Son of York

by Amy Licence

  ‘Whatever happens, never forget the respect that is due to women, all women. We might loathe the queen but we cannot touch her. That’s how it is and how it should be.’

  ‘Too honourable by half,’ Edward muttered under his breath.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘I hope your enemies will stick to these ideals of honour for as long as you do.’

  York frowned, turning to his eldest son. ‘Yes, I know you think me an idealist. And this is something frustrating to you. But let me tell you, there is no other way in this life than to stick to your ideals and defend them to the death, then you can depart this life with a quiet soul.’

  Edward was subdued. ‘Yes father.’

  ‘Now, let’s go and gather the men. We must try to keep up morale, prepare them for the fight. There must be no talk of Henry’s presence.’

  He set off back down the hill with an air of forced confidence. Edward watched him go. Between York’s single-mindedness and the king’s standard, flying defiantly in the breeze, the trees cast a dark shadow.

  *

  The leaders had gathered around York’s tent, a mix of loyal Yorkists, local men and the mercenaries brought by Warwick from Calais. Beyond them milled the men under their command. Some were dressed in full armour, while others wore single pieces, perhaps just a breastplate, dented from a previous battle. Those without armour had done their best to find warm clothing and arm themselves with whatever lay to hand. Edward surveyed them from his horse, trying to get a sense of their number but no matter how many times he counted, he could not make the force larger than that of the king.

  ‘They have dug in,’ York was saying. ‘They are preparing for a fight but it will not come until the morrow. The sun is too low in the sky now and nightfall is only a few hours off. Now is the time to rest and pray. We will send for provisions to be brought down from the town, so you will have a decent meal in your bellies. We will wake you early, before the dawn, so try to get some sleep. God bless you all.’

  ‘Amen,’ the leaders chorused.

  A handful added, ‘Thank you, my Lord.’

  Then, just before they began to disperse, a lone voice spoke. ‘But where is the king?’

  York flushed. ‘The king?’

  ‘Aye, the king. His standard is flying over the hill.’

  A ripple ran through the crowd.

  Edward scanned the men to find the speaker. It was Rick Croft, leaning against a wagon, with his eyes full of darkness. Edward’s stomach contracted at the sight of him.

  ‘The king is there?’ asked another. ‘We fight against the king?’

  ‘No, not the king. It is only his standard,’ York reassured them quickly. ‘Our enemy flies his standard in an attempt to disarm us, do not let them. It is Beaufort’s trick; he will stop at nothing. We would never fight against the king, only to rid him of such evil Councillors.’

  Edward was relieved to see one or two of the men nodding at each other.

  ‘I saw the king.’

  Croft’s voice cut across the heads of the crowd. ‘Oh yes, I saw the king myself this afternoon, riding up and down along the ridge, larger than life.’

  Edward’s blood seethed. He shot a look at York, whose face spoke thunder, then at Warwick. The earl was already in action: four men were approaching Croft from behind.

  ‘You were mistaken, it was not the king.’ York’s voice did not waver but his heart quaked. It was a necessary lie, to preserve them all. If the men took fright now, the battle was already lost and all their lives were forfeit.

  But the leader of the Calais men, Lord Trollope, was looking doubtful.

  ‘But they are flying the standard?’

  ‘Yes,’ said York earnestly, ‘it is a trick, I tell you, a trick. See how cleverly they planned it. They mean the king harm and it is our duty to fight in his defence. We are the king’s loyal supporters, never forget that. We are fighting in the name of the king and this is merely a way to unsettle us. It reveals their fear. Trust in me, trust in God and all will be well. Let us all join together now in prayer. With the conviction of our hearts and our Lord, we will stand strong and defeat this threat to our realm. Bow your heads, one and all, bow your heads.’

  As York began to speak the Lord’s prayer, Edward saw Croft being dragged away, Warwick’s stout hand over his mouth.

  The men muttered their words in unison but there was still an air of unease. Trollope was shaking his grey head as he walked away. Now the idea had been planted, it hovered like a ghost among them, inescapable and persistent: each man went away with the image of the king lying in his tent just over the hill. York’s heart was heavy with vexation.

