by Amy Licence
For a while there was a lull in the wind. They waited off the coast like wild creatures nervously sniffing a baited trap; waited for the current to pull them in, to draw them close alongside the stretch of shingle beach with the dangerous sandbanks close to the surface. From the deck, they could see church spires and house roofs. Edward tried to scent the air, to catch the taste of greenness and the mulch of the earth, the blossom and the crops in the fields. Along a ridge above the beach, a line of men began to wave their arms wildly.
‘Friends or foe?’ Edward asked dubiously.
‘Never fear,’ grinned Warwick, slapping his shoulder. ‘Dynham went ahead. They’re expecting us.’
And when they turned into the sound that led windingly down to Sandwich harbour, the whole town had spilled out onto the quayside and the air was alive with cheers and offers of welcome. Edward felt himself flush with something like pride and shame together as he leapt out of the boat and looked up at the solid gateway. The narrow streets were packed as they strode across the cobbles, feeling the world still lilting underfoot, towards the grey stone church with the square tower.
‘Let us give thanks for our safe arrival,’ urged Warwick, ‘then after prayers and food, we will begin the march to Canterbury. Fauconberg is waiting just outside the town with troops and arms.’
And a surge of hope rose again in Edward’s chest: the people, the sunshine, the sweet air of England. On the stone floor of St Clements’ he clasped his hands together and closed his eyes to contain his emotion.
*
They rode at a good pace, with around two thousand men in their wake. The crops were high in the fields on either side of the straight road and at each village, more men came out to join their cause. In Ash and Wingham and Bramling, Warwick addressed the crowds, calling upon them for their good wishes and proclaiming their intent to defend the king and protect him from evil counsel, to restore him and the country to glory.
‘They didn’t listen to us ten years ago,’ cried a man in reply, on the steps of Wingham Church, ‘pray God with the help of these lords they might listen to us now!’
‘Aye,’ said another, ‘for our country is run by a Frenchwoman and her bastard.’
Warwick glanced from Salisbury to Edward.
From Bramling to Littlebourne, they passed through the peaceful meadows, with horse hooves and marching feet stirring up the summer dust. Most men walked together, spurred by the company of others, armed with pitchforks and spears and whatever came to hand; hardy country folk who knew how to light a fire and wrap themselves for warmth against the chill of a night passed under the stars. The next morning dawned crisp and bright and, before long, they had reached the crest of a green hill and were staring down into a valley, touched by a hazy mist, out of which rose the triple spires of Canterbury Cathedral, buoyed like a boat above the red and grey mass of the town. As they approached the walls, Warwick raised a warning hand. Edward reined in his horse and followed the earl’s gaze to where three men were waiting in the graveyard of a little church, watching them advance along the road. Seeing them halt, the men stepped out into the road. The lead figure, a wide, spare figure of some sixty years spoke directly to Warwick.
‘The Earls of Warwick, March and Salisbury?’
‘Aye, the same,’ Warwick replied. ‘At the head of an army in the name of the king. Who are you and what is your business?’
‘I am John Scot,’ he replied, ‘and this is Horne and Fogge; we have been dispatched hither by King Henry with a commission of array to prevent your entry to the city.’
Edward laughed, ‘All three of you?’
‘However, my Lords,’ Scot continued, ‘we intend no such action, but merely to welcome you to the city and to join your cause.’
‘Then you are indeed welcome!’ stated Warwick and turned to Edward. ‘See, we will have our day. There is so much support for our cause.’
*
As the sun climbed higher, they knelt in the acrid clouds of incense before the shrine of St Thomas. The polished flagstones were cold beneath Edward’s knees and the candles danced before his eyes.
‘Draw strength from this place,’ said Salisbury, quietly at his shoulder. ‘It was here that the martyrdom took place, on this very spot, before the doors. The saint was not afraid to defy the misrule of an anointed king, and he will be generous in his help if we ask him.’
