by Amy Licence
‘Men!’
Expectation hung over them.
‘Today, I call upon you to do a great thing. We fight in the name of the Duke of York, loyal servant and Protector of our true anointed king. We fight to free him from tyranny that he may better serve God and lead us to the true path of service and faith. God sees each and every one of you men; he sees your journey here and the sacrifices you have made. He watches over you as a father and he will be with you in battle. I speak for my own father, the Duke of York, in extending our blessing to you. What you do here today will not be forgotten by us.’
He bowed his head and the men let up a cheer.
Then Edward raised his sword. ‘For the king, the duke and the house of York!’
The feet of hundreds of men thundered after him.
*
All he could hear was his own breathing. It even drowned out the pumping of his heart that was making his head and chest throb, powering him forward. They came at him, one after the other, as he swung his great sword from right to left, then back again from left to right. He had a vision of the harvesters cutting their way through the summer fields at Ludlow, swinging their scythes through the corn as they advanced in a line, like a ripple over the horizon, seen from the tower window. But it was not the golden stalks of corn left on the ground as he advanced. As he raised his sword again, he saw that his hands were spattered in blood. Still they kept coming but his army was pushing forward, undaunted.
‘My Lord of March!’
A messenger was approaching from behind. Edward signalled to his men to continue then dropped back out of the front line.
The boy handed over a letter. ‘From Lord Grey.’
It was a short but simple reply. Unambiguous. Grey had bowed to his suggestion, just as he had hoped. Their way to the king lay clear.
Edward signalled to Faunconberg to continue and hastened back to the command line, where Warwick awaited him.
‘We have it, we have our way in.’ He brandished the letter. ‘You are facing Grey, he will let you pass without conflict. We will keep up a show of resistance here and as soon as I see you have broken through, I will divert half my troops to follow you in.’
‘We aim for the king’s tent?’
‘Aye, we do. The person of the king is everything. Once we have control of him, the fight is over.’
‘They will fight like cats to protect him.’
‘That they will. I shall try to press through here and meet you on the other side.’
‘So be it. God be with you.’
‘And with you, cousin.’
*
The royal flag still fluttered above the white tent, as if there were birds singing sweetly in the hedgerows and lovers idling in the high summer lane. As if the field was not awash with blood and the souls of the dead not ascending above their heads, stained by the violence that had torn them from their earthly forms. All was still as Edward approached. Two Yorkist soldiers standing guard outside put down their swords to let him pass.
Inside, there was no source of light but for the harsh day that penetrated the canvas walls. Edward cast a quick glance about; there was a bed, table and chair, chests and a cupboard bearing plate and holy relics. King Henry was on his knees before a portable altar, which stood open to reveal the benign features of the Virgin.
Warwick, Salisbury and three or four others stood in the centre.
‘Edward!’ The earls clapped him by the hand. ‘How goes it with you?’
‘We have destroyed the centre and put them to flight, all in the space of a half hour. And you, here already?’
‘Thanks to Lord Grey,’ said Warwick. ‘He laid down his arms as promised, so we met with little resistance. I have sent him on his way. He will wait upon you at Westminster.’
‘And the casualties?’
‘We had to fight our way through Egremont, Shrewsbury and Buckingham to gain access to the tent.’
‘Buckingham?’ Edward thought of his uncle with the scarred face, the husband of his mother’s sister. Cecily would celebrate the battle but grieve his loss.
‘But the king is unharmed and the day is ours.’
Edward nodded, letting his eyes rest upon the back of Henry’s head, encircled in a gold coronet. He had not opened his eyes or ceased moving his lips in prayer.
‘Here is George,’ added Warwick, turning to his brother. The dark-haired man approached, his hands cradling something precious and heavy. Edward stared down at the heavy silver disc, engraved with the image of a seated king.
‘The great seal?’
‘His Highness has surrendered it to my keeping.’
Edward felt a surge of emotion in his chest. ‘We will take his majesty to the abbey and say masses for the souls of the dead. Then we head back to Westminster. With the blessing of our Lord, our work today is done.’
TWENTY: To be a King, October, 1460
Edward followed King Henry out of Westminster Abbey into the sunlight. Birds rose up at their appearance and a fresh salty air was blowing in off the river. Somewhere over on the Lambeth side, bells were being rung.
The palace stood out against the sky before them, its doors open wide, soldiers in a row and braziers glowing bright. Yet halfway down the path, Henry paused. And when Henry paused, his confessor paused at his side, Edward paused behind them and after him, Warwick, Fauconberg and Salisbury, Cecily and her children, followed by the Bourchier brothers, Lords Stanley and Saye, the bishops, then the officials of the court in royal livery. Each paused and waited, still as the stones, awaiting the king’s word. The world seemed to wait with them.
Henry half turned, preoccupied by thoughts of another realm. Thirty pairs of eyes fixed upon his profile with the narrow bony nose, the thin ascetic lips and the scanty, dark hair. Jewels sparkled on his hat and at his throat, meaning he had not resisted the advisors Edward had sent to help him dress. Otherwise the king was likely to appear at chapel with his hair shirt visible under his gown. He was becoming unpredictable enough, insisting on fasting even on feast days when plates of roast meat were being served in his hall.
