by Amy Licence
‘When he opened parliament. Since then, he has been hidden away at Berkhamsted.’
‘And the queen?’
Across the hall, a man tried to stifle a cough. Edward’s hazel eyes flickered across the gathering and caught the gaze of Jasper Tudor, his angular face cast in shadow. He inclined his head slightly in formal greeting, sensing the forms of Buckingham and Beaufort beyond. For all he knew, these men might be plotting his own death in some darkened city alley but, today of all days, appearances had to be maintained.
Warwick spoke from behind. ‘This is it. He’s coming.’
From within the bowels of the palace came a mighty rumbling; the approach of feet and voices, the scraping of doors and the alarums of trumpeters, heralding the progress of the king through the corridors of power. Edward felt a tingle run along his spine. He remembered Henry prostrate and senseless on his bed at Windsor three years earlier. How easy it would have been then, to pay his surgeon to open his veins and let the deep red lifeblood throb out of the lean, pale body. At that moment, the power of life had lain in their hands, that precious, tenuous grip on the world that seemed so permanent in the bright light of day. How easy to have made it seem an accident; for father to assume the role of Protector again, in the long years until the little prince came of age. Such thinking was a sin, a terrible sin. He knew it, but sometimes he could not stop himself.
At his back, Warwick was still growling. ‘Any minute, then we can get up from this damned cold floor. Will the bishops be issuing us with hair shirts next?’
A ripple of applause washed in from the corridor outside and silenced him.
Edward turned at the outbreak of noise. Then the daylight darkened and the space disgorged a collection of figures, centred round a tall, regal man in the cloth of gold and purple velvet that marked out his rank. For a moment, there was stillness.
Henry stood tall, taller than most, wearing a heavy, jewel-crusted circlet of gold. He surveyed the hall with heavy-lidded sleepy eyes, a long, narrow face and dark, close-cropped hair. People said that in looks, he took after his father, the warlike Henry V, hero of Agincourt: some still recalled his triumphant return to the city, with blood dried on his skin and his helmet dinted by French blows. But if his son had inherited the curve of his cheek or the line of his brow, the resemblance stopped there. Cecily had always said there was something of his manner, his soft-spokenness and way of looking up to the heavens that reminded her of his mother, the late Catherine of Valois.
Now Edward felt the weight of the king’s gaze. It made his head hang heavy, almost as if his guilty thoughts had been detected. From the corner of his eye, he saw the soft leather of Henry’s boots, cleaned and polished, with the buckles shining bright. As they paused before him, he heard the thin, reedy voice address his father in tones more suited to that of prayer.
‘You are here, cousin, to welcome my return?’
‘My family and I sincerely welcome your return to Westminster; you are always in our prayers.’
‘And this is your son?’
‘This is my eldest boy, Edward, Earl of March.’
For a moment, Edward was swept up in the wave of majesty. He found himself looking up into Henry’s wide eyes, murmuring a few words of respect and feeling something like a genuine sense of awe. And yet, there was a curious blankness about them, as if they were the eyes of a portrait, somehow disengaged from life.
‘Ah, the Earl of March; you bear the old Mortimer title and something of their looks perhaps? I remember you as a child but I see you are a child no longer. You are welcome at my court on this Loveday, young cousin.’ And briefly, a warm palm was placed on the top of his head.
Edward blushed at the unexpected kindness, but the king had soon moved on to where Beaufort was rising up from the floor in an effusion of warmth. As he fell in line behind his father, Edward could just make out his syrupy words of greeting and flattery. But it was time to move and he got to his feet, straightening his doublet and cloak. The plan was for them to process outside, across the yard and into the cathedral, in a show of unity and peace before the assembled people. Perhaps it really would herald a new start after all.
‘So wonderful to see the king so strong and in such good health; we can rest assured that the kingdom will again be run according to God’s law.’
Edward turned sharply. Behind him, Tudor’s face was a picture of serenity. One look at the smug, fixed grin was the spur that Edward needed but he would not rise to the bait today. Instead, he smiled: ‘God moves in mysterious ways, my Lord, beyond the comprehension of his sheep.’