Edward nodded and crossed himself. Rising, he followed Salisbury and Warwick in solemn procession up the flight of steps and into the shadowy apse where the daylight filtered down through stained glass miracles depicted far above their heads. There, fashioned in stone, lay the bones of Henry IV and the Black Prince, quiet and still after their labours; Edward’s eyes lingered upon them with the realisation of how briefly their candles had burned. Then, beyond them, sparkling in the gloom so that it almost took his breath away, was the golden bejewelled shrine of St Thomas. An effigy of the man lay beneath the ornament, surrounded by flickering tapers and the many gifts left by pilgrims; simple piles of coins, wilting flowers, baskets of eggs and flasks of milk, through to rubies, pearls and emeralds, guarded by the monks.
‘Here,’ said Scot, still at their side, holding an ornate silver cross. ‘This is Becket’s sacred cross, you must take it with you, the archbishop sent word that he wishes it.’
Warwick nodded and folded his hands around the silver, before pressing his lips to the feet of Christ. ‘A sign of support from Thomas Bourchier.’
‘It’s dazzling,’ Edward breathed. And again, on bended knee, he felt a sort of strength flowing through him, and a quiet certainty about his destiny.
By the time of their departure, wending their way along the old northern pilgrim’s route, Edward put their number at around ten thousand. Word spread ahead of them, passed in taverns and marketplaces, stirring memories of those who had rebelled a decade before, and now turned out in the streets as they rode though Rochester and Dartford. At Blackheath, their support had increased fourfold.
‘And now,’ said Warwick, turning his horse round to address them, on a warm afternoon, ‘now we head for London. The king is still at Coventry but the mayor remains loyal to him, yet the common council would make us welcome; let us make our way into Southwark and see how the city lies.’
*
The fields and marshes lay quiet as they made their way towards the city. Edward felt his stomach contract when he first caught sight of the distant spire of St Paul’s Cathedral, rising high on the opposite bank, only a short ride from Baynard’s Castle, from Thames Street, from Queenhithe and the Salucci house. Had Alasia heard of his return? Once he set foot inside the city, he would dispatch a message to her at once; the child must be four or five months old by now.
‘By our Lord!’ Warwick stood in his stirrups, shielding his eyes from the sun. ‘It’s George.’
Edward’s attention snapped back to the moment, to the men milling in the distance and the rider heading towards them. He recognised George Neville, Bishop of Exeter, from council meetings, to whose clever eyes and swift tongue he had never quite warmed, although they were welcome enough now at the head of a troop of men.
‘Brother!’
Warwick dismounted to meet him and the two men met in a hearty embrace. Neville then turned to his father, Salisbury, who remained in his saddle.
‘I bid you a good welcome, my Lord, your exile is over.’
‘And we are home at last,’ added Salisbury.
Warwick laughed, ‘And spoiling for a fight.’
Neville looked over to Edward. ‘You are well, my Lord of March? I see you have grown into a man since your departure.’
Edward inclined his head graciously and urged his ride forward.
‘Your armies can rest at Smithfield,’ Neville added. ‘There are tents erected and we will send over provisions; we have prepared lodgings for you all at the Greyfriars of Newgate.’
‘And I thought we might have to fight our way in,’ said Warwick, grateful for the recept
ion, spurring on his horse. ‘To London, Edward, to London and victory.’
*
Edward pressed his seal against the hot wax of one letter, then another. The chamber was quiet and cool; the monastery of the Greyfriars was tucked away in the north-west top of the city, snugly enclosed by the thick wall and ditch, between Newgate and Aldersgate. Neville had housed them with Friar John Kyrye, a slight, red-haired man whose warm and open manner led Edward to trust him at once.
