by Amy Licence
‘No, no, I desire no such service. Here is your wife, I believe she required some air, but she is quite well again now.’
The Saluccis bowed as he began to make his retreat. But something made him pause and turn.
‘You are coming to watch the joust tomorrow?’
‘Oh, well, my business,’ began the merchant, before meeting Edward’s steely gaze. ‘Business must wait, we are most honoured, my Lord, thank you for your kind attention.’
Having secured their attendance, Edward turned on his heel and strode away.
ELEVEN: The Lists, March 26, 1458
Flags fluttered in the breeze along the top of the stage. Draped in azure blue silk, the roof bore the design of the silver fleur-de-lys, a reminder of the French descent shared by the king’s mother and wife. Henry sat enthroned in the middle, his crown still perched high on his brow, his hands gripping tightly to the arms of his padded chair. On one side stood his small son, Prince Edward, a stubborn-faced five-year-old, with rosebud lips. Slightly further back, amid the many folds of fabric, the queen sheltered from the harsh wind, wrapping herself about with furs and calling for the braziers to be stoked up. The English winters had never seemed to agree with her, not in the thirteen years since she had arrived in the country, nor the springs or summers either. At her side, the attentive Beaufort plied her with sweetmeats.
York turned away from them in disgust. His own family group, seated along carved benches, included his wife, Edward and the excited Edmund, Earl of Rutland. He had bowed to the young man’s insistence and allowed him to accompany them to the joust, to Edmund’s restrained delight. Now he sat on the edge of his seat, watching as the tilt yard was cleared and fresh sand and sawdust scattered along the lists. Beside him, Cecily’s pale beauty and regal, well-defined profile were the perfect complement to Queen Margaret’s dark European looks; today she had chosen a delicate tissue of gold and white velvet, appearing clean and spotless beside the mud of the field, every inch a woman fit to occupy the throne. They had been married young: she had just passed her fourteenth birthday, but there had never been any alteration in his feeling for her. With her beauty, determination and sense of family, he could not have chosen a better wife. Flanked by her two eldest sons, she fixed the jousters with an air of interested detachment and waited for the tournament to begin.
At the far end of the yard, the horse kicked up a cloud of dust. Knights waited, arms outstretched as their armour was tightened and their colours tied to their lances. The first competitors were riding a solemn parade along the lists, basking in the encouragement of the crowds before they took their places at each end. Their visors were lowered, yet neither moved.
‘They await the queen’s word,’ said York, turning back to the king.
He could not see Margaret of Anjou now, from where he sat, but he could hear her low tones.
‘The queen?’ he repeated, directing his words at Henry.
Slowly, the king rose to his feet and, in sight of all, gave the signal to begin the joust. It was unusual, a departure from the traditional form that favoured the queen’s hand, but it was what the moment demanded.
At each end of the lists, the knights sprang into action. At first their progress was slow, the sound of the hooves distant, then they became louder, scattering sawdust as the distance between them narrowed. York held his breath. The platform was positioned in the middle of the lists, where the impending clash would soon take place. His eyes ran from one horse to the other, watching as they thundered ever closer. The distance closed in a blur of speed. The crack of wood against wood marked a shattering first encounter. Around the king, the crowd breathed a collective sigh of relief.
Unhurt, the riders parted, rode on to the end, and circled in a cloud of dust. Without waiting, they galloped on again, faster and harder, making the platform reverberate beneath York’s feet. The sensation travelled up through his limbs, into his belly, something like the thunder of horses in battle. Something about this second charge was more determined, more focused. This time, the blow of the long, solid lances struck home. Wood impacted on wood again but, now, there was a duller sound too. The closer rider was unseated, toppled and fell to the ground. A gasp rushed through the crowd, drawing some to their feet. Squires hurried forward and helped him to his feet while his competitor prepared to meet his next opponent.
York looked briefly back at his family. Edmund was perched beside his mother, keenly watching the action but, for once, Edward was the one who seemed withdrawn.
‘You are quiet?’
His son turned his handsome profile, newly grown into his manly features.
He shrugged.
