. Do you wish to make an accusation against Beaufort?’

  ‘Not today,’ said York. ‘There is no doubt he was behind the attack; probably as vengeance for his father.’

  Bourchier twitched. ‘Perhaps, perhaps not. He may have been acting on other orders, or on his own account, in an attempt to find favour.’

  York’s dark eyes narrowed. ‘You think this may have come from the king?’

  Bourchier shrugged diplomatically.

  ‘Henry would not wish me harm. I am his close kin, next in line, until such time as his son is grown to be a man.’

  Warwick snorted. ‘I cannot believe it of Henry, he is too interested in his mortal soul to sanction violence.’

  The archbishop’s voice dropped. ‘Not the king, no.’

  York nodded, a light dawning. ‘The queen. Thank you for your warning. She and Beaufort are as close as ever and neither of them has any love for me.’

  ‘Just my suspicion. You did not hear it from me. Take some refreshment and consider your position for the moment. We will resume shortly.’

  York accepted the wine. He sipped it slowly, tasting its fermented sourness on the tip of his tongue, while his eyes gazed coolly back at the council. Soon, the political wheels were turning again and the fine details of the law were being applied to the ownership of properties and land disputes.

  Yet Edward could not keep his hazel eyes from turning to the figure of young Henry Beaufort, his distant cousin, where he sat back, smugly in his black robes. They were related on his mother’s side, from the line of John of Gaunt: Cecily’s mother had borne the name. There were perhaps five or six years between them, but Beaufort’s superiority meant he was now of age, in possession of his titles and lands, a powerful magnate in his own right while Edward waited on the cusp of adulthood. Henry’s face had fleshed out in recent years, since his recovery after St Albans and although he was strikingly handsome, his dark eyes seemed shifty and malicious. Yet Edward could not help a tinge of envy creeping in, that this young man had fought and proved himself in battle. There were rumours too, about the mistress he kept on his country estates, unrivalled in her beauty: some even dared to whisper about his influence over the queen. He might be the enemy, but there was a restlessness and force about him, that drew Edward’s attention: the fact that Beaufort wanted him dead drew him compulsively to watch the man’s face. In its mouldings and shadows, he memorised the lines of his nemesis.

  *

  They came back along the Thames for safety, letting their guard ride the horses back through the streets and taking a boat from the Westminster steps. Behind them the sun was setting, casting a warm glow over the rooftops and red brick walls that fronted onto the river. As Salisbury had urged them, it was better to be back behind their own locked gates before darkness fell. There was no knowing what steps Beaufort might take, if he thought they might be planning some retaliation.

  Edward’s stomach was still in knots from that morning’s attack. Not even the prospect of food and wine could shake off the memory of Beaufort’s hypocrisy as he had sat in the chamber and nodded and debated along with the rest of them. No doubt the young duke would sleep soundly on his feather bed that night, or expend his energy entwined in the arms of his mistress. The man’s dark eyes had imprinted themselves in Edward’s mind.

  Eventually, the walls of Baynard’s Castle came into view. The king had granted it to York as a London base the year before and, with its four solid wings enclosing an inner courtyard, it was almost impenetrable, a bastion in the middle of the city. A garden lay along its western side and, against the river, the limestone walls rose up out of the water, flanked with octagonal towers. A little wooden pier allowed them to disembark and enter the castle through the river gateway. Edward paused a moment to give thanks at their safe arrival, aware that, had things gone differently that morning, they would never have been coming back. Together with his father, and their guests Warwick and Salisbury, they headed for the safety of family.

  Flickering tapers lit their way inside, and the smell of roasted meat drew them on. Servants were dressing the table in clean white linen and a fire burned in the grate. In the great hall, Duchess Cecily was supervising her carver, who was holding out his knives for inspection. She looked up in surprise to see them all appear looking so grave, her beautiful features marred by concern. York nodded to dismiss the man.

  ‘You are back,’ she smiled. ‘I did not hear the horses.’

  She was dressed in a simple but elegant gown of silver tissue and white satin. A string of pearls and amber beads was draped about her neck, complementing her pale colouring.

  York threw off his cloak. ‘We came back by the river. Who is that man? How long has he been in our employ?’

  ‘His name is Griffiths. He was hired at Michaelmas.’

  ‘Only since then? Does he do his job well?’

  ‘Indifferently well.’

  ‘Then let him go. We must only take on trusted staff, known to us or our people.’

  ‘But who will carve your meat?’

  ‘I will carve it myself if need be. No strangers in the house.’

  ‘Why so? What has happened?’ Her eyes ran to her nephew Warwick and to her brother Salisbury, standing behind him. ‘You are all welcome, sit and rest.’

  The white-haired man kissed her cool cheek. ‘Good even, sister.’

  ‘Something has happened, has it not?’ With the same sensitivity as her son, she could read their mood and the extent of what they were hiding.

