Son of York

by Amy Licence

  ‘We do!’ Edward echoed in triumph. ‘It is no less than our duty. Edmund?’

  His younger brother nodded, ‘I know less about this but you speak sense, I can only agree.’

  Cecily placed her hand on York’s arm.

  The duke nodded. ‘Then we must take to arms, if all else has failed and our very lives are threatened. We must reclaim England.’

  The lights flickered from the hearth as they each contemplated this irrevocable step.

  ‘Wait!’ said Cecily. ‘What was that?’

  They listened and York turned towards the door. A gate banged in the courtyard.

  ‘Is it news?’

  They waited again, listening to the darkness outside.

  *

  Night had fallen across the field. A faint glow of light came from the bonfire lit on the hill, bathing all in a grisly orange light when the moon passed behind the clouds. The friar crouched among the brambles, hugging the cold metal of the cannon.

  From the hedge to the brook, the earth seemed to lie still, but then, after a moment, a faint rippling was visible; a rippling of the rise and fall of dying men. An arm, a leg, the final exhalation of breath. They lay where they had fallen, men in liveries of all colours, some still clutching wounds while the hands of others had become still. It was hard to distinguish any one man amid the mass, with limbs entwined in fatal embraces, a landscape that rose to the peaks of shoulders and hips and descended to those choked in the wet river mud. The air reeked with death.

  His fingers numb, the friar struggled with his charge. Then, the light took and he hurried away into the darkness, to clamp his hands over his ears. The thundering boom came again, as the cannon discharged into the death-field, shaking him to the core. He thought he would never rid that deep shock from his body; he had heard it so many times, it had imprinted itself in his flesh. Slowly, he crept back towards the gun and curled up again by the wheel. They had made him promise to remain in place, half hidden in the bushes, until the first fingers of dawn appeared on the horizon.

  ‘Discharge it at intervals through the night,’ the earl had said. ‘As much as you can but not so much that your position will be discovered. The enemy must believe that troops are still in the area.’

  He had nodded and accepted the money. The old earl was streaked in blood and sweat, his armour dinted and a wound to his right hand had been loosely bound with cloth. That had been hours ago and the friar had heard fresh fighting break our near the bridge soon after. Where was he now? Dead or alive? At least his gold could pay for masses to be said for his soul.

  A movement caught his eye, just beyond the edge of the trees. The lake of bodies was shakily resolving itself into an upright figure. He watched as a man rose to his knees, then pushed himself up to his feet and stood for a moment, swaying in the orange light. His body was strangely broken, out of kilter and, as he watched, the friar’s stomach contracted with the sense of inevitability. The man staggered, outstretching one arm, as if to reach for someone who was not there, then pitched face-forward to the ground. He lay still.

  That made forty-three. He had been counting their death-blows since dusk. Every so often, a man made an attempt to escape, but the claims of the next world hung too heavy on him and his final moments came. Friar Paul was no stranger to death; he had sat beside the beds of rich and poor alike, administering the last rites. He had gone bravely among lepers and those taken with the plague, to men crushed under carts and women in childbed. He had seen their hollow, sunken faces, looked into their eyes as the blue pallor spread across their skin, but never so many in one night. Nor had he ever felt so helpless. Lips murmuring in prayer, he reached for another cannonball; it was time to fire again.

  *

  Footsteps were approaching. No one dared breathe. The room was still as York looked to Cecily, then to Warwick, Edward and Edmund.

  In that moment, the future seemed to hang in the balance. In the crackling of the fire, which broke the complete silence, and in the shadows that gathered in the corners of the castle, the duke knew anything might be possible. This messenger might bring a warrant for his arrest or the hope of reconciliation. Imperceptibly to the others, he squeezed Cecily’s hand, which lay under his.

  The footsteps stopped. There was a pause.

  Something in Edward snapped. ‘I can’t stand this waiting!’ He darted forward and threw open the door. The castle steward stood there, holding a letter. He handed it to York and withdrew.