  Edward clapped a hand on his father’s shoulder. ‘You did what had to be done. There was nothing else to be said. All will be well.’

  *

  The sun had set behind the hills and the stars had spread themselves overhead. Edward had lain down on the pallet along with the others but it was hard under his bones and, after turning this way and that, he realised that sleep would not come. He pulled on his cloak and headed out of the tent. The camp was quiet, defined by the smoke of quenched fires and the silent vigilance of the sentries, posted at north, south, east and west. Over the crest of the hill, he knew that the enemy was waiting, in a camp just like this, where men like him tried to sleep, or whiled away the hours with talk or morbid thoughts, knowing what the dawn would bring. A great white moon hung over them all, watching both sides alike, shining on both with equal light.

  A figure moved behind the wagon and made him start.

  ‘Edward?’

  He recognised the voice. Edmund stepped out of the shadows.

  ‘You’re awake! I couldn’t sleep either. I keep thinking.’

  Edward frowned. Even allowing for the moonlight, his brother was drained of colour. ‘You will be tired in the morning, you need your rest.’

  ‘I can’t rest. You may as well tell the moon not to shine.’

  ‘You’re tormenting yourself with thoughts of the battle, aren’t you? You’ve let your imagination get the better of you.’

  Edmund sighed. ‘Actually, I was thinking about Mother. I was picturing her…’

  His voice broke.

  ‘Don’t think too much, it will do you more harm than good tonight. Can’t you try and sleep some more?’

  ‘No, I can’t. I wanted so much to fight, to stand with you and father. But now, when the moment has arrived, I… I…’

  Edward put his hand on his brother’s arm.

  ‘There’s no shame in being afraid. Everyone is afraid, even me and father, we all feel doubts but we pray and trust that all will turn out well.’

  ‘I wish I had your confidence. It’s less fear of the battle than… I don’t fear death, I know that the Kingdom of Heaven awaits, that salvation is for eternity and any pain we suffer now will be brief. I think what I fear more is letting you down.’

  ‘Never! You could never let us down.’

  ‘But I don’t know. Until that moment comes, I just don’t know.’

  ‘There is nothing you could do, nothing that would make us doubt you. You are here among us, a man like any other, in our eyes and in the eyes of God. We place our faith in you until the end, in the hope of resurrection, when we will all stand together again in God’s Grace.’ He looked out over the sea of tents. ‘You think there isn’t a single man here tonight who isn’t having similar thoughts?’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Of course. But you,’ Edward smiled at his brother’s sensitive face. ‘You are a son of York, never forget that.’

  Edmund nodded. ‘Don’t tell father about this.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘What do you think it is like? I mean, to die?’ Edmund shivered as he spoke.

  ‘Death is only the beginning.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know.’

  ‘And we will live long, happy lives, devoted to the service of God, the king and the Yorkist cause.’

  ‘
I’m not the same as you.’ Edmund studied his brother’s eyes. ‘You’re so certain, so confident, in everything you do. You just live without question, it’s all like a gift to you.’

  It was true. Edward sought for an answer, a denial of the obvious truth, but Edmund went on.

  ‘I don’t feel that I’ve lived anything of life. I’ve been a child until now. I’ve never fought, or argued in council, I’ve never been tested.’ He gave a wry laugh. ‘And I’ve never lain with a woman.’

  Edward smiled. ‘Well that’s easily remedied.’

  ‘No, I mean I don’t want to, not like that. I just want a chance to live a little.’

  ‘And you will, I promise, you will! But hush, who is that?’

  A man was approaching them from the road. Edward recognised him first.

  ‘It’s father. Another one who thinks so much that he cannot sleep!’

  York strode towards them, throwing his cloak to the side.

  ‘Good, you’re awake.’ His grey eyes scanned the camp and the starry skies. ‘Have you seen any movement?’

  ‘Nothing. Not a mouse.’

  ‘Then it is done.’ York’s face was stony.

  ‘What is done?’

  ‘Trollope has gone, taking his men. They were camped over to the east, but while I was watching up on the ridge, I saw them stir. They’ve deserted, gone over to the king’s side, perhaps several hundred men or more, I can’t be sure.’

