Son of York

by Amy Licence

  Relief washed over him. Then the pain of his shoulder kicked in again. He would have a powerful bruise there but it didn’t feel as if anything was broken.

  ‘Well done, well done, that was magnificent! You did it!’

  It was Edmund. He had been waiting by the tents for his brother’s return, his young face flushed with pride.

  ‘I did, didn’t I? I really did it!’

  ‘Father was furious! You should have heard him.’

  ‘I showed him I could do it though!’

  ‘And I thought mother was going to faint.’

  The armour felt stiff and heavy now. He could not wait to dismount but the squire was making no moves to assist him.

  ‘Hey you, get me off here.’

  ‘You have a second challenger, my Lord.’

  Edward turned slowly. At the far end of the lists, a figure in black was already seated on the back of a huge brown stallion. He felt himself go cold.

  ‘It’s Beaufort,’ breathed Edmund. ‘The snake!’

  Edward made no reply. They both watched as the limping figure of Hastings was helped from the scene.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ said Edmund. ‘That’s enough, come off, say you’re wounded. Call a surgeon. You’re not seriously going to ride against him? It would be foolish!’

  ‘I can’t refuse.’

  ‘Yes you can. It is an unfair match.’

  A steely resolve settled across Edward’s face. ‘I must ride against him, stand aside.’

  ‘He will kill you!’

  ‘Then it will be an honourable death.’

  Edward’s knuckles whitened around his lance. Not daring to look at his parents, he spurred his horse forward and felt the rush of air as he realised his visor was still up. It was too late now, too late for anything but a sort of foolish desperate bravery, a mad God-like rashness that would lead either to death or glory. The thundering black figure descended. Automatically, Edward’s lips began to move in prayer. He thought of the quiet grey walls at Ludlow, the deep surrounding woods, the window in his nursery with the wide sill where the birds used to nest. His mother had used to sit in the window there and sew, while they sang songs. He thought back to the softness of Alasia’s lips, then the hooded eyes of Elizabeth Grey flashed into his mind. A conviction came over him that this was not his day to die.

  For a split second he saw Beaufort’s eyes, narrowed in menace. Then, with a rush, they had passed each other. There was no pain; there had been no contact. Edward breathed heavily in relief as he reached the far end of the lists. He circled, slammed down his visor and rode at his enemy again.

  The glory was short lived. As they drew close, the point of Beaufort’s lance reared up against him. He heard it first, that smack of wood on metal, then he felt it ricochet all through his body. A massive blow to the chest had knocked the wind out of him. He felt himself sliding backwards, saw the hooves of his horse and fell with a thud to the ground. Noise seemed to break out on all sides but he was drifting and it grew dimmer and dimmer.

  *

  There was a billowing whiteness all around him. The tent was blowing in the breeze, filled with sunlight like sails on a boat, as he opened his eyes. His armour had been removed and a surgeon was applying an ointment to his shoulder. For a second, all was calm and he felt wonderfully still, as if he were floating. Then a searing pain racked his chest and he groaned.

  ‘Thank God,’ he heard his mother saying. ‘He has woken, thanks be to God.’

  ‘He has woken?’

  The voice came from behind them. Cecily knew it at once and turned, with a gracious curtsey, to face the queen.

  Margaret of Anjou stood just inside the entrance to the tent, flanked on both sides by guards. She held her thin shoulders erect and her dark, slanting eyes were difficult to read. From the bed, Edward squinted at her form, thrown into silhouette by the sunlight spilling in from behind.

  The queen stepped forward, bypassing his kneeling parents and cast an eye over his reclining form. He felt her scrutiny, exposed and vulnerable as he lay stripped to the waist, her eyes running over him like a caress. She was looking at the extent of his injuries, but there was something more in her gaze, as if she was assessing his strength.

  She nodded slowly. ‘You put up a brave fight.’

  ‘Thank you, my Lady.’ The words hurt.