‘What is it? You don’t enjoy the entertainment?’
Edward shook his sandy curls. ‘Yesterday, in the chapel?’
‘What you overheard? It was nothing, just money, nothing to worry about.’
‘Whom are you paying?’
York lowered his voice. ‘It is nothing for you to be concerned about, just parliamentary business, compensation to Beaufort for his father’s loss. I cannot speak freely here, you understand?’
Edward’s sense of pride and justice could not endure this. ‘Compensation to Beaufort? Why, in God’s name?’
‘For St Albans.’
‘God’s blood!’
‘Edward!’ Cecily had heard his exclamation.
‘Sorry mother.’ He lowered his voice, turned back to York. ‘I am sick of us being held to account for St Albans, when you fought to clear your name. It was a fair fight. Why must we pay still?’
‘You would have me shout it out for all to hear, to criticise our enemies openly on this day of reconciliation? Don’t you think I am sick of it too?’
‘You really believe they will abide by these new oaths of friendship?’
‘I have to believe it. As they must believe we will keep ours. As we will.’
Edward shook his head cynically.
‘What?’ asked York angrily. ‘So you know better? Would you like to see a war in England?’
Cecily turned again, her pale brow furrowed. ‘Hold your tongues. If I can hear you, others will too.’
‘If I hold my tongue much more it will begin to bleed!’ Angry and impatient, Edward was prepared to rise but the approaching bulk of Warwick blocked his way.
‘Stay,’ he urged, holding up his gloved hand. ‘There are people I wish you to meet.’
The man at his side, perhaps in his late twenties, had a round, good-natured face, with close-cropped fair hair. The blue eyes were intelligent but the wide mouth seemed built for laughter and, against the fashion of the time, he wore a neat beard, quite golden in colour. He bowed in respectful greeting but his demeanour was relaxed.
‘I found him lurking in the crowd,’ Warwick told York. ‘You recognise him? This is William, son of old Sir Leonard Hastings.’
‘Ah! Old Hastings’ son? Cecily, this is Hastings’ son, descended from the Mortimers, on his mother’s side.’
Cecily turned and inclined her head in greeting. ‘Of course, I see the likeness. Another distant cousin. We knew your father during our service in Normandy. He showed us great kindness in our youth.’
‘My Lady,’ the youth took her hand with a gesture that was both graceful and charming.
‘Do join us to watch the jousting,’ invited York, seeing that his wife was taken with the young man. ‘We need a little good humour amid all this cordiality.’
‘You do me a great honour.’ Hastings accepted the invitation and took his place on the bench just as the next jousters thundered past. They watched as the pair clashed and one man fell to the ground.
‘Do you joust?’
Edward looked into their guest’s blue eyes, unsure yet whether or not to like the affable young man. ‘Do you?’
‘When I need to impress someone.’
‘Indeed?’ Edward smiled noncommittally and turned back to the lists. On the far side, he spotted the figures of the Saluccis, the merchant shiverin
g in his foreign furs and Alasia dressed in satin of emerald green.
‘It’s dangerous, of course.’
‘It is.’
‘That’s why I only do it when there is someone worth impressing.’
Edward did not feel the need to reply but that did not stop his companion.
‘And when I do, I always win.’ He paused for a moment, then repeated. ‘I always win.’
The tone rankled. Edward cast him a long look, still chewing over his anger. ‘Is that so?’
Hastings grinned. ‘You should try me. I could not fail to win today.’
Edward feigned interest. ‘And why is that?’
‘Because the most beautiful woman in the world is here.’
Edward gave a wry grin. ‘Is she indeed?’
‘You have not noticed? Your eyes are perhaps bewitched?’
‘I see as plain as day.’
‘Then feast them upon Earl Rivers’ daughter, whom Warwick brings this way.’
