Son of York

by Amy Licence

Edward noticed the change too. ‘What does she say?’

  ‘Mostly about her boys,’ Cecily answered quickly.

  ‘What about them?’

  Anne, Duchess of Buckingham, was four years Cecily’s senior. Her marriage to the scar-faced duke had put them on opposing sides and their letters and meetings were intermittent.

  ‘Oh! Poor Anne, her eldest boy has succumbed to the plague. They have lost Humphrey.’

  Edmund recalled meeting their elder cousin once or twice; most recently at Elizabeth’s wedding. At almost twenty years his senior, Humphrey had already been a married man with an infant son; he had kept away from the court and council, preferring the quiet of the countryside.

  Cecily reached across to him, her closest child, and seized his hand.

  ‘How terrible, I must write to her, poor Anne.’

  Edmund saw her eyes moisten as she struggled to control her emotions.

  ‘I am sure she would be comforted to hear from you.’

  ‘I wonder where she is; perhaps Maxstoke or Tonbridge, she does not say. I might send the letter to court except I would not be certain that Buckingham would pass it on to her.’

  ‘Send two letters. I will copy out the second if you like.’

  She squeezed his hand. ‘You are so thoughtful. I can hardly bear to think of her loss. All this time and we did not know. God have mercy on her.’

  ‘It is terrible, God rest his soul,’ declared Edward. ‘Is there any more news?’

  Cecily read on. The children ate, watched and whispered to one another, until their mother abruptly folded the paper and slid it inside her dress.

  ‘Nothing more, now eat and we will go and enjoy the sunshine.’

  *

  The evening light was golden across the Nene valley as York approached home. Coming from the east, with the setting sun behind him, the castle was bathed in warm light and the glass gleamed in the windows. There had been a number of difficult cases to be dealt with that day: as he sat in the guildhall at Peterborough, a stream of the poorest of humanity had been brought before him; debtors and thieves, abandoned women and murderers. His natural inclination was towards clemency but that was not the way of the law: justice must be seen to be done to deter those others who might be mindful of crime. He shuddered as he thought of the pale faces of the sinners. At least he had been able to save one woman from the gallows.

  As he rode into the courtyard, Cecily was waiting for him. She must have been at the tower window, watching for him on the road. The sun blazed behind her, ringing her head with a bright fiery halo.

  ‘I am back, at last. All is well here?’

  ‘All is well.’

  ‘And the children?’

  ‘Listening to the minstrels in the hall. All is well with you?’

  ‘Well enough. A long day, but a productive one.’

  She came towards him closely, confidentially. ‘I have had a letter from my sister Anne.’

  ‘What does she say?’

  His wife spoke softly but her voice was controlled and careful. ‘She writes of the next parliament. It is being convened at Coventry by Bishop Morton, at the request of the queen, to pass acts of attainder against you. Anne writes that you must not attend.’

  York was at once grave. ‘So it is as we suspected. Margaret tried to bring an earlier parliament together this spring but nothing came of it; now she has decided to act once and for all. I knew they would exclude us. I could get no answer at the last council meeting.’

  He thought for a moment.

  ‘We must leave here. The king is in Cheshire, so we should gather our allies at Ludlow to plan our next move; I will seek an audience with Henry but, if that fails, we will strike at them before they have the chance to injure us.’

  ‘Is there no other option?’

  York shook his head. ‘We always knew it would come to this. We must fight or be killed.’

  ‘But the king? Surely the king does not agree with this?’

  ‘It depends how much he has been told; if he believes we pose a danger to him and his son, then he will act as he sees fit.’

  ‘You are speaking folly. Kill the king?’

  ‘Of course not!’ York’s voice rose. ‘Remove those who would harm us, as with Somerset, so we can better serve the king. We must reason with him, otherwise they will attaint us. Forgive me.’

  ‘But are we traitors?’