  The seal was quickly broken. As the others watched, York scanned the note, hastily written and smudged in one place. Halfway down came the reassurance they were all waiting for.

  ‘Thanks be to God, Salisbury is well!’

  His relief was echoed by his family.

  ‘Just south of Drayton, the queen’s forces were waiting for them. They parleyed, to no avail,’ he read on, scanning for news. ‘They engaged in the morning and losses were sustained on both sides but, here it is, Salisbury feigned retreat and drew them into the brook, where he was able to effect a victory.’

  ‘Thanks be to God indeed,’ added Cecily, visibly moved.

  ‘He will lie tonight at Shrewsbury and then ride on to join us on the morrow.’

  ‘Good news, good news,’ repeated Warwick, his voice betraying unexpected emotion.

  ‘Perhaps it will make the queen think twice,’ said Edward. ‘We have won a victory against her, yet again; surely she will now concede defeat, or allow you an audience with the king?’

  ‘I will write to him at once, stressing our loyalty and suggesting that we meet at Worcester. Then we shall see what the queen has to say.’

  ‘Be wary, not too hasty,’ counselled Cecily. ‘This victory is like to harden her resolve against you. If she cannot defeat you on the battlefield, she may return to underhand methods.’

  York’s expression hardened. ‘She may indeed. But I cannot let her stop me from trying. We have the upper hand now and the time has come to use it. I will no longer be content to be the man-in-waiting, constantly under threat, looking over my shoulder and fearing for my family.’

  He turned to face them all.

  ‘I am the king’s true heir. My Mortimer blood, my descent from Lionel, Duke of Clarence, should have placed me on the throne but for the actions of the Lancastrians, generations ago. Richard II himself named the Mortimers as his heir and their position was usurped by Henry Bolingbroke, who deposed our ancestor by force. I will be loyal to Henry so far as I am able but he, in turn, must keep faith with me. He has proven his judgement to be faulty. Illness aside, he has placed his trust in those whose intentions for the country and its true heirs may be harmful.’

  York looked across to his eldest son.

  ‘The king’s wife is our sworn enemy. She will stop at nothing to prevent us from receiving our rightful inheritance. The Prince of Wales is only a child and many years will pass before he is capable of ruling for himself. Between then and now, England may be ruined and the Mortimer bloodline destroyed. We cannot let this happen. I have tried to serve my king as best I can. Now the time has come to serve my country.’

  There was a pause, then the sound of applause rang through the chamber.

  ‘And I stand with you!’ cried Warwick. ‘And father too.’

  ‘And so do I!’ Edward declared.

  ‘And me!’ echoed Edmund, rising to his feet, stirred by the glory of the moment. ‘Me too, me too.’

  SIXTEEN: The King in the Field, October, 1459

  There was a wind blowing in from the west. Cecily looked to the horizon where the clouds were darkening over the Welsh hills. Servants were clearing away the remains of their meal and replenishing the jugs of wine. Ludlow was quiet. Beside the fire, Margaret looked up from her embroidery.

  ‘It is getting late, too dark to see, I think I might go to bed.’

  Cecily nodded. ‘Be sure to say your prayers.’

  ‘I always do. You need not remind me.’

  ‘Well, a good night to you t
hen.’ Cecily turned back to the window again.

  But the girl did not move. She pushed back the kerchief that covered her dark hair and fixed her eyes on her mother. ‘You are not retiring?’

  ‘No, not yet. I will watch a little longer.’

  ‘There will be no more news tonight, it is too late.’

  Cecily shrugged.

  ‘Mother, no messenger will ride through this storm, the news will come in the morning.’

  But the figure at the latch did not move. ‘It is better than doing nothing.’

  Margaret put her sewing down and crossed the floor to stand by her mother. The moon hung heavy, mottled by clouds and the fields around the castle were a dark sea of waving branches and grasses.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘We have been happy, haven’t we?’

  ‘Yes, of course we have. It may not be Fotheringhay but it is a good place.’

