by Amy Licence
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
Warwick stepped into the room, his dark curls tousled. ‘This is the last of it, I’ve sent father ahead to supervise the unpacking.’
Edward nodded.
‘The change will be good for him, I know he’s been feeling the cold in his bones.’
Salisbury was never one to complain: he would sit up all night telling stories about his campaigns in Scotland and Wales, or march at the head of an army from dawn to dusk but, at almost sixty, his body was starting to feel the strain.
‘Yes,’ Edward agreed, looking round the room, ‘it will be good for us all.’
There was nothing else to pack; the four thick walls with their faded hangings, the cold fireplace and draughty bed with its thin hangings, were left over from former days of glory. A single candle flickered on the table which Edward had used to write his letters. He had lain awake here these past weeks, thinking and planning; he knew every crack in the walls, every dimple in the ceiling, but he would not miss the place. He turned back to Warwick.
‘Any more word from Ireland?’
‘Nothing new. At least we know they are settled safely. I’ll write and let them know about our move.’
‘It’s all right, I’ll write to Edmund tonight. There’s a merchant from Cork waiting at the Staple for the wind to change, who has promised to carry it.’
‘Ask what York’s plans are, whether he will sit tight in Dublin Castle or move south.’
‘I will.’
He cast a last look around and stepped forward to blow out the candle. The little window behind it showed him the vast stretch of water that lay beyond: the immense greyness that hung between him and England. But there, moving through the mist, he caught sight of the top of an unfurled sail, billowing wide, and another behind it.
‘Look, ships, approaching the harbour.’
Warwick stepped up beside him. ‘It’s Dynham; he set out early this morning for Sandwich.’
The loyal Yorkist John Dynham had helped them escape from the south coast after the disaster at Ludlow, loaning them his small fleet of ships based in a blue Devon bay and sharing their exile.
Edward was confused. ‘Sandwich?’
‘To see the fleet Henry Beaufort has been building there. He whom the queen appointed Captain of Calais as my replacement.’
‘Ah, the new Captain of Calais himself!’ Edward recalled the young man in black, with the flashing eyes, and the blow he had received from him at the Smithfield joust.
‘Yes,’ Warwick laughed, ‘except my men refused him admission to the harbour and turned him back to England. He thinks that a few new ships should do the job for him. I heard tell that he got the sickness as soon as he set eyes on them. Let’s go down to the harbour and hear Dynham’s news.’
*
They had barely reached the Watergate when they spotted the long-legged figure of Sir John Dynham striding towards them. With his cloak thrown over his shoulder and a smile spread across his broad face, he had the appearance of a man who was very pleased with himself.
‘Warwick,’ he clapped the earl on the shoulder. ‘I have brought you back an unexpected prize!’
‘Good, we could do with a stroke of good fortune.’
‘More than good fortune,’ laughed Dynham, with a nod to Edward. ‘The tide turned at midnight and the sea was calm as a glass. You wouldn’t believe it now, to look at it, but we sailed across smoothly as if we were being pulled by horses. I was in Sandwich bay before dawn and the whole town was asleep.’
‘And Beaufort’s fleet?’
‘Made an excellent blaze. A light breeze carried the flames from one ship to the next before the alarm could be raised. He won’t be putting to sea any time soon. I half wish I was still in England to see his face.’
Warwick let out a hearty laugh. ‘And I, it would almost be worth risking my neck in order to hear him curse this morning.’
‘But wait,’ said Dynham with a grin, ‘there’s more. The best is still to come. Follow me.’
He beckoned them through the gate onto the breezy harbour walk, where the hulk of his ship bobbed on the waves. The deck was piled with barrels and a group of sailors on board were busy unloading the cargo down planks onto the shore, where carts waited to carry it away.
‘Supplies?’
‘Oh, this? I happened to run into a Hanseatic carrack on the way back, so we have Burgundian wine, sugar and spices. But better still, we have prisoners.’