  ‘What?’ cried Edward. ‘It can’t be. The traitor!’

  ‘I wish I could refute it.’

  Edward’s stomach twisted into a knot. ‘Then what is to be done?’

  York found it hard to contain his rage. ‘Once the men wake and hear the news, doubts will spread. It is all because of that damned fool speaking up at prayers.’

  ‘It was Rick Croft,’ said Edward, watching the effect of the name upon Edmund. ‘Son of our old almoner. Where is he now?’

  ‘I thought Warwick dealt with him; had him in chains among the camp baggage but the deserters appear to have taken him with them.’

  ‘Damn, damn him, damn them! What now?’

  An owl hooted in the trees. York sighed.

  ‘An ill omen. I fear the morning now. Here comes Warwick.’

  The earl came hurrying towards them, his face furrowed. ‘It is as you feared. I went up to the ridge and saw Trollope arrive in the king’s camp. He has taken six hundred men.’

  York’s jaw dropped. ‘Six hundred? You are sure?’

  ‘At a rough guess, it might be more.’

  York seemed to step away from them, as if crushed under the weight of the news. For a moment there was silence as they awaited his next words. For once though, he did not speak, his eyes wandered aimlessly and for the first time, their leader was lost.

  ‘Well, you know what we need to do,’ said Warwick, seizing the initiative. ‘We cannot win, so we cannot fight.’

  ‘Cannot fight? What then?’ asked Edward. ‘Submit to the king and be attainted as traitors?’

  ‘No. We may as well go and lay our heads upon the block.’

  Edward nodded. ‘Better to die honourably fighting in battle.’

  ‘That is a young man’s way. It is better not to die at all, but to return and fight another day, and to win!’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘We must leave now, under cover of darkness, flee this place. York, you know we must! We must go into exile and gather ourselves before we come back with a greater force. It might take two months or six months but then we get to control when we fight. We give ourselves a chance. It is the only way.’

  ‘Run away?’ Edward exclaimed, the earl’s words sinking in with horror. ‘And bring dishonour on ourselves?’

  ‘Better dishonour than death. What purpose would our deaths serve? While we live, there is still hope, still a chance to restore our honour. York, you are silent, what say you?’

  York looked up slowly, with the weight of the situation heavy upon him. ‘It is true, we cannot fight.’

  ‘You, father? You agree with this?’

  York turned to his eldest son. ‘You would have me lead all these men to a certain death? To make their wives widows and their children orphans, to let their fields lie fallow?’

  ‘You would prefer us to run away instead, under cover of night, while our loyal men sleep?’

  ‘The king will be merciful to them,’ said Warwick. ‘They will be back on their estates and farms in a day or two.’

  Edward could not believe what they were suggesting. ‘Father, surely? Edmund, what do you think?’

  But Edmund would not meet his eyes.

  ‘Edward,’ said York softly, ‘it is not a solution any of us would choose. Sometimes the wise man must decide it is nobler not to fight, than to fight a losing battle. He must know when the time comes to retreat, in order to fight another day.’

  Edward kicked out against the wagon in frustration. ‘Well, I see no nobility in it!’

  ‘Nevertheless, you will see the wisdom of it. We will head into Ludlow now, in no great hurry, as if there is nothing wrong. We will have it given out that we intend to purchase more supplies for the morning and will be back before dawn. From there, we will ride west into Wales. On the coast we can take boats, myself and my boys to Ireland and Warwick with Salisbury to Calais. There, we will bide our time.’

  Warwick nodded. ‘It is the only way. I will wake my father.’

  *

  Edward’s guts were still knotted as they rode back across Ludford Bridge towards the town. On either side of the street, the shutters of the houses were drawn across their windows, the doors locked and bolted. The castle loomed darkly ahead, where his mother, sister and young brothers slept, unaware of the dishonour in the hearts of the men approaching. In the marketplace, straw covered the cobbles, littered with the debris of the day’s trade, softening the tread of their horses.