  ‘You could have refused to joust against Beaufort, but you didn’t. I remember you as a child, in Rouen, when I was only a girl. You were stubborn then, too.’

  He looked at her sidelong, at the long embroidered gown of blue and gold, at the diamonds on her fingers and throat. She must be in her late twenties now, although her skin was still bright and warm across her cheekbones and her lashes were dark and long as she blinked down at him. She might cherish a loathing for him in her heart, but Edward could suddenly see her as a woman: not just the enemy, a beautiful woman whose presence stirred something in his chest. There was a subtle change in the mood between them, barely perceptible but he definitely felt it: the awareness between a man and woman. He felt himself colouring.

  The queen stepped closer then; as she turned, she allowed her hand to brush against his arm, from elbow to shoulder. Her cool fingertips sent a shiver through him.

  Then it was over, she had already turned away, nodding to his kneeling parents.

  ‘You have raised a son to be proud of.’

  And she swept out of the tent.

  *

  Edward was just pulling himself upright when Hastings appeared in the doorway, wearing his shift and braes.

  ‘You survived then?’

  ‘As did you. Put some clothes on.’

  ‘There’s a woman out here, asking to speak with you.’

  He knew who it was at once and pulled his shirt on. ‘Show her in.’

  Alasia looked nervous. She fiddled with the sleeves of her green dress and started towards him, then stopped. ‘I thought you had been killed.’

  ‘Not today.’

  ‘I’m glad.’ She looked over her shoulder, nervously. ‘I only have a minute.’

  ‘What is it, are you all right?’ He wanted to reach across and touch her, but he wasn’t sure.

  ‘Yes, I am now. I wanted to tell you that Antonio sails for Italy tomorrow, on the first tide.’

  Edward laughed. ‘And he will bring me back some spices?’

  He saw at once that he had misjudged the moment.

  ‘No, not that.’

  ‘No,’ he echoed, suddenly serious. His hazel eyes locked with her dark ones.

  ‘My house stands to the east of Queenhithe, on the corner of Thames Street and Trinitie Lane.’

  He nodded. ‘I will come after dark.’

  ‘Around the back, there is a door with a low gable. I will set a lantern burning there.’ She paused. ‘Please don’t think that this, that I usually…’

  He leaned forward and planted a quick kiss on her warm cheek. ‘I understand. Until then.’

  She smiled, and was gone.

  TWELVE: The Encircling Net, May, 1459

  Edmund drew in his breath and squared his shoulders. He was almost as tall as Edward now, his eyes reaching up to his brother’s solid chin, modelled along similar lines. They had both had their sandy hair cut shorter: it had been Edward’s idea, so Edmund had submitted to the barber’s knives at once, watching the soft golden clumps falling at his feet, feeling that he was cutting ties with his infancy. And Edmund had been practising with the sword and lance. Warwick had set him new challenges of strength and endurance on the Westminster fields, so that he could almost feel his heart burst as he pushed his body to its limits. Yet he was still not quite as broad, not quite as strong as Edward. And while Edward’s hazel eyes radiated confidence, the cast of Edmund’s features portrayed a mixture of pride and doubt. He was the son of York, their legacy carved in stone, but Edmund felt the passage of time, the fragility of the human heart, the beauty in heavy skies and fallen leaves pressing upon him.

  Yet
, seeing the three of them, arriving at the great door of Westminster Palace, anyone might think them inviolable. With York in the centre; splendid in his maturity, his descent from the Mortimers and his Plantagenet blood, his noble brow marked by wisdom and experience, his manner regal and full of authority; they appeared the personification of strength, of power. Justice sat squarely on his shoulders and defined his noble brow. Dressed in magnificent black and purple velvet, hung with jewels and his chains of office, York was the lynchpin of the family. His sons flanked him on either side, like the wings of a triptych. Edward was a head taller, swathed in russet silk and fur, his cheeks smooth from the barber’s blades, his neck solid and his fiery eyes sweeping the whole palace, taking everything in, reading the reactions of the crowd almost before they made them. For one still so young, he carried an enviable sense of knowledge with him, as if he could read men’s hearts, and yet those who feared him were also drawn to him. When his face softened, it wore smile of such charisma, such ease and warmth, that even his enemies softened.