  York seemed reluctant to answer, so Edward explained to his mother. ‘We met with a few men on the road this morning, who were bent on our destruction. A cowardly attack, but we saw them off, it is over now.’

  ‘An attack? Another one! What began it?’

  ‘Nothing, they lay in wait, knowing we would pass that way. It was planned.’

  He saw his mother’s face darken.

  ‘Who was behind it? Just tell me who it was.’ She spoke through gritted teeth.

  York sat down at the high table. ‘I am starving. Call in the servers.’

  Edward obeyed, but chose a seat close to where his mother stood, clutching her hands together. He bent closer to her, to continue their conversation. ‘It was Beaufort, perhaps acting for the queen.’

  ‘The queen? The very queen whom I nursed as a sick child in France? To whom I have written with kind words when she was heavy with child?’

  ‘The very same. She has Beaufort eating out of her hand, with Tudor, Worcester, Clifford and others. My uncle Buckingham may still be turned.’

  ‘If Anne can help, she will, I shall write to her too.’ For all the portents
of his scarred face, Buckingham was still married to Cecily’s sister Anne.

  ‘It is time to eat,’ called York, frowning. ‘We have had enough talk for today.’

  Edward raised his eyebrows, his look conveying to his mother a mix of emotions. She read the message well, of her husband’s anger and frustration, his disbelief and outraged justice and the shred of hope he preserved, that he had been mistaken, that all would still be well. York saw it too.

  ‘Enough of this! Bring the food out at once! Call for the minstrels to play.’

  Edward watched his father fill his plate but, once the notes of the lute filled the hall, very little food passed his dry lips.

  *

  Edmund hovered in the stairwell as the men dined. Something prevented him from joining them, some invisible line between their world and his. They carried the air of government with them, of importance worn lightly about their shoulders; they had been into the very heart of England, where laws were made, where men’s words and choices set in motion peace and conflict: the beating heart of business, of power, of life. Even his brother, only a year his senior, had been striding along with them, shoulder to shoulder, a man to be counted among other men. As Earl of March, Edward represented the ancient royal line of the Mortimers, with confidence and ease. Men listened as he spoke. But Edmund, Earl of Rutland, had been reading sermons that afternoon, while his mother and sister Elizabeth darned stockings and discussed jewels for her wedding.

  He jumped up as Edward strode across the hall, having spotted him on the stairs. ‘You’re back, then.’

  ‘This past hour, why didn’t you come and eat with us?’

  ‘I wasn’t hungry.’ Edmund followed his brother up to the first floor. The truth was, he had already eaten a nursery supper with the younger children, but was reluctant to admit it.

  Edward pushed open the door to the chamber they shared, kicked off his boots and sprawled on the bed.

  ‘So, what news from court?’ Edmund sat down opposite him, crossing his slim legs nonchalantly.

  ‘Nothing new except that Beaufort has an eye asking to be blackened.’

  ‘But what was debated in the chamber today?’

  ‘How the king of France has fallen out with his son, who cowers under the skirts of Burgundy.’

  Edmund nodded. ‘What else, what of the business of the country?’

  Edward sighed. ‘Debts and payments, shipments of wine from Winchelsea, pirates in the North Sea that makes Philip the Good refuse to come to terms over trade. Who should own which parcels of land and why. You have done much better here, Edmund, being devoted to your books than listening to such tedious matters.’

  ‘But I would like the chance to know, or else how am I to know to stay out of it?’

  ‘Be kind to your stomach, refrain from such a bitter dish. Study the politics of France, your future may still lie there. I am sick of business and all the men who make it.’

  Like his brother, Edmund had been born in Rouen, in the massive solid castle overlooking the town. Edward arrived in a chilly spring, when the buds were late in coming and the land still barren of crops. He had been a large baby, born late and struggling for hours to emerge into the light. Concern for him had shaken the castle. In haste, a priest had splashed his forehead with holy water as the midwife slapped his blue back to make him draw breath.

  Edmund, by contrast, had slipped into the world the next summer with his mother barely so much as crying out. Pink and healthy, he had been carried to the cathedral and baptised to the sounds of trumpets by the font. From then, his father had cherished some plan that he would be a great landholder in Normandy one day. It had always been an accepted part of the family story, that Edward would inherit in England while Edmund would cross the Channel and establish himself there.

  ‘And the king and Queen Margaret?’ he asked.

  Edward shook his head. ‘They remain in the north, knowing they do not have support in the city. We can only tread water, waiting for their next step. You must remain in the castle until we know more.’

  Edmund flushed hotly. ‘Why? Remain here like a prisoner? What have I done?’

  ‘Nothing, it is not about you. We may all be in danger.’

  ‘Then let me go with you, out into the world to confront it. If you go into the council, why can’t I? There is barely a year between us.’

  Edward folded his arms behind his head. ‘Thirteen months.’

  ‘Am I a fool, or slow-witted or a baby, that I am not trusted, that I must remain here among the women and not take my proper place?’ Edmund turned his head away to conceal the tears threatening to sting his eyes.

