Son of York

by Amy Licence

  ‘What will Henry say?’

  ‘Nothing new, I expect. I tried to see him before we left but was told he was not receiving visitors.’

  ‘That does not bode well.’

  A clamouring in the doorway warned them of their children’s approach.

  ‘Now, let us not speak of it again until we are in private. I don’t want the younger children worried.’

  Cecily nodded as little Richard came running into the room and straight into his father’s arms.

  ‘Father, we found a nest, high up in the apple tree. George climbed up but there were no eggs in it. He said he could see all the way to London but he couldn’t, could he? Tell him he couldn’t.’

  York smiled at his other son, lurking in the doorway. ‘Perhaps George climbed so high he could see London in his dreams.’

  Richard thought about this for a minute, then turned to his brother.

  ‘George, did you see London in your dreams?’

  George’s face contorted. ‘No, I saw London, all of it. I saw the king and queen and they were laughing.’

  York frowned. ‘George? I’ll ask you again, think carefully before you answer. Did you see London from the tree?’

  And George let out a laugh. ‘Of course not, it is miles and miles away. I wanted to see if Richard would believe me.’

  He ran towards his father, to share in the embrace. Richard shot him a satisfied glance but George just grinned in response.

  ‘I didn’t see London,’ he whispered, ‘I was looking the wrong way but I did see Scotland!’

  *

  Edward lingered outside after the others had gone in, breathing in Fotheringhay’s air. Each window, each corner, was filled with the memories of happy summers as a child, running in the fields and swimming in the river, content with the warmth of the sun and the knowledge that all his family were safe and close. As the stable hands led the horses round to the stable, he trailed after them, keen to see the haunts of his childhood again. Behind the castle stood the little courtyard flanked by low-roofed domestic buildings; the bakery and dairy, the wash house and larders and the gates to the gardens.

  He followed the horses to the stable door. It had been here that he had learned to ride, making his first little trips around the orchard, clutching tight to the reins. The old master of the stable, a freckled Dutchman named Cloet, looked up from his work inside and a broad smile split across his face.

  ‘Master Edward?’

  ‘Yes. We’re here for the summer, just arrived.’

  ‘All of you? My Lord and Master Edmund too?’

  ‘All of us, safe and well.’

  ‘You’ve grown, let me look at you.’ The man rose to his feet, still wiry and strong from outdoor work, despite his years.

  ‘Indeed, it must be a year or more since I saw you last. How are you? How is your wife?’

  ‘Still troubled by her legs but we’re well; happy to see you back, my Lord.’

  ‘I’ll make sure mother sends round some cordials for her.’

  ‘My Lady Duchess is always most attentive to our needs, thank you.’

  ‘I’ll call in to see you both soon,’ smiled Edward. ‘Are the horses all well?’

  ‘All as well as could be.’

  ‘You take such good care of them, you always have.’

  He turned and headed along his favourite walk, through the grounds and down to the riverbank, where he used to sit patiently as a boy with a fishing line. As he passed through the outer courtyard, the kitchen door swung open and the sound of raised voices could be heard.

  ‘We could get two pence more at the market,’ a woman was saying, ‘but we came here first to offer you the freshest bird. And there’s no reason to turn us away like this, all we were doing was having a little joke, we didn’t mean any disrespect!’

  A tall, fair-haired girl stood in the doorway, clasping a dead goose in her arms. She was well built, statuesque yet graceful in her simple dress. Beside her, a second figure, slighter and darker, hovered nervously, twisting her arms about in distress.

  ‘Go on, take the goose,’ the woman persisted. ‘You won’t find a finer one, fed on the best scraps from the table and killed only this morning. It’ll be a fine feast for your duchess.’

  Someone from within repeated a blunt negative.

  ‘See how plump it is,’ she offered, holding the beast forward. ‘Go on, don’t turn away a good goose just because you don’t like our manners! That’s cutting off your nose to spite your face, or your duke’s face! I bet he’d like a nice plump goose on his table tonight. Call him out here, I’m sure he’d give me a different answer.’