As he spoke, Hastings rose to his feet and Edward saw that his cousin was approaching the dais, with a small party. Leading them was the Lancastrian Baron Rivers, with his smooth head and the neat features that Edward recognised from the council chamber; he had an air of elegance but it seemed a shallow, shifting thing, rooted in the man’s clothing and his studied smile. On his arm was a tall, majestic woman, draped in gems, with a long thin face and large dramatic eyes. Behind her came a younger couple, a solid, plain man who barely merited a second glance and a fair-haired woman in blue, whom Edward saw at once was the one Hastings described as being without equal. There was no denying her beauty. Edward estimated that she must be five years his elder, perhaps more, and there was a stillness and composure about her face that made her seem inscrutable. Her bone structure was exquisite, finely modelled around the temples and chin to give the impression of both strength and fragility; her skin was clear and fresh, her lips a bow of pink, her nose straight and, as for her eyes… Her pale hooded eyes were the seat of her beauty. She lifted her chin and looked at York and his family on the dais, but her gaze seemed remote, as if fixed in the middle distance, as if not really seeing them at all.
‘Baron Rivers, my Lady Jacquetta,’ York inclined his head coolly.
The pair bowed low. ‘My Lord, my Lady Duchess, we are thankful to see you in such good health,’ said Rivers in his smooth voice. ‘May I present my son-in-law Sir John Grey and my eldest daughter Elizabeth.’
The young people inclined their heads; Grey made an effort to catch Edward’s eye but he could not tear his gaze away from the fascinating creature at the man’s side. He had hoped for a smile from her, but Elizabeth did not meet his eyes. Once the formalities had been exchanged, the party passed along to take their seats without so much as a backward glance.
‘Upstarts,’ hissed Warwick. ‘Who the hell do they think they are? Why are they so damned pleased with themselves?’
‘Don’t show them they have riled you,’ warned York. ‘Their time will come.’
Edward watched the upstarts passing down the field; a tight little unit which seemed inviolable, unwilling to engage with anyone else, secure in a world of their own creation. He was interested and repelled by them in equal measure.
Trumpets sounded. The lead jouster rode past the platform in a lap of honour, resplendent in scarlet and people rose to their feet to applaud him. Across the lists, the figure of Alasia caught his attention again. Beside her on the bench, Salucci appeared to be asleep, his fur collar pulled up to his ears. Edward drew a silk favour from his pocket, called to a servant and whispered instructions in his ear. Sitting back, he watched the man scurry down the steps and head around the back of the tents. He reappeared on the other side of the crowd, squeezing his way along the ranks of the crowd, before reaching Alasia in her green dress. It was accomplished admirably. He was able to see the exact moment when the piece of silk was pressed into her palm: her look of surprise, followed by her smile, then her eyes sought him out on the royal stand. Holding her gaze, he dipped his head in greeting. With a little planning, they might meet in the York family tent.
‘Can’t I leave now?’ he leaned forward and asked his father. ‘I’ve shown my face, done my duty.’
York frowned. ‘It would be a breach to depart before the king; we must take our cue from him.’
‘Then let me joust. I cannot bear to sit here any longer.’
‘Joust, you? A boy against these trained champions? Are you mad?’
‘I am strong for my age and well-practised in the tilt yard, I can hold my own.’
York shook his head. ‘It would be taking an unnecessary risk.’
‘But I can do it, I know I can and I will be careful.’
‘You had my answer, I said no. Now let that be an end to it.’
‘But I am a man now, I can joust!’
York stared back at his son incredulously, his eyes blazing with anger at the defiance.
‘What did I hear?’ The reedy voice reached them from the throne behind. ‘The young Earl of March wishes to joust?’
His father swung round quickly, containing his fury. ‘Indeed, your majesty, the young earl does, but the old duke has advised him against it on account of his youth and inexperience.’
‘I don’t see that it can do much harm,’ spoke the king slowly. ‘Particularly if he was matched against one of our squires, why not let him joust?’
‘Yes,’ said the queen archly, appearing at her husband’s side. ‘Do let the young Earl of March joust.’
‘But he has no clothes,’ York protested.
‘He will soon be equipped and ready,’ promised Henry with a wave of the hand.
Edward rose to his feet, coursing with mixed emotions, not daring to meet his parents’ eyes. He was conscious of Edmund, watching agog, as his brother bowed low to the throne.