  But Edward had understood. ‘All right, I will speak with father about it. Now get some sleep.’

  *

  The church bells pealed out their chord; long, deep and sonorous. Behind the steeple of the little Suffolk church, the spring sky had remained obligingly blue and the threat of rain was kept at bay. Through the doors, into the porch, the young couple appeared, swathed in their cloth of gold and red velvet. Sparkling with rubies and pearls, Cecily was beaming at her daughter, the tall, fair-haired Elizabeth Plantagenet, who had followed her own example by becoming a wife at the age of fourteen.

  The bridegroom was short for his age, but the sixteen-year-old John de la Pole would grow taller in time and his eyes were kindly and full of understanding. As they watched, he took Elizabeth’s hand and a smile lit his gentle face.

  ‘A better son-in-law than our first,’ breathed York cynically at her side.

  Cecily winced. The wedding of their eldest child Anne had brought little joy to anyone concerned. The poor girl had been just eight years old, dressed up like a child’s doll in her furs and diamonds. Her husband Exeter had been an arrogant, callow youth of seventeen, bursting with pride at his royal descent, although his heart was already filled with hidden cruelty and treachery. He had bridled against his new family, taking all their kindness amiss and fighting against them at St Albans.

  ‘There could hardly have been worse,’ she admitted. ‘We did not know at the time that we were making a mistake. Yet this new match will bring loyal and lasting connections, I am sure of it. Perhaps even some personal happiness for Elizabeth.’

  ‘Time will tell,’ her husband added, watching as the pair processed towards the pavilion.

  After them came the younger children, Margaret with pious eyes and milk-white skin, wearing her eleven years with a degree of seriousness; eight-year-old George bearing a ceremonial cup and little Richard, aged five, his chin held high as his dark curls blew in the breeze. It would be their turn soon, their mother thought, watching Richard take an uncertain step then right himself again.

  York and Cecily waited until the children had passed, then brought up the rear of the procession. People from the village had turned out to see them and some came forward now from the road, bearing gifts of flowers and fruit, eggs and herbs; one shepherd offered a newborn lamb wrapped in cloth. York received these with smiles and kind words, as they were gathered up by his servants and carried away. It was good to see the esteem in which the common people held him.

  ‘Thank you my dear, most kind,’ said York, as he accepted a basket from a young woman waiting on the corner. Then he spoke quietly to Cecily at his side: ‘The king and queen are returning to the capital.’

  ‘Are they? To what end?’ his wife asked, smiling down into a bunch of flowers.

  ‘She summons us to another council, in the hopes of making a public gesture of peace.’

  Cecily turned to him, her arms filled with sprays of spring blossom. With a smile for the crowd, she handed him a sprig of tiny pink flowers. He held it up to his nose but the scent was faint.

  ‘A peace gesture? If only we could believe in it.’

  ‘We must. We must hope that they will act for the best.’

  ‘And if it is a trap?’

  York tucked the flowers behind the clasp of his cloak. ‘This has the flavour of a truce, as Henry
is involved. We cannot refuse to attend, think of the consequences.’

  ‘Think of the consequences if you do. It may be the difference between life and death.’

  ‘I know it.’ York nodded as they headed into the pavilion. Ahead, Edward and Edmund were laughing together, their heads bent close.

  ‘Edmund is restless,’ York stated baldly. ‘He talks constantly of being out in the world and chafes at the bit of his confinement. He has been speaking to Edward, asking if he can accompany us. I am of a mind to take him to the next council meeting.’

  ‘But he is still so young.’

  ‘He is fifteen in May. Old enough to be married. Edward was already out in the world long before then.’

  ‘It is still too dangerous for him, I fear for Edward but he will not be governed by me and remain at home. At least Edmund still follows my will.’

  ‘Edward is already a man, with a man’s awareness. Edmund is not; he is a dreamer, a thinker, a scholar, he must learn to be patient. He is too soft, too gentle, too inexperienced for the dangers of this world.’

  As if to underline their point, Edmund bent to caress the ears of one of the dogs.

  ‘Yet it is the world he lives in, the world he was born to,’ said York. ‘He must face it one day.’

  ‘Not today,’ said his mother softly, ‘and not tomorrow.’

  TEN: The Loveday, March 25, 1458

  ‘Pray kneel for the king!’

  The hall of the Bishop’s Palace hummed with anticipation. On bended knee, between his father and brother, Edward kept his eyes on the double doors, where heralds stood with trumpets and guards with swords held back the crowds. Forming an aisle inside, men shifted their weight cautiously, ill at ease despite their velvet and furs, conscious of a wind of change blowing through the court.

  ‘Can he really be well enough to rule?’ he whispered to his father. ‘Can Henry really be trusted?’

  ‘It matters little, he is our anointed king,’ York insisted, ‘so we must bow down.’

  ‘You have already seen him?’