  Edward was curious. The girls looked too well dressed to have come up from the village but they were clearly keen to sell the bird; he guessed that perhaps they were the daughters of a local farmer fallen on lean times.

  ‘I do find myself feeling rather partial to a good goose,’ he said, strolling towards them. ‘What’s the asking price?’

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  The woman turned, squinting in the sunlight. She must have been nineteen or twenty, with a broad face that had something vibrant about the eyes and a defiant cast to the mouth. The skin of her face, throat and exposed forearms was tanned a deep golden brown and the end of her little nose turned up pertly.

  When she saw Edward approaching, dressed in velvet and silk, she dropped a curtsey.

  ‘Forgive me, my Lord, I did not hear you approach.’

  ‘So how much is this goose?’

  ‘Six pence,’ she replied quickly before the castle cook could contradict her.

  ‘Six pence!’ repeated Edward. ‘That sounds like London prices. Cook, what are you offering?’

  ‘I said I’d give her four, my Lord,’ the Cook confirmed.

  ‘So why not make it five, as it does seem like a fresh bird?’

  He flashed a smile over to the young woman. ‘And you are?’

  ‘My name is Mary Denny, my Lord, and I’m not to take anything but six for the goose.’

  Edward laughed; he was in a mind to humour her. There was something about her bold eyes that appealed to him. Even the stains of mud and grass on her skirts drew his interest.

  ‘Is that so, Mary Denny?’

  ‘That’s what my mother says.’

  ‘Well, I dare not thwart your mother’s desires. Here.’ He reached for the purse hanging from his belt and counted out six coins of his own. ‘Lucky for you, I have a taste for goose tonight, hand the bird over.’

  Mary nodded to her companion to take the coins before she dumped the creature in the outstretched arms of the cook.

  ‘But think yourself lucky that I am in a forgiving mood, I should have sent you packing.’

  The girl turned her nose up pertly and flashed her eyes. She was certainly pretty and bold, but Edward thought of Alasia back in London, of their last lingering kiss and the child she was carrying.

  Mary took a step back and looked him up and down. ‘Well that would have been a shame, as I can be very friendly when I choose.’

  He laughed. ‘I am sure you can. Now be on your way and thank you for the goose.’

  *

  There was a full moon that night. It seemed to hang heavy and full right over Fotheringhay Castle whilst they all slept. All except York, who had dozed off and then woken, to find the bright moonlight peeping in round the corners of the curtains.

  At his side, Cecily lay sleeping. She had rolled away from him and her form in the half-light was one long, smooth silvered curve, rising at hip, breast and shoulder, then tapering away under the sheets. During their earlier lovemaking, he had pulled her long fair hair loose and now it lay across her shoulders. They were unusual in their choice to share a bed, through until morning. Both had their own apartments within the castle, as custom dictated, but from the very start of their marriage, they had enjoyed each other’s company and warmth.

  Softly tracing along a golden lock with his finger, he saw the threads of grey tha
t had appeared in recent years. There would be no more children now. Four years had passed since she had borne her last child; little Ursula, whom they had lost. He recalled Cecily’s brave public front, her insistence that it was God’s will and her devoted prayers for the souls of her lost children, for the little girl and her five lost brothers. Yet it was only with her husband, late at night, that she had allowed herself the release of a mother’s tears.

  He sighed and rolled onto his back. Here at Fotheringhay, the world seemed an idyllic place, as his children grew up and the summer days stretched out long and warm. If only the outside world might be shut out forever, they might live the contented lives of dumb beasts, oblivious to the existence of king and court, of foreign and civil wars, of jealousy and petty rivalries. For all the estate’s charm he knew that, on the horizon, danger was lurking. In a matter of weeks, he must decide whether or not to face the king. If the Coventry parliament met as planned, without his presence, it was tantamount to a declaration of war. What would happen then, to his wife and family, to this precious haven?