‘Your Grace?’
Henry heard Edward but did not turn. ‘The council meets today?’
‘Yes, your Grace. At noon.’
‘I shall dine in my chamber, with my confessor.’
‘Very good, your grace.’ Edward bowed as the king passed by and the rest of the court followed suit.
*
They took their seats in the hall, on either side of the empty throne. Warwick rubbed his hands as the servers brought out the wine, watching the seats along the trestles fill up. Salisbury took the place on his left and Fauconberg on the right. A figure in blue with sandy hair and beard slipped in beside Edward, flashing them with his piercing eyes.
‘Forgive me for missing the mass,’ winked Hastings. ‘A heavy night in the stews so I woke late. Wasn’t quite in the mood for my Ave Marias.’
‘Hold your tongue,’ frowned Salisbury. ‘Keep your private business to yourself.’
Hastings raised his hands in mock surprise but he was still smiling. Since their return to Westminster, he had been something of a familiar face, but Edward still did not feel he understood the man: he sensed there were serious depths beneath the light-hearted exterior, but Hastings had not yet chosen to reveal them.
‘Perhaps one day you’ll come with me,’ the lord smiled, leaning in close to Edward.
Edward broke his bread. ‘Perhaps, and perhaps not.’
‘Too busy to play the bawd?’
He was too clumsy. Edward grimaced. ‘Or too selective. Too discreet.’
‘Indeed!’ laughed the older man raising his eyebrows.
‘You will be at the meeting this afternoon?’
‘I don’t know, I’m tired.’
‘Then you won’t be requiring Westminster lodgings, if you’re not engaged in Westminster business.’
‘All right, all right, you make your point.’
Plates of pies
and stew were placed before them. Edward found himself in the uncomfortable position of sharing portions with Hastings, whose appetite appeared to be prodigious.
‘You have heard any more from your father?’ Warwick asked.
‘Not in the last few days. They had landed safely and mother was planning to meet them near Hereford. They will be on the road, I am sure.’
‘Edmund too.’
‘Yes, with Edmund.’
‘They will be most welcome.’
‘Yes,’ Edward smiled, thinking of the brother he had not seen in over a year. ‘There will be much to share.’
Warwick nodded. ‘The king seemed distracted this morning.’
‘Indeed. His mind is elsewhere.’
‘In Coventry?’ added Hastings, with his mouth full of pie.
‘He is very devout. He prepares himself for the feast day of the Confessor.’
‘Which is also the birthday of his son.’
Edward turned to Hastings. ‘Yes, it is. Well remembered.’
‘Will the queen return to London?’
Warwick and Salisbury exchanged glances. The younger earl wiped his mouth. ‘Would you have her return?’
‘I would have her do as she wishes,’ added Hastings with a flourish. ‘With whom she wishes.’
They all knew he was speaking of Henry Beaufort. It was impossible to avoid the whispers in the London taverns about the handsome pair. Edward recalled the last time he had seen Margaret, when she had run her almond eyes over his wounded body.
‘You speak of our anointed queen,’ he said quietly.
‘I do speak of her, and she bears you no love.’
‘She is still our queen. Put your foolery away, it does not serve you well.’ Edward rose to his feet. ‘Excuse me, my Lords. I have no appetite.’
He headed out into the sunlight. The courtyard was quiet now, but for the line of petitioners waiting to be granted an audience with the king. Nothing could stop them: they came carrying piglets and chickens, bowls of nuts and apples, quarts of milk and bottles of small beer. Often they wanted little more than the gentle pressure of the king’s hand, laid on top of their heads. Their faith was simple but powerful. After all, royalty still counted for something.
He was in a mind to visit his young brothers, George and Richard, who were lodged near the river during their mother’s absence. When she had ridden out of the city in her blue velvet chair three weeks ago, Cecily had entrusted Edward with the two boys and he had been to see them every day. In fact, they had just celebrated Richard’s eighth birthday; he was still very much a child, delighted at trinkets and sweet treats, but George, at eleven, was about to begin his chivalric training, verging on the threshold of early manhood.
But as he headed along the path towards the gate, a man and woman came into view. She was short and dark haired, wrapped in a cloak, her eyes nervous as she received directions from a herald in livery. It was evident from their faces that it was Edward himself they had been seeking. As they spotted him, both began to hasten in his direction.
‘Forgive me, my Lord,’ began the herald, ‘this woman would speak with you.’
Edward looked into her dark eyes, trying to fathom her business. She was not expensively dressed but her clothes were of good quality and she still had a little of the freshness of youth. He put her age in her late twenties.
‘Is this a matter of urgency? Something that cannot be dealt with by petition? You see the long queues for audience.’
She spoke softly, with an accent. ‘It is of a personal nature, my Lord.’
She was not attractive to his eyes, but something in her features or her demeanour resonated with him.
‘You have a moment.’
She looked relieved. ‘Might we go somewhere we will not be overheard?’