He gestured to the men, who disappeared below deck and returned with three figures, two men and a woman, blinking in the grey daylight after their long confinement. Edward recognised two of them as the smooth-headed Lancastrian Baron Rivers and his wife, the beautiful Jacquetta, accompanied by a tall young man whose sensitive mouth wore an angry cast: from his appearance, Edward guessed it must be their son.
‘I found them asleep in their beds. The queen sent them down to defend the town but they made a pretty poor show of it. I thought our pompous friends could do with a little reminder about precedence.’
A dishevelled Rivers stepped onto the quay, brushing down his tabard. He pulled a face of annoyance at the group watching him.
‘Warwick, this is quite unacceptable. My wife and I were almost dragged from our beds in the darkness, without even a chance to dress ourselves as befits. What do you mean by this grave insult?’
The earl did not reply. Instead he turned to Dynham. ‘We’re relocating to the Exchequer. Take them there; keep the gentlemen fast but the countess must be restored to her liberty.’
‘Indeed I will. And there is this. One of York’s men found me on the dock, I’ve saved him a trip.’ He held out a letter to Edward, who turned it over and recognised that it was stamped with his mother’s seal.
‘Thank you.’ He paused, then tucked it inside his clothes. ‘I’ll follow you to the Exchequer once I’ve had a chance to read this.’
Warwick nodded and strode off through the gate, soon to be lost among the maze of staggered roofs.
‘The king will hear of it,’ Rivers called after him. ‘Never doubt that the king will hear of this!’
Edward watched as Dynham led his captives away, then he hurried along towards the Lantern Gate, where the sign of the Dove swung above a low, three-storied building washed in brown paint.
The place was fairly busy, with men sitting along the benches and round the two tables, with tankards and pewter plates spread before them. A bright fire burned in each of the grates, most welcome after the cloying dampness in the air outside. The odour in the air told him that mutton stew was on the menu again. His usual spot in the alcove was free, partly hidden from the rest of the room by a curtain.
She came out of the kitchen almost as soon as he had sat down, as if she had been expecting him. Mother Jacobs had been running the place for a dozen years or more and she knew how to cater to all her customers, as Edward had discovered when Warwick first took him there. In spite of her fifty years, she wore the traces of her former beauty well, with her grey hair pulled back from a delicate forehead and her green eyes still alert and warm.
She set down a tankard and a plate of pies on the table before him. ‘Hot from the oven.’
‘Thank you,’ he nodded, and she melted away discreetly as he took out his letter to read.
The news was brief. Cecily had focused on the facts, as if she feared that her letter might be intercepted and fall into the wrong hands. She had travelled east from Ludlow to Coventry, leaving their home to the mercy of the royal army, who were looting and pillaging the town. Edward winced as he imagined uncouth hands overturning their childhood beds, rifling through their cupboards, tearing the pages of books. Cecily had little choice but to submit to the king, waiting in the council chamber while oaths of loyalty were sworn to the Lancastrian dynasty. She spoke simply of her gratitude for Henry’s mercy, but Edward could read her pride and fury between the lines. Now she was under the care of her sister Anne, Duchess of Buckingham, with a small
royal allowance to pay for the needs of Margaret, George and Richard, who were with her at Tonbridge Castle. They were all well and hoped that Edward was also in good health and fortune.
He winced as he put the letter aside. The hardest part of this situation was the suffering of the women and children. Something inside him had hoped that the letter would contain news of Alasia and her baby, which was due that month; that somehow his mother had discovered their existence and helped them, that a son had arrived and both were thriving. He knew it was a childish hope.
Mother Jacobs appeared behind him and put a hand on his shoulder.
‘We have Anne and Janette upstairs at the moment and Melisende will be arriving later. I could put her in the back room for you, if you like, my Lord.’
Edward rose. ‘Not today, I am not here for that today.’
The grey head bowed. ‘Another time my Lord.’
*
The light was already fading when Edward left St Nicholas’ Church and crossed the High Street to enter the gates of the Exchequer. Braziers had been lit in the main courtyard, showing him the way through the passageways to a private dining room overlooking the Green Yard. He heard Warwick before he pushed open the door; the earl’s voice raised in laughter, fuelled by wine. They were seated around a table before a blazing hearth; Warwick, Salisbury, Dynham and one or two others, and the half-empty plates showed they had already feasted well.