‘Don’t do it, I absolutely forbid it!’ York muttered between clenched teeth but it was too late.
Henry beckoned to one of the squires, standing on the straw below the royal platform. ‘The earl is to joust. See that he is fully prepared and match him against someone suitable.’
Edward felt his mother’s anxious hand upon his arm and, for a moment, he paused.
‘Am I suitable enough?’
Hastings had spoken. Now he stepped up alongside Edward. ‘I would be honoured to ride against the earl, should it please my Lords.’
‘It would please us very much,’ Cecily whispered, with tears in her voice. ‘Thank you.’
Edward was relieved but determined not to show it; he shot a look over towards Alasia and followed Hastings’ broad back down the steps towards the yellow tents.
*
‘So,’ smiled Hastings broadly, as he pulled on his gloves, ‘you’re really going to do this?’
Edward raised his chin as he was laced into his breastplate. The tent billowed above them.
‘So young and so fearless,’ the older man laughed. ‘I hear Beaufort was keen to challenge you. No wonder, when your father killed his.’
Edward refused to so much as twitch an eyelid. He strode out onto the sawdust, where a squire was waiting to help him climb up into the saddle of a black stallion, clad in blue and white livery. He fumbled with the heavy lance at first, before finding a way to tuck it under his arm. The lists lay ahead, seeming very long and close, in comparison with the view from the benches. He must have watched this a dozen times; how hard could it be?
‘Are you coming or not?’ he called back to Hastings, and spurred his horse abruptly into a walk, without waiting to hear the answer.
By the time he had reached the far end, he had a sense of the horse’s strength, a huge, dumb brute that would speed him across the intervening distance so long as he did not take fright. Circling and raising his lance, he stared back at his distant opponent, dressed in red, already ready for the off. He nodded over to the anxious figures on the edge of their seats under the fluttering flags, then snapped his visor down into place.
<
br /> Perhaps he missed the signal, for someone to the side dealt his horse a blow in the hindquarters and the creature sprang ahead like lightening. Edward was thrown forward but quickly righted himself and locked his arm against his body tight, bracing himself for the oncoming impact. The distant figure came closer and closer. The horse hooves pounded in rhythm, like the beating of his heart, almost fit to burst. Clouds of sawdust whirled about them. Then there was a rush and he was clear. Blessedly, incredibly, he rode clear. He spun round, checking the lists: they had passed without making contact. Feeling the sweat beading on his forehead, he breathed a sigh of relief and continued to the end.
Slowly, he turned his horse round in a circuit. They would ride again and surely, this time, Hastings would not be so merciful. Before he had a chance to catch breath, the red figure had begun to ride again, without waiting for his signal, intent on the attack. Edward grappled with his lance, feeling himself unready. His mount had other ideas. They clashed again. A blinding pain caught him on the shoulder, unseating him briefly. He gasped, feeling the shock travel right through his body but some instinct made him clamp his knees fast against the horse’s flanks and, by some miracle, he remained in the saddle. Galloping to the end of the list, adrenaline and anger spurred him on, forcing him to square up to his opponent and begin a third charge.
This time he had Hastings in his sight. He would not go into the lists unprepared again. The years of tilting at the ring in the green fields around Ludlow had served him well: he squinted, recalled the boy he had been and the man he was becoming, his parents’ pride and the sly eyes of the queen watching from the sidelines. Lowering his lance, he lined it up carefully, as the red figure drew closer again. Closer, closer. He urged forward. The red figure of Hastings loomed large. There was a huge impact. Edward was shaken but rode on, with his lance reverberating in his hand, sending a powerful jolt up his arm and into his painful shoulder. As he reached the far tent, he circled, searching the field for his opponent.
The red horse was running loose, galloping along the side of the lists with its saddle empty. On the ground, a crumpled figure was being helped to his feet by the squires, amid the sawdust. Edward flicked up his visor. The crowds were cheering. It took him a moment to realise they were applauding him. Over on the platform, he could see the white and gold figure of his mother waving. He had won. He had been challenged and won, proved himself to his father, the king and queen and the whole court.