  Somewhere outside, a fox barked. The world seemed too peaceful to disturb with such dangerous thoughts. Tomorrow, he would pray for guidance. Tonight, he would try to get the rest he needed to face these problems.

  Cecily stirred and resettled herself on her pillow. York leaned across and placed a gentle kiss upon her cheek. Her skin was both cool and warm. He saw her lips curve slightly before he closed his own eyes.

  *

  In the flickering light of the candle, Edward pressed his seal to the hot wax. Almost two months had passed since he had parted from Alasia, riding away from her house into the coolness of a London dawn, leaving her with his child growing in her belly. It felt like longer. They had been parted before, on the occasions that Antonio Salucci’s feet were on dry land, but they had always been able to contrive to see each other, at the cross of St Paul’s or in the little dark inn chamber on the bridge, rented by William Hastings. Since their affair began, they had never been apart this long, his final memory imprinted on his brain, of her standing in the doorway, wrapped in a white robe, her dark hair loose about her shoulders.

  He had received one letter from her only, brought by a trader who supplied the castle with spices from the London warehouses; it was folded and sealed, smelling of saffron and powdered ginger, bearing a small, dense hand in weak ink. He had tucked it inside his doublet and fled into the garden for privacy. Alasia’s words tumbled out under the unfolding green leaves on the apple tree. She was well, but missing him. Her health was good, she had not been suffering from sickness, just an increase in appetite; she had all she needed, save for him. Save for him, he repeated to himself, with a rush of longing for her. She wrote that Antonio was set to depart again in a month, sailing across the Mediterranean to Cyprus and then on to Lebanon, where he knew a trader who dealt in perfumes. It should be a very lucrative trip. In his absence, her sister would move into the house in Thames Street to keep her company. The child was due early in the new year.

  In the still of the summer night, Edward could think of little to say beyond the conventions. He could only write that he had thought of her often, and solicit her to take care of her health. She should rest and not tire herself, and not go walking in the heat of the midday sun or eat foods that were too rich. He smiled as he wrote those lines, smiled at the novelty and incongruity of it; who was he, after all, to be giving advice to an expectant mother? Yet he knew it was what she would be hoping to hear from him, to feel from his words that he cared about her, that this little new life she was nurturing, mattered to him. It was their secret, his and hers. He pressed his signet ring onto the page and watched the wax dry. Tomorrow, York’s clerk was heading back to London to collect the quarterly rents owing. No doubt Edward could pay him a little extra to carry the letter and find the house on the corner of Trinitie Lane. By the evening, his words would be in her hands. He turned it over and pressed his lips to her name.

  FOURTEEN: Traitors at Play

  Edmund heard the birds calling. Their piercing cries drew him away from his dreams, from some distant place of memory that he associated with happiness. For a moment, the real world eluded him; where was he? Daylight penetrated his closed eyelids: white, harsh, unyielding. Then came the realisation; it was Fotheringhay, home of daydreams and the long warm summers of babyhood, of blossom falling into long grass and the braying of donkeys in the meadow. Of mother’s stillness and safeness, of father’s action and solidity.

  He sat up and blinked at the window. Outside, the birds made a dark foreboding knot against the clouds but it seemed as if it would be a fine day. Someone had already been in and opened the latch, so the fresh air of the morning swept in, bringing with it the scent of mown grass. A soft movement nearby made him aware of her presence.

  ‘Edmund,’ called his mother softly, ‘are you awake?’

  He nodded, swinging his legs round so they dangled above the floor. She extended her hand, smiling.

  ‘Come and pray with me. It’s the feast day of St Mary Magdalene.’

  Edmund pulled his shift straight and stretched. His muscles eased into life.

  Through the window, he could see the dark triangle of his brother. Edward was standing on the grass, swinging his arms as if practising with an invisible sword, thinking himself unobserved. One arm pointed up towards the sky then sliced down, with precision and power. He seemed to be working out an immense store of energy.