Edward had the satisfaction of seeing Tudor’s brows furrow in confusion as he turned away.
In the doorway, the queen was waiting. Her proud chin was tipped up and her long, almond eyes surveyed the men as they approached in line, as if she could cut into the very marrow of their bones. Her lithe, winsome form was swathed in red velvet and gold tissue, embroidered with fleur-de-lys and spangles, with a great string of rubies sparkling about her slender throat. She already knew the part she had to play. Without casting a glance at her husband, she pursed her lips and held out her hand to York as he approached. He accepted it graciously, with a bow. Her fingers were warm.
Next came the dark figure of Beaufort, with his quick smile and fox-like cunning. He paired up with the white-haired Salisbury, bowing low in an elaborate gesture of reconciliation and leading the old man onwards. Edward watched him, sensing the tension behind his suavity. The assembled Londoners outside were already cheering and calling as the spectacle unfolded before them; such a strange mix of the familiar and unfamiliar. Then another man, fair-haired and tall, resplendent in green and tawny, appeared haloed by the daylight.
Edward paused. He had not seen his brother-in-law Exeter in a while. He recalled the image of his elder sister Anne in tears, her head bent over a letter: there had been no way of knowing that her headstrong teenage husband would rebel against the family. Now, freed by the queen from his confinement in Wallingford Castle, he stood proudly, shoulders squared, looking Edward in the eye. Rumour had it that he had been enraged when his position as Lord High Admiral had been awarded to Warwick last month. Edward’s stomach turned at the sight of him.
‘Brother?’ Exeter said lightly, with a laugh in his tone.
‘It’s all right, I’ll take this one,’ said Warwick with a glint in his eye, stepping between the pair and leading the surprised duke swiftly outside.
Edward followed on, accepting the arm of his uncle Buckingham, to the roar of the assembled crowds. The man kept his scarred face turned away, unwilling to soften for the occasion. And thus Lancaster and York walked, side by side in a show of love, who had so lately borne arms against each other.
The trumpeters sounded their chorus and the procession headed out of the double doors at the far end, into the dazzling daylight. The spire of St Paul’s Cathedral loomed above them and, as the sunlight fell on their faces, the tolling of its great bells seemed to spread across the world, for the feast of the Annunciation of the Blessed Virgin Mary and the Loveday.
On the steps outside, the king paused and turned to the crowd, surveying lords and commoners alike with an even gaze. A hush fell upon them all. The mad king was about to speak. Edward carefully extricated his hand from that of Buckingham.
‘Friends, this day will mark a new beginning, a new brotherhood among us,’ Henry said softly, with his eyes fixed on the stained glass gleaming in the sunlight. ‘Past wrongs will be forgiven in the true sense of Christian kindness. From this point forth, we shall go with our hands joined and love in our hearts, for the good of the commonweal.’
Henry held out his hand to his wife. ‘And Margaret my queen, with York, my closest cousin, shall be at my side, united in love, as my dearest and most trusted counsellors.’
Margaret inclined her gracious head.
‘There shall be no more bloodshed in this kingdom,’ the king continued. ‘Only the true Christian virtues of peace and goodwill. In this ho
ly place, beloved of St Edward, we embrace this new mood of love and, on this Loveday, the truth will shine in all men’s hearts.’
Edward listened to the applause. Henry might be sincere enough but it was the queen’s black eyes that drew him, with their promise of passion and defiance.
‘Amen!’ cried the crowd, as the musicians began to play.
*
While wine and spices were being served, Edward made for a side chapel. He had seen his father and Warwick heading away from the crowd when they entered the cathedral and he guessed them to be deep in conversation somewhere. As he approached, candles flickered and precious gems glinted through the wooden lattice that gave the chapel some privacy from the main body of the nave.
‘So, once again we must pay,’ the earl was saying, ‘while our wrongs remain unrighted. We cannot be safe whilst Beaufort maintains this smug pretence, and now you have to line his pockets. It is an insult, by Our Lady, an insult to the house of York.’