  Edmund’s eyes were cast hopefully upward at his childhood home. ‘Shall we wake mother?’

  York cast a glance at the gates. ‘No, we have said our goodbyes. If we rouse the castle now, we will create a stir, we might put them in danger.’

  ‘Will they be safe?’

  ‘Of course. Mother will go to her sister Anne until it is safe for us to return.’

  Edward could not contain himself. ‘So we are to sneak off like thieves into the night?’

  ‘Yes,’ York rounded angrily. ‘We are. What else would you have us do? What is your solution? Do you want us to ride to our deaths when it could be prevented? Fighting is always the last resort: think about the reality of this, think about your mother.’

  Edward blushed furiously.

  ‘Now we will part,’ York went on. ‘That way we will be more difficult to trace. I will go north to the coast, where I can make for Dublin. We will be welcome there.’

  ‘And we will ride south,’ said Warwick, nodding to Salisbury at his side. ‘We can find a boat at Milford or somewhere nearby. They cannot touch us once we get to Calais. We will write to you at Dublin Castle once we have arrived.’

  ‘Then it is farewell, gentlemen, and God’s Grace go with you.’

  ‘And also with you.’

  York reined in his horse and began to turn.

  In that moment, Edward’s heart made a sudden rebellion. ‘Wait. I will go to Calais too.’

  ‘What? Come on, don’t be a fool, we need to go, now!’

  ‘No, I will go to Calais with Warwick.’

  ‘Stop this stubborn idiocy! You are putting us in danger.’

  ‘Listen! It is better for Edmund and I to be parted. We are both the sons of York, both your heirs. If we sink on the same ship, or meet with the same assassin, or if we are both taken by the king’s men, just a mile down the road, there will be no one but children left to fight our claim.’

  The truth of his words cut through them like pain.

  ‘But Edward?’ Edmund struggled to conceal the emotion in his voice.

  He turned to his brot
her. ‘This is it, this is our moment to prove ourselves. You will be safe with father; we are the two sons of York, remember; the two boys Croft could not defeat in the field just over there, that summer when we were just boys. All will be well.’

  Edmund nodded, his mouth trembling.

  ‘Then, Edward, you are to come south with us,’ said Warwick, ‘and you are as welcome as if you were my own son.’

  ‘So be it,’ said York, his eyes inscrutable. ‘I believe there is a danger that we may be taken. They might already have noticed our absence. It must be done but parting my sons tears me in two.’

  ‘There will come a time when we repair this damage,’ said Salisbury, kindly. ‘But let us make haste now, before we are caught.’

  ‘Keep in mind the time to come,’ added York. With a last look at Edward, he spurred his horse and galloped away, with Edmund in his wake.

  Edward watched them go, until they reached the corner. Briefly, his father turned and looked back up to the square. Their eyes met across the distance. Then he was gone.

  ‘That was a brave choice,’ said Warwick at his side. ‘Now, here lies our way. We must put as much distance between us and this place before the sun rises.’

  EIGHTEEN: Wind and Waves, January, 1460

  Calais was cold that winter. The town was a jumble of roofs and spires, packed behind salt-spattered walls, a bulwark between land and sea. All through the hours of the day and night, the waves battered against its jetties and the Rysbank Tower, dominating the entrance to the harbour. The hulls of great ships groaned and creaked, wood on wood, lying low in the water with cargo they dared not set sail to deliver. Sometimes a mist blew in from the channel, a fine, grey-green cloud that left a wet film on every surface and clung about the tower so that only its crenelated top was visible from the town, rising up like a castle in the air. Along the town’s tight knot of narrow streets, the merchants’ houses seemed to strain forward, their tallest storeys bending over the cobbles below, as if seeking to keep out the harsh wind. In his room in the castle, protruding into the waves, Edward felt as if he was surviving on the very edge of the world.

  ‘We will be more comfortable at the Exchequer.’

  He turned at the sound of the voice, to see Warwick standing in the doorway behind him. After two months’ residence in the castle, they were moving a short distance into the town, to the larger, better appointed rooms of the inn. Servants were carrying across chests of linen and books, pots and pans, bumping on the winding stairs.