  ‘We have served Henry loyally, so far as we have been able,’ York replied. ‘Only he has not always made that easy. We must trust that it is all part of the Lord’s plan.’

  The mention of a higher authority brought Cecily some reassurance.

  ‘It was good of Anne to write,’ she added softly.

  York nodded. ‘She does not quite forget her blood. It is the spur we needed. If there is really no doubt about the queen’s intentions, we cannot carry on playing this elaborate game of cat and mouse. Tomorrow we will leave here; the servants can pack up the house and follow us to Ludlow.’

  ‘You will write to Warwick?’

  ‘Yes. If he can land in Wales, he might reach Ludlow before the queen realises. Where is your brother?’

  ‘Salisbury wrote from London that he was leaving for Middleham. That was five days ago.’

  He stepped closer and took his wife’s upturned face in his hands. ‘Then I will write to him there. We must prepare ourselves for a fight.’

  She nodded, holding back her tears.

  ‘I know, I know.’ He kissed the top of her head and she flung her arms about his waist and held him tight.

  ‘We have done all we can,’ said Cecily, ‘you have done all you can. Now let us enjoy our last evening here, then we must all get some rest, we have a long ride ahead of us.’

  *

  The mood in the hall that night was sombre. A knot of minstrels was playing in the gallery but even their jaunty tune could not lift the quiet heaviness that had settled on the castle. Trestle tables had been set out and covered in fine cloth, the braziers burned bright and the food was plentiful enough but even the villagers admitted for the feast sat and ate in a subdued manner. Some had heard rumours of their lord’s departure, when they had been counting on supplying his table for a good few months. Edward was seated with his father and sister, while Edmund and his mother had George and Richard between them. Only the two small boys were unaffected and chattered excitedly about removing to Ludlow.

  ‘Try and lift your spirits,’ said York under his breath, as he took his portion from a plate they shared.

  ‘I can’t stop my mind running on it.’

  ‘Nor me. But you must show a mask to all these people watching you.’

  Edward lifted his eyes and faced the hall. There were perhaps a hundred people seated at table, some known to him from the estate, others from the church, the hospital or the village. Men and women, old and young; reeves, farmers, butchers, weavers.

  ‘What you feel matters less than what you show,’ York continued. ‘Never forget that. People will choose whether or not to follow you on the outward face you present, on whether they can believe in your authority.’

  ‘But they are bound to us, bound to follow. They pay us rents.’

  York inclined his head. ‘The ties that bind must be based on confidence and loyalty. Those things cannot be bought. Let them see a leader that they would choose to follow.’

  Edward nodded. ‘Yes father.’

  ‘And later we will have dancing and laughter.’

  ‘Yes, let’s.’

  ‘In the morning we will pray and depart, but tonight we will be merry. It is all part of the act, and the act is an important part of securing the victory. The people must believe in you: everything depends upon it. Battles can be lost or won before the armies engage.’

  *

  As the plates were being cleared, York and Cecily led the dancing. Edward called for more wine and watched them, moving in time together, touching first their hands and their feet, stepping close together then apar
t again in perfect rhythm, as if they were able to communicate without words. He could see that mother was looking tired, but she kept a smile on her face and her delicate beauty still eclipsed that of any woman in the room. She was the perfect foil for York’s strength and breadth, her eyes fixed on him adoringly, listening to his every word, approving his every action. In turn, he reverenced her as his lady, the epitome of grace and virtue, the ideal woman and wife. He watched their heads bend together, intimate in spite of the formality of the dance. They had been married for thirty years and were still as close as ever. It had been an arranged match too, made by her father, although it had proved to their liking from the moment they first met.

  Edward sighed. He might be seventeen but the question of his marriage still hung in the air. Years ago, York had hoped to marry him to a French princess, writing letters of sweet persuasion to Charles VII, but the world had changed since then. After the loss of Rouen, father had told him not to think of Princess Madeleine anymore. Edward had never even met the girl, but sometimes his curiosity conjured up a pair of soft eyes, a skein of glossy dark hair, a winsome figure, who might be sitting in the window of a French chateau overlooking the green valley of the Loire, thinking about him. It would have been a good match; a match to rival that of the king, with the girl’s Valois blood and his Plantagenet descent: perhaps that was why it had come to nothing.