  ‘I didn’t just mean here but yes, it is a good place, we have been happy.’

  ‘Don’t speak like that, as if we are at the end of something. We will all be happy again.’

  Cecily thought of the men, riding away along the east road to Worcester; York and Edward in front, followed by Warwick and Salisbury, with Edmund between them. In their wake marched an army of a thousand. It was a week since she had waved them goodbye and three days since she had received news.

  ‘I should not have let Edmund go.’

  Margaret smiled. ‘I don’t think he would have given you the choice. Father will meet with the king and they will talk. All will be resolved without more bloodshed. Henry does not want war.’

  ‘Come,’ she took her daughter’s arm and led her through the chamber to the adjoining bedroom. ‘We’ll keep each other company a little longer, I don’t think I could sleep.’

  At her signal, the servants pulled the thick crimson drapes across the window and around the bed. The wind howled outside, whipping against the castle walls.

  Cecily unlaced her kirtle and unpinned the hennin headdress. Her fair hair tumbled down her back, still long but streaked with grey.

  ‘Will you help me, save me from calling the women?’

  Margaret lifted off her mother’s kirtle, gently removing the embroidered garment and until she stood in her loose white shift. Then she turned, to allow Cecily to perform the same office for her.

  ‘You remember, when you were a little girl, I used to come in and undress you every night, and tuck you up in bed?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Times move so fast. You have all grown up so quickly, all my babies.’ She untied her daughter’s long day hair and combed it out with her fingers. ‘You will be wanting a husband soon. I was married when I was only months older than you.’

  ‘But you were betrothed before. Who would you betroth me to?’

  Cecily sighed. ‘Your father’s troubles with the queen have not helped us provide for your future, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Father will work it out, you know he always does,’ replied Margaret confidently, kneeling at the foot of the bed.

  ‘Of course he will,’ Cecily reassured her. ‘Of course, let us pray for his guidance and the benevolence of the king.’

  But the stone flags were hard beneath her knees and the wind was gathering apace outside.

  *

  York gazed up at the face of the Madonna and child. Carved from wood and painted in bright blue, white and gold, she was the fixed point at the centre of the altar, with candles burning on either side. Around her neck were hung great ropes of pearls and precious gems: rubies and emeralds glinted at her throat, while at her feet, gifts of gold caskets from the rich sat beside the eggs, herbs and flowers brought as offerings by the poor. Incense burned and low music came from a choir concealed behind the screen.

  York crossed himself and placed his gift of gold coins on a silver salver. Rising to his feet, he turned to his two elder sons, their sandy heads bent low in prayer. Placing a hand silently on each, he gave them his blessing. He left them where they knelt and crossed the east transept down to the dazzling golden tomb of St Wulfstan. The figure of the saint returned his gaze benevolently, wearing his mitre and carrying in his hand the crozier of his office. They had come to Worcester in the hope of meeting with the king, in the belief that words, exchanged in this holy place, might still avoid bloodshed.

  York knelt. ‘Beloved Saint, I beg you to hear the humble plea of your devoted servant, Richard Plantagenet, look upon me and my lineage in your mercy and guard us from all earthly evils that seek to prevail against us in this hour of need.’

  He cleared his throat.

  ‘I have served Our Lord with the honesty and devotion of a true subject and a truly devout disciple. I have striven to serve His anointed king, though it has led me into perils of my life. Beloved Saint, once a man of flesh and blood, who knew the temptations of the living and the fears and terrors too, guide me now. You are known for your all-seeing eyes: the future holds no secrets for you. Tell me what I should do. I humbly pray for you to direct me according to the will of Our Lord.’

  Warwick and Salisbury were waiting in the choir. With the vast perpendicular arches stretching above them in stone, and the soft low light, the place had a sense of majesty and intimacy. When York emerged, his expression was serene and there was a sense of acceptance, a resignation in his eyes.

  ‘The hour draws on,’ snapped Warwick. ‘The king does not intend to respond to our pleas. He will not come.’

