by Amy Licence
‘Perhaps. Things would have been easier for us. But it is done and can’t be undone.’
A well of annoyance rose in Edward’s chest. The shocks of the day, married with the terrible news which he had not yet had a chance to digest, almost took his breath away. Before he was able to speak, Edmund carried on.
‘I liked it in Ireland. It was easy, simple. People respected us and our word was law. It made me realise how things should be. I was happy living in Dublin Castle. If it wasn’t for mother, I could have happily stayed.’
The words hurt. ‘Really?’
‘It has been a long year.’
‘Why didn’t you write to me?’
‘And say what? Would you have dropped everything and set sail for Ireland?’
‘Perhaps.’
Edmund scoffed.
‘When did you become so cynical?’
‘When we rode away from the armies at Ludlow? When I stood on the bow of the ship and watched England disappear from sight? When I watched the execution of our enemies in Dublin?’
‘Does father know how you feel?’
‘All he can see is his God-given right, which he thinks was taken away from him.’
‘I’m sorry to see you like this. What now?’
Edmund shrugged. ‘I’m going with mother to collect the children.’
‘I meant after today.’
‘I’m no astrologer Edward.’
And he walked away abruptly to join Cecily who had come out of the hall and into the courtyard.
*
In the lull when the minstrels stopped playing, they could hear the wind howling outside. The hall had been built thick and solid, its walls deeper than three men, but the storm ravaging London would not be silenced by any bricks or stones. It felt strange, Edmund thought, to be sitting safe inside, feeling the warmth of the fires, with a spread of food before him, while the heavens were opening on the world.
His mother had asked to have him at her side that evening. He knew how much she had missed him, and there had been times when he had longed to hear her voice, to sit beside her and ask her advice. There had been long dark nights in Dublin Castle when he had lain awake in terror that she was suffering somewhere, or that some illness would claim her life before he returned. He had even made a vow, desperate in the midnight hour, praying on his knees to the Virgin to keep her safe. It had been her face he had most wanted to see when they landed back in England, but there had been lines about her blue eyes and fear had coloured her mouth. She had seemed somehow smaller as he had leapt from his horse and run to embrace her, sweeping her up in his arms. Her body had become frail, bird-like; he could feel her bones as he hugged her. And he would fulfil his vow, as soon as this business was over, he would make the journey to Walsingham, to the shrine of the Virgin Mary and give thanks to her for keeping his mother safe.
She was watching the hall with tired eyes, but he noticed she had not eaten much. To his left there was a plate with spiced larks, one of her favourites. He passed it along to her and she took one with a smile. On her other side, father was also eating little. Their return had not gone as planned; the lords had not fallen in line as hoped and, tomorrow, York would have to go before them to argue his case. Now he was sitting watching them all, silently chewing, as they sat and watched him in return. The wind roared outside, almost drowning out the sound of the citole and the pipe.
Edmund raised his glass for more wine. The day had worn heavily upon him and he looked forward to the time when they would all rise and climb the stairs to rest. The nurses were taking up the younger children now; little Richard came to bid his mother goodnight, leaning up with his large dark eyes and head appealingly snuggled into her neck. She gave him a long kiss on the top of his head and reached behind him to George. The older boy had grown reluctant to be kissed, but let his mother pull him close and press her lips to the back of his hand. Then there was Margaret, the slender, sharp-faced Margaret whose expression proclaimed that she missed nothing. Edmund had hardly recognised her on his return. At fourteen, she was now old enough to be married, like her sister Elizabeth had been and her shy smile, as she hung back in her grey and gold dress, was more womanly than girlish.
The king had declined to dine with them that evening. Edmund could hardly blame him for requesting that dishes be sent up to his chambers instead. The scrutiny in the hall that night was intense, with the same questions on everyone’s lips. Most of the Lancastrian lords had fled to their estates or gone to join the queen, but some lingered, hedging their bets, waiting to see how things would turn out. A few of them were whispering about the death of Buckingham that summer and daring to question the new regime. Edmund caught the eye of Thomas Stanley, who was seated beside his brother William. They looked physically very alike but in character the pair were worlds apart. Edmund recalled that William had committed his armies to the Yorkists that dreadful day at Ludlow, while Thomas had hung back and refused to give answer. Now Thomas shot him a controlled smile before turning his eyes back to the place where York sat.
And then there was Edward. He was seated opposite his brother but the pair had scarcely exchanged glances. In Ireland, they had heard little of him save for his achievements; the training he was undergoing, the skill he was developing, the glorious victory he had won. Edward had struck out in the world, dazzling and successful, proving that he did not need his father or his brother. As he sat and ate quietly, he seemed to barely taste his food, barely sense his surroundings. With a mounting annoyance, it seemed to Edmund that Edward was far removed from them, his mind elsewhere. He was the same Edward to all appearances; tall and broad shouldered, his sandy hair cropped close, his face perfectly balanced in its symmetry, its nobility, his collar open at the throat, jewels sparkling among his clothes. He was the sort of son any parent would be proud of.
Edmund sighed.
‘What is it?’ His mother was at his elbow. ‘You don’t seem yourself.’