  Yet no other names had been suggested. As the highest family in the land, after that of the king, the York men had to choose their wives carefully; they had to be sure of loyalty, of fertility, of virtue. Edward knew his parents would never approve of Alasia as his wife, even if she was widowed at some future time. She was beautiful enough, clever and discreet and witty, but she was the daughter of a merchant, already touched by man. Even if he told them about the child, she would always be unsuitable in their eyes. Would he ever be blessed with a match as strong as his parents? After thirty years, would he still want to take his wife in his arms and look at her the way his father looked at his mother? He was surprised by the emotion rising in him, in the lump in his throat. He called for more wine to wash it away.

  *

  The evening wore on, the shadows growing dim in the corners of the hall as the fire began to die. Edward partnered his sister Margaret, whose dancing was so much better than his and easily put him to shame.

  ‘You’ve been practising,’ he grumbled.

  ‘It’s the wine bewitching your feet,’ she laughed and twirled away to extend her hand to Edmund, who proved to be far more elegant and sure-footed. Edward leaned against the doorframe, bidding his parents goodnight as they headed away to a quieter corner of the castle, where George and Richard were already asleep, tucked into their little cribs by the soothing hands of their nurse. The night was drawing to a close and Edward’s head felt heavy with wine; no doubt he would sleep heavily tonight and the long ride tomorrow would give him a chance to recover.

  ‘You need a partner who can teach you a thing or two.’

  He turned. Mary Denny was standing behind him.

  ‘Ah, the girl with the goose. And what would you know about it?’

  He tried not to notice the way her scarlet dress clung to her breasts and hips, or the flush in her cheeks, or the blonde curls that clustered around her temples.

  ‘Clearly a lot more than you do,’ she laughed. ‘I would have thought you could dance better than that, coming from court and all.’

  He was annoyed, but he wasn’t going to show it. ‘There are far more important things to do at court than dance.’

  ‘Oh, I am sure,’ she replied with inscrutable innocence and he could not be sure if she was being deferential or mocking.

  ‘I didn’t think you would be here tonight.’

  ‘You had thought about me, then?’

  She was clever. He frowned. ‘I mean I am surprised to see you here.’

  ‘Where should I be?’ she asked, quick as lightening.

  ‘Chasing a goose somewhere?’

  ‘Not good enough to be at your table?’

  Edward looked away. ‘You are bold.’

  She knew the social code. ‘Forgive me, my Lord.’

  He waited a little, then turned and shot a sly look at her. She was indeed very pretty, with her upturned nose and expressive eyes.

  ‘Come on then, if you’re such a skilled dancer, show me how it is done.’

  She arched her brows and flung back her head pertly. For a moment he thought she was about to refuse him, but then she pursed her lips and swept past him, her feet already finding the rhythm of the music. There were few pairs dancing now, following the motions of mirroring and double-stepping with varying degrees of success. He stood face to face with her, the space of a hand between them. He could see the texture of her skin, white and smooth, with the spread of very pale summertime freckles. Her little chin had a dimple in the middle. She began to move, confidently, as if dancing was second nature to her; fluidly, as if she was moving through water; supply, as if her limbs needed little guidance. He followed, as she led. His body filled the spaces she had just occupied, his feet in the spaces hers had marked, his hands almost copies of hers. Then, as the dance required, they came together and touched: hand upon hand, hand upon shoulder, then he had his hands around her waist. She was firm and warm. Her soft hair brushed against his cheek and longing stirred in his chest.

  He found and held her eyes.

  ‘You dance well.’

  ‘It’s too easy.’