  On the other side stood Edmund. The three of them together like this seemed right, natural, like a sort of completion; they made a unit, as if about to raise their weapons and charge into battle. He was proud of his new tunic, made from emerald green and tawny, proud of the jewels he wore on his cloak and the rings on his fingers, proud of the new boots commissioned from the softest red leather; proudest of all of his family. Today, he would make his first attendance in the council chamber, among the lords and bishops, the friends and enemies, the king’s servants and the makers of the laws of the land. Today, as he turned sixteen, he was joining the world of men.

  *

  They stood in the open doorway, shoulder to shoulder. The bright spring morning lit them from behind and blew their cloaks, billowing around their calves. The hall before them was full. It stretched ahead towards the dais and the doors to the chambers, overlooked by wooden statues of kings in red and green crowns, by Richard II’s ceiling decorated with fleur-de-lys and angels, flanked by pillars. Fixing their eyes ahead, they began the walk. Perhaps a hundred people were milling about, turning quiet as the three York men passed, some bowing from respect, some out of fear, some barely able to contain their hostility. Edmund felt their eyes. He knew of the time that his brother and father had been attacked one chilly dawn on their way into the city, and of the other times their lives had been threatened, or their journey home dogged by footsteps. A year ago they might have intimidated him but now there was no emotion that was stronger than the pride and strength he felt at standing beside his father. He had learned this walk, learned this swagger; it was all a performance, an act. He only hoped that he looked as convincing as Edward. Fixing his eyes on the royal canopy ahead, he strode along, not letting the people’s gaze touch him. Together, they passed the dais and the empty seats at table, and headed through the doorway into the dark corridor.

  York seized the moment to whisper to him. ‘Well done.’

  Then they were out into the light again, at the broad wooden doorway where the council was meeting. Edmund took another deep breath and then they were inside. They were ranged around the table; his relations Salisbury, the Bourchiers and Buckingham; the Earls of Worcester, Oxford and Devon, Lords Stanley and Clifford, Baron Rivers and the hostile faces of Beaufort and Tudor.

  The doors closed firmly behind them. York approached the table, with his sons alongside.

  Thomas Bourchier rose to his feet. ‘I call this meeting to order.’

  And Edward took his place among them, listening as the petitions were put forward and the objections made. He saw Bourchier speak for the church, for the souls of the people; he saw Beaufort narrow his eyes and argue about the divisions in the nation and the queen’s hopes for reconciliation; he heard the titles of Lord Stanley’s late father being conferred upon him and Buckingham requesting the settlement of land upon his new daughter-in-law, Lady Margaret Beaufort. And he could not help but think of all the people represented here; those praying in far-flung churches in the land, kneeling devoutly on stone, those counting out the portion of their income they were due to yield to the tax collectors, those waiting to hear news of decisions made by those men, in that room, on that day. And then he thought of the past, of the men who had spoken of such matters with such passion, arguing for lives to be saved or sacrificed, who now lay under marble tombs, their souls having been called to be with God. His eyes came to rest upon the carved wooden device of the white hart, above the fireplace, which was the symbol of Richard II. That king had sat in this chamber, anointed by holy oil in the abbey, wearing the robe of state; he by whom their Mortimer claim had been granted, he who died an ignominious death, stripped of his crown.

  ‘Are you quite well?’

  It was Edward, leaning across in his seat.

  ‘Quite well,’ Edmund replied, watching as Jasper Tudor got to his feet.

  Almost thirty, Tudor’s features had taken on a determined cast since the loss of his brother. As the half-brother of the king, he occupied a unique position in proximity to the king. Behind him, Edmund spotted a handsome, shifting figure; a man past his prime but still remarkable in looks, wearing a silver collar and jewelled cap.