‘We are most humbled by the opportunity to be of service to your Lordships,’ Kyrye had said graciously, as he led them through the great cloister. ‘And the library of Mayor Whittington is entirely at your service during your stay.’ But once he had led Edward through to his chamber, his tone had become more confidential. ‘You are safe here, my Lord, you may rely upon me for my discretion, I was once afforded help by your father in an estate matter and I am much beholden to his kindness. Your mother is in the city, lodging at the property once owned by Sir John Fastolf; I shall send word to her at once.’
Edward had been warmed by the man’s loyalty. ‘Thank you, I shall not forget it.’
Now the wax seal had set. He strode to the doorway, called to the boy waiting outside.
‘This letter is for Ireland, for the Duke of York in Dublin. Take it to the docks and enquire among the merchants for someone trustworthy to ensure its passage. This second letter is for the city, for the house of the merchant Salucci in Thames Street; you are to take it there yourself, to wait for a chance to speak to the mistress in private and put it no one’s hands but her own. You understand?’
The boy nodded.
‘Good lad; return with those charges complete and I will see you rewarded.’
As the boy sped away, Edward saw Kyrye approaching along the corridor.
‘See who I have found, my Lord.’
He stepped aside and dropped a low bow to let Cecily pass. She rushed towards Edward out of the gloom and pressed her cheek against his. She was well wrapped in furs despite the summer day, but felt somehow smaller and frailer than before. A lump rose in his throat at her familiar scent. When she stepped back, he dropped to one knee on the stone.
‘Mother, I must beg your forgiveness. I left you alone and friendless, unprotected in Ludlow. It was not…’
‘It was not avoidable,’ she interrupted, raising him to his feet. ‘There is nothing to forgive. Had you remained, your lives would have been forfeit, I have no doubt of that. I prayed for you every day, I knew that you would return when you were able.’
‘And the king was lenient?’
‘To a deserted woman and children? Of course, there was never any risk of otherwise. I have been living with my sister Anne.’
‘Yes, I received your letter, months ago. Did you get mine?’
She shook her head. ‘None got through, but that matters little now. We shall all be reunited soon.’
‘The children?’
‘They are at Fastolf’s; you can come and see them later. All safe and well, and you will not believe how they are grown.’
‘God be thanked for that. I have just sent word to father, to speed his return.’
‘But listen,’ she said, looking around, ‘this is your chamber? We will not be overheard? Come inside with me a moment.’
‘What is it?’ Edward pushed the door shut behind them.
‘Your father is already planning his return, but he will not be back in time. Anne’s husband, your uncle Buckingham is with the king’s army: she tells me they plan to march south from Coventry any day now. He has Lord Egremont, the Percies, the Greys and Exeter with him.’
‘That turncoat.’ Edward winced at his brother-in-law’s name. ‘Then there is no time to be lost. We must meet them.’
She nodded.
‘Neville tells us the bishops are assembling at St Paul’s. We will go before them and put our case.’
There was a loud rap at the door and Warwick entered, bearing a sheet of paper.
‘Aunt Cecily!’ The earl kissed her hand. ‘It is good to see you safe and well.’
‘And you too, my Lord.’
‘Mother brings news of the king’s army, led by Buckingham.’
‘I have just heard of it myself, but we also have this.’ He brandished the paper. ‘The papal legate himself has just issued a warning to the king to prevent bloodshed, and to insist that we mean him no harm.’
Edward scanned the paper then read aloud: ‘…out of the pity and compassion you should have for your people and citizens and your duty, to prevent so much bloodshed, now imminent. You can prevent this if you will, and if you do not you will be guilty in the sight of God in that awful day of judgement in which I also shall stand and require of your hand the English blood, if it be spilt.’
‘A copy has been sent to Henry, another posted up on St Paul’s cross and more distributed in the city. We have our validation; we can approach the king with this and plead our case. The legate has also written that we mean him no personal harm.’
‘Will he listen?’
Warwick shrugged. ‘Probably not, if his advisors even allow him to see it. But we have the word of the pope behind us and that cannot be lightly dismissed.’
‘Surely he risks excommunication if he disregards this?’ questioned Cecily.