  ‘Patience a little longer,’ his father counselled. ‘We can afford to wait.’

  A sudden shaft of white light beyond the font told them that the distant doors had been opened. A tall figure stepped into the cathedral, followed by five or six others, dark against the sunlight. Their leader walked quickly down the nave, then signalled to his men to wait as he strode up the steps into the central transept, under the tower. There he stood, proudly, with chin lifted, waiting for them to advance to meet him. His dark, handsome eyes already wore an air of victory.

  ‘So the king sends Beaufort,’ Warwick sneered.

  ‘We had better go and see what news he brings,’ replied York, leading the way.

  The young man did not flinch as they approached. At a distance, his men-at-arms stood ready, nerves attuned to any slight signal.

  ‘You have brought your men armed into a place of God?’ asked Salisbury softly.

  ‘After the losses you inflicted on the king’s army, we must be ready for any eventuality,’ Beaufort replied.

  ‘But we are honourable men, there would be no fighting in a church.’

  ‘You did not hesitate to send Baron Audley to his death.’

  ‘The men were set upon,’ Warwick interjected. ‘They were travelling peacefully, from Middleham to Ludlow, when the queen’s army lay in wait for their approach. What would you have them do, bend down and meekly offer up their necks?’

  ‘You fought against the king’s army, that makes you traitors.’

  ‘No,’ said York, stepping forward. ‘He defended himself against the queen’s army, sent to remove the king’s loyal subjects through her misguided counsel.’

  Beaufort opened his mouth to respond but York had not yet finished.

  ‘We have requested an audience with our king. I represent the senior line of the Mortimer family, loyal to the true crown of England and I will speak with our king and none of his minions; I will know his mind, so that we can act in accordance with his wishes. Do you bring an answer to our letter?’

  Beaufort’s lean face was red with suppressed rage.

  ‘I said,’ repeated York, his grey eyes full of steel, ‘do you bring an answer to our letter?’

  ‘The king of England is beholden to no man!’

  ‘Nor to any woman,’ retorted Warwick.

  ‘He does not grant audiences to traitors.’

  ‘Yet he has your constant company.’

  Beaufort’s hand twitched, as if it would move to draw his sword.

  At this poin
t, Edward and Edmund appeared in the choir, hearing the voices.

  ‘What is this?’ asked Edward, hurrying down the steps as he spotted Beaufort’s dark form. ‘Have you come to unseat us from our saddles, my Lord?’

  Beaufort blazed. ‘You may consider these negotiations to be over unless you submit to the king’s will in everything.’

  York’s curiosity was piqued. ‘In everything? What might those things, those terms be? The surrender of our claims, our lives?’

  ‘The king will no longer tolerate the bearing of arms in his person. You are to submit, in his presence, without your weapons.’

  Each of them knew the dangers this would entail. York thought of the assassins waiting in the London lanes, Warwick of the attempts on his life at court.

  ‘We would gladly appear before the king without our weapons if he can guarantee our safety. Yet, while we trust that the king’s intentions are always honourable, we fear that there may be those around him who would take the opportunity to destroy us.’

  ‘Then you disobey the king?’

  ‘No, we seek to obey him in safety.’

  Beaufort shook his head. ‘I speak directly to you now, York; the king will receive you as his kinsman and loyal subject if you present yourself to him in the next six days. You must cut all ties with the traitors who fought against Audley and throw yourself on the king’s mercy. There is to be no forgiveness for those who return to arms against the king, as you swore not to do after St Albans.’

  ‘So my line is to be dispossessed because I sought my own defence?’ asked Salisbury.

  ‘Your line is to be dispossessed because you took up arms against the king.’

  ‘This is taking us nowhere,’ interrupted York. ‘Is there any more to your message?’

  ‘The king awaits his cousin,’ said Beaufort, turning on his heel. ‘But for the rest of you, the gates of hell are opening.’

  He walked smartly out, followed by his shadow of guards.