  Edmund padded across the floor with bare feet. Cecily was kneeling before an ivory and gold triptych, adorned with jewelled white roses and the portrait of the Virgin Mary. It was her favourite icon; he had seen it many times in his youth as it travelled wherever she did, wrapped and bound carefully in cloth, and packed in straw. They had knelt side by side and prayed many times in this fashion, in the early morning light, before breaking their fast. The boy dropped to his knees and began to recite his devotions. She leaned across to kiss the top of his tousled head. In tune, they murmured their prayers, their lips hung with the names of saints and loved ones, with Latin phrases and the age-old rhymes of humility and hope.

  Eventually she crossed herself and rose slowly to her feet.

  ‘Edward has not prayed this morning?’

  Edmund shrugged, pulling on his clothes. He knew that his mother’s love for her eldest son was fierce; she could forgive him many things, because of his strength and beauty, because he was her eldest son. It was a love that cherished from a distance, that admired and contemplated, as if it was part of her religion. Yet, he also knew that although he might not be as tall or handsome as his brother, it was his company that she sought most often: Edward might be her warrior but he, Edmund, was her comfort.

  ‘Come.’ She linked her arm through his and they passed out of the chamber, down the stairs towards Fotheringhay’s great hall.

  ‘Father has gone to hear the court sessions in Peterborough,’ she told Edmund, ‘but he’ll be back tonight. I thought we might sit by the brook when the day warms up. You boys could fish or swim.’

  He knew the spot she meant; her favourite place at the end of the meadows, where the white willows cast dappled shade on the bank.

  One of her hands alighted on his arm.

  ‘So long as you have nothing else planned? You could tell me about London. Did you go to the council meetings with father?’

  Edmund swelled with pride at the memory. ‘Just before we left, I did attend the council, I can tell you all about it. Of course we’ll go to the river. I think Edward said something about riding in the woods so I won’t repeat the story to him. Perhaps Margaret will come too, while the others are having their lessons.’

  ‘Shall we let them off their lessons today, so they can come with us? It can’t hurt, just for one day.’

  He nodded, thinking she was too indulgent with the little ones, but saying nothing.

  She looked into the sky, stretching wide and pale above them. ‘We’ll wait for the sun to rise higher. Th
ese mornings have been so cold but by noon it is always warm and dry.’

  Edmund’s stomach growled, making his mother laugh.

  ‘Come, let’s go and eat something. We’ll call for the others on the way.’

  They sat in the hall, on the corner of the table closest to the oriel window. Cecily was in the centre, her pale cheeks flushed with the presence of her children: Margaret and Edmund on one side, George and Richard on the other with their eyes still sleepy. Edward sat at the head, in his father’s usual seat, brooding about something, although his brother could not imagine what. Outside, the courtyard was bathed in light and full of the yapping of the hounds, being led out for exercise. The servants brought cold cuts of meat, white rolls and jugs of small beer.

  ‘And I completed the whole of the flower on the sleeve and part of the vine this morning,’ Margaret was explaining to her mother. ‘But the light blue yarn is almost used up and I shall need more of the pink and green soon if I am to finish it.’

  ‘I shall send to Peterborough for some,’ Cecily reassured her. ‘If father goes again to the assizes tomorrow, he can deliver the message in the morning and collect the package before he leaves, so you will have your thread tomorrow night. Have you thought what you will do with the edging? I have some of the silver lace left from my green dress, if you think it will suit.’

  Margaret nodded enthusiastically, her mouth filled with bread. Before she had a chance to answer, a messenger approached the table.

  Cecily took the letter from the salver and broke the seal.

  ‘It is from my sister, Anne.’

  ‘Buckingham’s wife’ said Edward, coming round from his reverie.

  ‘Yes, wait a moment.’

  There was a pause as she read. George took advantage of it to reach across and claim another slice of meat. Edmund did not stop him, but watched his mother’s face. Midway through, her mood seemed to change.