Edward stepped through the open door. York and Warwick were standing before the altar, watched over by the eyes of carved birds and beasts. Behind them lay the tomb of St Erkenwald, the Saxon Bishop of London, a reminder of an older, more savage time. They looked round in surprise.
‘What insult do you speak of?’
‘I told you to be quiet,’ York berated Warwick. ‘You see how easily you have been overheard? Lucky it was Edward, not the king himself! Or worse!’
Edward looked from one to the other. ‘Of what do you speak, I heard you talk of payment?’
‘Not here,’ York frowned. ‘The cathedral has ears. Now we must put on our smiles again and dine with our enemies. We must try to make this peace work. There are grievances on both sides, but we must try and overcome them, truly and lovingly, for the sake of all.’
Warwick snorted.
Edward caught his father’s arm as he tried to pass. ‘Don’t exclude me, do let me share in the family, for better or worse.’
York nodded. ‘Later, away from here. Put this aside for now, there is nothing so important right now as keeping this peace.’
*
They dined in the Bishop of London’s palace. The king and queen at the head table, York and Edward seated with Exeter and Buckingham; Warwick and Salisbury with Beaufort and Tudor. Oaths were made and goblets drained dry in pledges of loyalty. Yet the meat seemed to stick in Edward’s throat along with the protestations of new-found friendship. From the corner of his eye, he could see the fluttering of hand over dishes, with Exeter helping himself to the spread of plates. Something about the man’s haste, and his sense of acquisition, filled Edward with annoyance. As soon as the minstrels started playing, he made an excuse and left his place, heading further down the hall to where his uncle, Thomas Bourchier, Archbishop of Canterbury, had stretched out his legs.
‘Please, don’t get up,’ he urged Bourchier, as the older man began to stir. ‘Stay as you are. I simply had no stomach for Exeter.’
Bourchier raised a hand of greeting, already sated by meat and wine. It was then that Edward noticed the woman sitting in the shadows behind him, a young woman in a plain dress, hidden from the crowds by the curtain of an alcove, her fingers entwined in the back of the old man’s hair.
Bourchier shot him a guilty look. ‘You may have my seat. I am done here for the night.’
Edward nodded as the old man took the girl upon his arm and allowed her to lead him out to the doorway. As they disappeared together, her soft laugh stirred something in him, and a sort of wistfulness arose in his chest. He took the archbishop’s position on the bench and called for more wine.
At that distance, he could see his father and Warwick on one side of the king, and the queen and Beaufort on the other. As he watched, the vulpine features of the handsome young duke resolved into a smile, he touched Margaret’s sleeves, almost imperceptibly, and she inclined her head to hear his whispered words. It all looked so simple; a mathematical or geometric division, like pieces on a chessboard, waiting for their players to commence action. Here, he was among the citizens and aldermen, admitted to the hall on special occasions, their bejewelled wives gawping at the spectacle of the feast. He could hear none of their words, the minstrels made certain of that, with their low, melodic tones pulsing below the high trill of the flute. And now the king’s fool was dancing, with bells on his hat and toes, tumbling in circles and pretending to fall. Yet only Henry was laughing.
Edward felt dissatisfied. The whole day had the ring of discontent that sat uneasily with him; he had no stomach for these protestations of friendship that masked such desperate acts of desire, these falsehoods that allowed enemies to wear their painted smiles while their hearts curdled in hatred. And he hated that he had been a part of it; that his father and Warwick still sat at table with Henry and Margaret, as if there had been no concealed knives in the darkness. Yet, as ever, his father had taken the path of the pragmatist, the optimist: was there really any other way, when they must submit to the reign of such a man? He emptied his glass and raised it again for more.