  She turned away from him with a flourish, then they passed down the row and came together again at the bottom. He could glimpse her sturdy body moving along behind the other dancers, a smile fixed on her lips. He couldn’t shake the feeling that despite his superiority in rank, she was playing with him. They came together again at the bottom of the row and touched fingers.

  ‘Who are you?’

  She merely smiled.

  ‘You live with your mother, in the village?’

  ‘That is what I told you before, my Lord.’

  ‘And you have no husband?’

  Her eyes dropped coyly, secure in his interest.

  The dance came to an end and the partners began to disperse. The hall was emptying and servants began to clear away the trestles and lay down their pallet beds for the night.

  She inclined her head. ‘Thank you, my Lord, for the dance.’

  He could not take his eyes from her face. ‘It was my pleasure.’

  ‘I bid you goodnight.’

  Something made him follow her towards the door. The night was beckoning, sweet and warm across the fields. As she turned to leave, he reached out and grabbed her bare wrist. She spun round to meet him, but not in surprise.

  He pressed the palm of her hand to his lips. ‘Do you have to go so soon?’

  ‘That all depends,’ she whispered, her body straining towards his.

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On whether or not you can catch me.’

  And she gave him a swift push in the centre of his chest, so that he took a few steps backwards, giving her the moment she needed to wriggle free and dart out into the darkness.

  His interest was piqued at once. Without hesitation, he plunged out into the night after her, where the fields led to the orchards, and stables, beyond which stretched the woods, dark and silent in expectation. There was something of a moon that night, but at that moment it was masked by clouds and he could only just make out the shape of her bright dress as she headed for the path. She was already a good distance away, holding up her skirts so as to run all the faster, but he could not resist a challenge.

  He sprinted across the garden, round the corner and onto the path. She was heading into the orchard, but he knew he would have the advantage there, with its long grass and bumpy ground. Beside the clump of trees in the middle, she was beginning to stumble, her fair hair flying about her face.

  ‘I’ve got you,’ he called, picking his way between the gnarled branches.

  But Mary was
strong and determined. He was almost within reach when she picked up speed again, finding a clear stretch of grass and pulling away from him. And as he tried to follow, his foot caught on a root and he stumbled. She heard him fall, turned and laughed.

  But her laughter was only brief, as he launched himself towards her and his fingers caught her ankle. At once, she was down on the grass ahead of him, wriggling and kicking.

  ‘Now I have you.’

  ‘I think not, my Lord,’ and he felt the leather of her shoe come into contact with his shoulder: once again she was off, heading for the dark shadows of the woods.

  By the time Edward reached the road, she was nowhere to be seen. The pale moonlight barely penetrated the thick canopy here but he could see that the long line of the road was empty. He stopped, waited, listened to the sounds of the night and of his own heavy breathing. She was hiding behind one of the trees. But which one?

  He crept forward, stepping off the road onto the grass, so that the tread of his feet would not be heard. He passed the first tree, then the second, but she was nowhere to be seen. Ahead, the broad trunk of an ancient oak spread over his way and behind it, the shadows seemed to be darker. He almost thought he saw movement between the arms of knotted wood. As he drew closer, his breath short in anticipation, then there it was: the flutter of her red dress.

  Burning with passion, he launched himself around the tree, only for his fingers to grasp at the empty material. The red dress hung there from a branch, dancing before his eyes, but Mary was nowhere to be seen. He clasped the material to his face, smelling the musky warmth of her still upon it.

  And then he saw her, in the clearing, lying on her back in the moonlight. She wore only her shift, thin and white as it clung to her. Her limbs were pale and stretched out under the stars, her hair shaken loose, her mouth open to invite him. As he reached her, his fingers closing about her thighs, he could not tell if she was shivering from the cold, or from her passion. She was responsive to his touch, her back arching up to allow her body to meet his as he lowered himself softly down. They did not need words. He crushed his lips down onto hers and felt her shudder in surrender.