‘Edward!’ cried Warwick as he entered, ‘I was about to send out the watch to seek you.’
‘My apologies, my Lord.’
‘There is news from home?’
‘Nothing significant. Mother and the younger children are safe and well with the Buckinghams.’
Warwick winced. ‘There are worse places for them to be. But see, my uncle William is here, with Thomas.’
Edward nodded at the two men at the end of the table: both with their shock of dark hair. He had met the lean and spare Lord Fauconberg before in Calais and marvelled at the differences between him and his elder brother, Salisbury, but this was the first time he had met Fauconberg’s son, born to a serving woman on the Lord’s estates. Thomas’s features had a pinched, hungry expression and his shoulders stooped a little; he must have been a good ten years older than Edward.
He pulled out a chair. ‘You are welcome, my Lords. I see we have become a veritable hotbed of Nevilles.’
Warwick looked up sharply.
‘But that is most welcome,’ Edward added diplomatically, calling for wine.
‘Where have you been?’
‘Just walking, thinking, praying for guidance.’
‘Whoring again?’
‘No, not this time.’
‘Well, eat then, before it all goes.’
Warwick gestured to a groom of the table. ‘Take some of these plates down to our guests, and tell them their host is feeling generous tonight.’
‘Generous?’ laughed Thomas Neville, ‘I have seen you more so; I recall a single day when you fed four thousand upon fatted oxen at the Erber.’
Warwick nodded, remembering his beautiful London home, with its wide hall and flourishing gardens. ‘Those were good days indeed.’
‘The like of which we will see again soon.’
‘Amen to that, Thomas, amen to that. Go, man, take the plates. Order the lighting of the torches.’
‘Our guests?’ Edward enquired.
‘Rivers and his son.’
‘They are here?’
‘Where else? Perhaps we can use the loyal Lancastrians as bargaining points with the king.’
Edward ate although, unusually for him, he had little appetite.
‘Salisbury has an idea,’ said Warwick at length. ‘We have been talking over the manner of our return.’
Edward looked over at the old man with the snowy head. ‘Return to England, already?’
‘Aye, indeed, unless you want to sit out your years in exile. Tell him, father.’
Salisbury sat forward and wiped his mouth. ‘It should be this spring, early summer at the latest. The longer we are absent, the more ground the queen can gain. For some reason, she remains in the north and that is our chance, our way back in. The men of the south will support us and, if we can land safely at Sandwich and gain enough support in Kent, we can take London.’
‘But there’s more,’ said Warwick, impatiently. ‘Tell him your idea about the rebels.’
‘You may not remember the uprising in London under Jack Cade ten years ago,’ Salisbury began. ‘You were only a boy then, Edward, of seven or eight.’
‘Oh I remember, father talked to me of it.’
‘Most of the rebels came from Kent and Sussex, and made their protest against the corruption of those surrounding the king. Then it was Somerset and Suffolk. Your father was in Ireland at the time.’
‘Yes, I was at Ludlow.’
‘There were calls among the rebels, even then, for York to replace Henry. Your father had to walk a fine line, to write to the king insistent of his loyalty. He knew nothing of the rebels.’
‘Who were they?’
‘No one of any stature, and poorly organised, but this is the thing,’ Salisbury leaned forward. ‘We can use their complaints for our cause. The losses in France, the unjustness of the law, the greed of the king’s favourites.’
Warwick nodded. ‘We will issue our own manifesto and distribute it from Sandwich; we will appeal directly to the men of Kent and champion their cause, and they will back us against the queen.’
‘So we fight directly against the queen?’ Edward said slowly.
‘Her council attainted us as traitors. There is no point pretending any more. If we are to return, if we are to do this, and force our way back through conquest, we must look our enemies in the face.’
‘But how?’
‘We take control of the king and capital and pray that we defeat the queen’s army. Either that or we kick our heels here in Calais until we turn to dust.’
There was a scraping of the door and the groom returned, still bearing dishes.