He felt her gaze before he saw her. Looking further down the hall, where the merchants and minor churchmen shared dishes of plain fare, his eyes found her face among a sombre group who seemed to be measuring the evening with invisible scales. She had changed very little in the intervening years. If anything, her face was paler, her eyes larger and darker, the curve of her long throat exaggerated where it met the swell of her breasts, firm against the low neckline of her dress. He had thought of Alasia Boratti many times after they had been forced to leave Westminster; in the quiet evenings at Ludlow, in the winter, when the snow drifts piled high against the castle wall and the Crofts were sent out to sweep them clear. The memory of her soft lips on his had lingered far longer than the duration of their real kiss, but yet, with the arrival of that spring, he had forced himself to discipline his mind, turning it to his work, to matters of local business, knowing that she was likely to have been married and bedded long before then. The girls in the Ludlow market were pretty; he was drawn by their colourful skirts and the long looks they cast him over their shoulder, but there had been no one else.
She knew at once that he had seen her and, despite the distance, something was communicated between them. Her dark hair was covered with a sheer white veil, overlaid with silver and her throat shone with jewels, glowing in the firelight, but she sat motionless as those around her ate with appetite. She gave no sign of acknowledgement, no smile, no wave, just the meeting of their eyes across the table, across the floor which divided them. Edward’s stomach contracted. To her right sat a man in his thirties, a reedy, hollow-looking man wearing too much fur, who moved slowly and deliberately. Edward knew at once that this was Alasia’s husband, the influential match her father had hoped for, and had appealed to York to help achieve. He disliked the man upon sight.
As he watched, Alasia rose softly to her feet, spoke a few words to her husband, and started to make her way carefully past the benches and tables, past the minstrels and fireplaces, towards the door at the far end of the hall. All of Edward’s senses seemed to heighten as he watched the graceful movement of her lithe body, the drape of her skirt, the fall of her veil down her back. When she reached the door, she paused and looked back to catch his eye. It was an invitation he could not refuse. Leaving his place at the table, he hurried after her, out into the corridor beyond, where she had led.
She was standing, silhouetted in the far gateway. He covered the distance between them quickly and she turned, with a graceful gesture, to meet him. Just yards away, he faltered and stopped, not knowing how to greet her.
‘It is you, then.’
She nodded. ‘I wasn’t sure if you would follow me. I needed some air.’
‘I did. I have.’
They both smiled.
‘It has been a long time,’ she said.
‘Yes. How are you?’ he asked, feeling as bashful as a boy again. ‘How have you been? I have been much in Ludlow, too little in
London.’
‘You have changed,’ she said softly.
He nodded, watching the rise and fall of her throat. ‘So have you.’
Forces seemed to be drawing him towards her, dizzying his senses, closing the gap between them.
She straightened her shoulders, as if feeling the same pull and struggling to resist. ‘It is good to see you, my Lord. You may know that I am married now.’
‘As I thought.’
She nodded, meeting his eyes straight on. She seemed bolder than when they had first met, as blushing children.
‘My husband is the treasurer of the Guild of Merchant Taylors; we have a house in Thames Street, near Queenhithe.’
‘And your father is well?’
‘Sadly he was taken from us, last winter, after a short illness.’
‘I am very sorry to hear that. God rest his soul.’
‘Thank you, my Lord. I trust God has kept you well.’
He paused. Her deliberate formality caused a rush of emotion in him, a desire to sweep all barriers away.
‘I have thought of you,’ he admitted. ‘I have thought of that day often.’
She did not reply, but he saw her lips part.
Behind them, the door opened. She saw the figure appear at once and her demeanour shifted. Her husband approached them slowly, before making a low bow before them.
‘Please, rise,’ Edward insisted, without looking down at the man’s head.
‘My Lord.’
He was gaunt-faced, with skin tanned deep by the sun and tiny eyes set brightly below heavy brows. The effect was not as unpleasant as Edward had feared, but he could not help thinking of that thin mouth, those crude fingers, touching Alasia’s skin.
‘May I present my husband, Antonio Salucci.’
Edward forced himself to say the man’s name. ‘Salucci. You are a merchant, I understand?’
‘Your Lordship is most gracious. I trade with Italy and Turkey, in spices, furs and carpets.’
‘And you are based in Thames Street?’
‘I have a large warehouse; if there is something in particular that you desire, I could send my apprentice to you, with samples.’