  ‘Who is that?’ he whispered to his brother. ‘The man behind.’

  ‘Owen Tudor, the king’s step-father.’

  Edmund had heard the romantic tales of the secret marriage that the king’s mother had made for love. Catherine de Valois had still been young and beautiful upon the death of Henry V. She had fallen in love with her squire and borne him children, before dying in the humble quietness of Bermondsey Abbey. The rights or wrongs of it had never mattered to Edmund, just the connection of two hearts, and he looked at this new figure with renewed interest.

  Jasper looked pointedly down the table towards York and his sons. ‘The king continues to wish for peace and reconciliation in his realm. He sends his best wishes for the good health of all his loyal servants and his thanks for their continuing dedicated work in his service.’

  There was a ripple of muted applause.

  ‘When will the king return to London?’ York asked.

  Tudor turned, with a controlled smile. ‘The king’s realm is a diverse one. At the present it suits him to remain in the north.’

  ‘The king’s support is already strong in the north,’ York pressed. ‘I am sure his southern subjects would benefit from his presence.’

  ‘No doubt they shall soon enjoy that benefit.’

  Tudor bent to sit, but York pressed him again. ‘Does that mean the king has definite plans to return? Perhaps for his next parliament?’

  ‘I would not presume to speak for the king,’ smiled Tudor in mock surprise, spreading his open palms. Behind him, his father’s handsome face creased with mirth.

  ‘And yet you have,’ York pointed out. ‘My only concern is for the king’s welfare. It is so long since we have seen him in the capital, it must be, since the Loveday, that his presence is greatly missed. It would be good for the king to return and show himself, in order to reassure his subjects that he remains in good health.’

  ‘Oh, his health is excellent, and…’ retorted Tudor.

  But York cut him off. ‘And that he is fully capable of making his own decisions, for which we continue to pray.’

  ‘And the king proved such a loving friend at the Loveday,’ added Edward, with his tongue in his cheek, ‘that the city sorely misses his amorous benevolence.’

  Glances were exchanged about the chamber but Tudor rose to the occasion. ‘I will pass on your best wishes to the king and queen; I am sure they will be received most lovingly.’

  ‘And our desire to serve him at his next parliament,’ added York. ‘We shall await his instructions.’

  ‘Very good, my Lord,’ Tudor bowed and turned away.

  ‘And now the question of the household expenditure of the Prince of Wales,’ interjected Bourchier, rising to his feet.

  Edmund sat back in his seat with a mixt
ure of emotions and listened as the prince’s chamberlain put forward the balance of his income and expenditure. While the figures were being amended on a document, the Earl of Salisbury got to his feet, a little stiffly.

  ‘I hear that, in the north, the queen has been distributing badges in the name of her son.’

  ‘I have heard nothing about that,’ said Bourchier. ‘Tudor?’

  For a moment, Jasper looked uncertain but the lithe, dark form of Beaufort rose to his feet. ‘If I may, my Lords, I believe the queen has resurrected the symbol of the king’s de Bohun legacies, simply as a mean to reward loyalty.’

  ‘And the expenses are to come out of the boy’s household budget, or the queen’s own?’ Salisbury asked.

  ‘Whichever you wish, my Lords.’

  ‘It seems,’ interjected York, ‘a little undignified, perhaps even disrespectful, for the queen’s affairs to be settled in her absence. If she were present in the capital, we would have ample opportunities to display our loyalty, without the need and expense of these badges.’

  ‘I think that matter has already been addressed,’ Bourchier stated firmly, ‘so we may progress to other matters.’

  *

  When the meeting finally drew to a close, they spilled out of the room, stretching cramped limbs. Edmund was relieved to be out of the glare of their enemies, of the minutiae of land debates and accounts.

  ‘Your first taste of council business,’ smiled Edward over his shoulder at his brother. ‘Thrilling and deadening in one.’

  ‘And still the king cowers in the north under the queen’s skirts, while his country is being run from miles away.’

  Both young men looked in surprise at their father.