‘What’s this?’ exclaimed Warwick.
‘My Lord, Baron Rivers and his son return your food with the message that they refuse to eat the meat of traitors.’
Warwick’s chair went crashing to the floor. ‘What? I’ll give them traitors!’
Edward followed, along with Salisbury, as the earl strode out of the door.
*
Rivers and his son were standing by the window in one of the small back chambers, their faces defiant. Two guards were stationed either side of the door, drawing back the bolts as Warwick approached.
‘Too grand to eat our food?’ steamed the earl drawing level with Rivers. ‘So you prefer to starve instead?’
The older man kept his composure. ‘You have no reason to keep us locked away here. You have abducted us from our beds and detain us here against our will. I demand that you release us at once.’
‘You demand?’
‘On the authority of the king,’ added the younger man, with an air of composure.
His tone enraged Warwick. ‘You, Anthony Woodville, you dare to speak to me like this. I, who am of the royal blood; my father a descendant of John of Gaunt? You talk to me of wielding the king’s authority?’
The younger man held his eyes with certain confidence. ‘This is unlawful. You know it.’
‘And you dare to call us traitors,’ added Salisbury, appearing at Warwick’s side. ‘We shall be found to be the true liegemen of the king, while you and your families are the traitors, supporting those who scheme to disinherit us, taking arms against us. And who are you?’ He turned to Rivers. ‘I remember your father. You are nothing but the son of a knave.’
‘A mere squire,’ added Warwick. ‘A royal hanger-on who had the fortune to make a good marriage. An upstart who took advantage of a widow.’
‘Take that back at once,’ Rivers squared his shoulders. ‘I took advantage of no one. My marriage is lawful and has the blessing of the
king.’
‘Only after he fined you a thousand pounds for making it in secret.’
‘He gave us his blessing, who are you to say otherwise,’ retorted Rivers. ‘And where is my wife?’
‘Comfortably lodged on a ship back to England, where it might be hoped she realises that she deserves better.’
‘Take that back. My honour demands it.’
‘Or else what? What will you do? You talk of honour, but you do not know the meaning of it.’
‘God’s blood,’ spat Rivers. ‘You are all scoundrels. You have all been attainted by the king’s council and your lands and titles are forfeit. You have nothing; even the lowliest English peasant has more than you.’
Edward felt the rage rising in Warwick and put a steadying hand on the earl’s shoulder.
Equally, Anthony Woodville recognised the danger of their situation. ‘Father, we are not at liberty; there will be time enough to redress these wrongs when we return home.’
‘Listen to your son,’ added Salisbury tersely. ‘He is wiser than you.’
‘And as for your liberty,’ said Warwick softly and dangerously, ‘it lies in the hands of traitors and outcasts, so you had better say your prayers. Tonight you will go to bed without supper, and,’ he said with a flourish, ‘without light.’
Leaning forward, the earl blew out the candle that had been burning on the table beside them.
‘Now come away,’ said Edward, leading him out of the room, with Salisbury following. ‘Forget them. We will plan for our return to England in the summer and then every squire in the land will bend his knee out of respect or fear.’
‘Damned upstarts!’
The bolts of the door grated sharply against the stone as they strode away, leaving that part of the world in darkness.
NINETEEN: The Blood of Others, June, 1460
The sky stretched wide and blue before them, wider and bluer than in any other place in England. Edward stood at the bow, steadfast despite the swell of the sea beneath him that caused the boat to roll, despite the waves smacking against the side and spraying him with showers of droplets and despite the hot sun bearing down mercilessly. For this was England: that distant line was the white cliffs of Dover and beyond them, the green rolling hills of Kent and the road that snaked its way through The Downs to London. And England’s blood flowed in his veins, and he would fight for it, or die in the attempt: he was part of it and it was part of him. From the corridors of Westminster and the Smithfield tilt yard, to the meadows of Fotheringhay and the ravished towers of Ludlow, this was where he belonged. Here, he had grown to be a man, had laughed, wept, fought and loved, and here he would lay his bones. Edward was coming home.