Edward led her towards the walled garden. Located on the river bank, it was overlooked by the palace but there would be opportunities for private discourse among the dying flowers of summer. As they passed through the archway, he saw he was right. The sweepers were raking their brooms along the paths and two kitchen maids were trimming herbs inside the box hedge but otherwise they were alone. They walked along one of the railed paths, where the sun was filling the late-blooming roses with light. After a little, he paused and turned to her.
‘Now, what is so important to bring you here?’
‘Thank you for your kindness in granting me an audience. I was not sure whether I should come, I have been meaning to for weeks. Ever since I heard of your return.’
‘Please, tell me who you are.’
‘My name is Lucrezia Boratti.’
At once the world seemed to become still around him. He had twice been to Alasia’s house in Thames Street, only to find it had been taken over by a Venetian family importing carpets from Turkey. At once a terrible presentiment struck him.
‘Where is she?’
‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t…’
‘Where is she? I wrote, I went to seek her, to the house.’
The woman nodded.
‘I had to move away. I am living outside the walls, near Newgate.’
‘She is with you? And the child?’
Lucrezia shook her head.
‘She, they, did not survive.’
He heard the terrible words but could not absorb them.
‘My Lord?’
‘Tell me.’
‘The child came late. He was large.’
‘It was a boy?’
‘Yes. I was with her. Salucci was at sea. She spent weeks in confinement but the child did not come. In the end he was too big. There was nothing to be done.’
‘You sent for doctors?’
‘Of course. They could do nothing.’
Edward took a deep breath. ‘When?’
‘It was around Candlemas. A priest was present at the end. I made sure the child was baptised.’
‘Thank you.’
‘They buried her at St Mary Botolph, they could not take her at St Laurence’s.’
‘Did she get my letters?’
‘She got these.’ Lucrezia drew a packet from her coat, of three or four folded letters tied with thread. ‘It was how I knew to find you. She never told. I thought it was Salucci’s child until I was putting her effects in order.’
Edward took the letters. They felt so thin between his fingers, such lightness to represent such love. And yet, he had never said so. He had never told her that he loved her. She had died without the words being spoken. Something inside him seemed to break.
‘I am sorry to bring you such bad tidings.’
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
‘Shall I leave you now?’
‘Wait.’ He reached for his purse, pressed some coins into her hand. ‘For your trouble.’
And she was gone, passing between the flower beds and out of the gate, out of sight. And the sun still cupped in the roses and the river still flowed past the palace but Edward could hardly bear to see them, could hardly bear the choking sensation in his throat. The thought of returning to the palace, with all the people, was too much. Anger and grief rose in his chest. If only he could get to his horse and ride out of the city, and just keep riding until he was alone.
‘Edward?’
It was Hastings. He turned away, hoping the man would disappear.
‘Edward? Are you coming to the meeting?’
‘By and by.’
‘They’re going in now. They want you to open.’
‘I said I will.’
‘But they’re…’
‘For God’s sake, man, leave me alone!’
Hastings paused, his face a puzzle. Edward turned away to the river and closed his eyes. Time seemed to flow past him. The noises of the court receded. He had lost Alasia and their child: a son who did not have the chance to grow into a man. He had not even been in the country when it happened. He had not been there to hold her, to comfort her, to see their child born, or to close her eyes. She had gone t
o her grave while he remained in ignorance, perhaps asleep, or in the arms of another woman. It was more than he could bear.
‘What is it?’
He did not realise he had fallen to his knees until Hastings was kneeling beside him.
‘Are you unwell?’
‘Yes, yes I am. Some bad news.’
‘Not your father? Your mother?’
‘No, nothing.’
‘The woman? The woman I passed on the path?’
‘No, I am unwell. You must tell no one.’
‘May I call for assistance, or help you inside?’
‘I cannot… Yes, I need to go to my chamber. I must wait until this passes.’
‘Then let me assist you.’
Hastings helped him stand and pulled his arm across his shoulders. ‘Lean on me, we will soon be there.’
Fortunately, most people were still in the hall, so their journey was not interrupted. The darkness and quiet were welcome. With promises that he would soon be well, Edward insisted that Hastings leave him. Then he turned the key in the door.
*
He must have slept. The next thing he knew was the hammering upon the door and Warwick’s insistent voice. Edward buried his head and tried to shut the noise out but the earl was not going away. Then the remembrance hit him again: Lucrezia, Alasia, the sun in the roses, their child. He stumbled to the door.
‘What is it?’
Warwick peered at him. ‘What in God’s name? There is no time. It’s your father, he has entered London.’
‘Father? He’s back?’
‘With Edmund and your mother.’
‘But this was not planned. I have had no letter from him.’
‘Letter or not, they are in London. But wait, there is more. Reports say he is riding with a drawn sword before his horse.’
‘A drawn sword? But that is the privilege of the king?’
Warwick held up his hands. ‘Come, he will be here soon enough.’
They hastened down to the hall, where people were assembling. Salisbury and Archbishop Bourchier hurried across to meet them. ‘The king was here, asking questions. I thought it best that he retired to his chambers.’