‘Perhaps,’ Warwick stated. ‘Unless he dismisses us as traitors. Although I do not intend it to be our blood that is spilt. Edward, let us go to the bishops in the cathedral and make a vow of our allegiance to the king. Then we will rouse our armies and head north.’
‘Amen,’ said Cecily, crossing herself with fervour.
*
Edward turned and gazed across the field, where the king’s army was massing. He had come upon them just outside the town of Northampton, marching into the grounds of the abbey, where the women had gathered up their habits and raced, wide-eyed, for sanctuary. So it would be here, in these usually peaceful gardens, where the hourly tolling of the bell would take on a new significance. It would be here.
Now the rain beat against him, warm summer rain, that made the air humid and the skies both bright and dark. Normally he enjoyed days like these. But today his surcoat was unpleasantly damp and heavy with moisture; even his linen shirt and leggings below his armour felt wet. Yet it must be. All attempts at negotiation had failed; Buckingham had sent back the message that they were merely anticipating their own deaths by choosing to face the king. Warwick had shrugged it off. Now he signalled the papal legate, Coppini, who was standing before the Yorkist forces. It was time.
At Warwick’s sign, Coppini stood tall, squaring his shoulders and raising the standard of the Catholic church alongside Archbishop Bourchier, who held the cross of St Thomas. The two emblems pierced the summer sky, somehow out of place amid these fields. Edward listened as the legate’s words travelled across the men, extending the pope’s blessing to them all and offering remission of sins for the deeds they would carry out that day. It was a stroke of brilliance; none of them could forget that the presence of the king outside Ludlow had been their undoing. That morning, their scouts had brought word that Henry was lodged in a tent, in a field beyond the main camp, but Coppini’s blessing should stouten even the most tremulous of hearts. With a controlled gesture, Bourchier censed the men, sending an acrid cloud of burning spices up to disperse among the rain.
Salisbury came riding up, cheeks flushed. ‘The divisions are as we thought; Egremont and Shrewsbury to the right, Grey to the left, Buckingham in the centre.’
‘Grey alone?’ mused Edward. ‘That’s an interesting choice.’
‘Why so?’
‘I suspect he may be vulnerable to suggestion. It might work well for us.’
‘How so?’
‘I recall that he is locked in a land dispute with Lord Fanhope; it has been running for years. My father may be in a position to assist him, if we are victorious; bring me a messenger.’
Warwick signalled to a boy in livery. ‘You think he will take the
bait?’
‘We can but try. His heirs might be more important to him than his king. Boy, go to my Lord Grey of Ruthin,’ Edward instructed, quietly but firmly. ‘Tell him you have been sent by the Earl of March, who is willing to help him gain Ampthill if he will lay down his weapons. Bid him send me a token if he is in agreement, and all his men will go home safely to their families this night. God speed you.’
Bourchier had finished his business. ‘We will withdraw.’ His eyes sought a cross that stood on a distant ridge. ‘Coppini and I will observe proceedings from up there and offer our prayers. God be with you all. With his blessing, we shall all meet again in Westminster.’
‘I shall roast twelve oxen and feast you all at the Erber,’ laughed Warwick as he waved away the men of the cloth.
‘You are confident,’ Edward observed.
Warwick looked at him in surprise. ‘You are not? What would your father say?’
‘Father is not here.’
The earl considered for a moment. ‘Maybe not in person. Not just yet. We cannot wait for his return; we cannot hold back this moment, it must be faced here, now, today. But never forget you are fighting under his banner. You are fighting as a son of York.’
Edward turned to the men. In the central flank, their massed heads stretched thirty or forty deep and a hundred wide; their eyes were turned to him in expectation, their hands clasped about their weapons. They were already muted by the archbishop’s blessing, waiting for leadership. Some were grey-haired, old enough to have been his father, perhaps his grandfather, taken after a lifetime of service in the fields or halls.