Edmund shook his head. ‘I don’t feel it.’
‘Everyone is on edge tonight. Things will be better once this council meeting takes place.’
‘Depending on what the council say.’
‘We cannot know that yet. Try to eat.’
Edmund realised he had scarcely noticed his plate.
Cecily touched his sleeve. ‘Are you pleased to be home?’
‘Is this home?’
‘Pleased that we are all together again?’
He laid his hand over hers. ‘Yes, of course.’
She smiled. ‘Speak to your brother. Something troubles him.’
*
Edmund was following when Edward left the hall. He caught up with his brother just as a clap of thunder broke overhead.
‘That was loud!’
Edward turned. ‘Yes, it is a good night to be indoors.’
They stood looking out of a window at the rain lashing outside.
‘What will the lords decide tomorrow?’
Edward did not take his eyes off the darkness. ‘They will not vote to depose the king. Instead we have to worry what father can do now.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He has put himself in this position. Can he remain here, as a man who has attempted to replace the king? Will England ever be safe for him?’
Edmund bit his lip. ‘You said earlier that I am not myself. Neither are you.’
‘Perhaps not. I am not as I appear at the present.’
‘You are still my brother.’
But Edward could not reply, stilled by an intense emotion that surged through him as the rain beat against the glass. He gave a shudder. Edmund had intended to speak of other things but at once he saw that nothing was quite so pressing.
‘What is it? What troubles you so deeply?’
Edward’s sandy head drooped.
‘Not here.’
They walked towards the chapel, the sound of their boots echoing around them.
Edward pushed open the door. ‘It’s so quiet at this time of nigh
t.’
The lines of the chapel were shrouded in gloom: the altar with its candles snuffed, the colourful hangings and silent pews.
‘Have you ever been in love, Edmund?’
His brother’s silence was all the answer he needed. Edward ran his hand along the back of a pew. ‘It was in here that I first kissed her. And now she has gone, along with our child, and I never told her that I loved her.’
‘I had no idea.’
‘It was our secret, for various reasons.’
‘You did not think of marriage.’
‘It was not possible.’
‘I am so sorry.’
Edward looked up to the windows, where the colours of the stained glass were darkened by the storm.
‘And she has gone. Those few occasions were all we had, our entire time together, and I always took for granted there would be another meeting, another chance.’
‘Did she know you loved her, even if you never said it?’
‘I hope so.’
‘And the child?’
‘I never saw it.’
He could not prevent the tears, but broke down and wept.
Edmund was at his side at once. ‘You will be reunited one day; she is in a better place, you should not mourn the fact that God has called her to his presence.’
‘I cannot take consolation in that.’
‘But Edward!’
‘I cannot thank God for taking her away.’
Edmund’s mouth gaped open.
‘But that is the only consolation of it.’
‘Yes, the only one, and yet not one at all.’
‘Do not speak that way.’ Edmund indicated the chapel around them. ‘Think of where you are.’
And at once Edmund saw that his words were stretching across a gulf between them, that they could not reach his brother, that his words of comfort were just shadows beside the pain of having loved and lost. ‘I’m sorry. That’s all I can say.’
The thunder clapped again overhead.
‘Edward, go and get some rest, tomorrow is going to be a big day.’
He left his brother outlined against the windows, in a play of light and dark, where a statue of the Virgin Mary stood with outstretched arms.
TWENTY-TWO: Nemesis
The council chamber had fallen silent. It was so still that Edward could hear his breath rising and falling, in unison with all the men ranged around the tables, conscious of the enormity of their decision. And all moments seemed to come back to this one: rivers and fields of his childhood, father sitting at the table with his head in his hands, the days of fear, triumph in the London streets, the ignominious flight from Ludlow, the blood caking his hands. All that had gone before, every summer and winter, every murmured prayer, all came together now.
Looking up, he caught Edmund’s eyes upon him, wearing an air of concern and wonder; then there was Warwick, his firm round head ready to snap round and squash any doubters; Salisbury with a half-smile and, finally, York himself, standing simply, almost monastically, his face betraying no emotion.
Before them, at the head of the long table, sat King Henry. He was dressed in a robe and thick furs, his scanty dark hair covered by a cap set with a jewel, his long hands resting on the table before him, fingers open, palms turned up.
‘And by this you will agree to the act,’ Archbishop Bourchier said with slow caution, pronouncing each word deliberately. ‘And it will be binding according to the word of the law.’
The king’s head moved slightly, almost imperceptibly, in acknowledgement.
Bourchier addressed the chamber. ‘It has been put before this council by the Duke of York, that his is the rightful claim to the throne of England, Ireland and France, from his due, rightful and legitimate descent from Lionel, Duke of Clarence, second son of Edward III, and thus senior in line to the Lancastrian line, descended from John of Gaunt, the fourth son. This comes to him through the bloodline of his mother, Anne Mortimer, daughter of the Earl of March, son of that same Earl of March whom the late venerated Richard II nominated as his heir, departing this life without issue. God have mercy on his soul.’
The phrase was echoed on the lips of those present.
‘This council has replied to the Duke of York, that himself and those lords present, both spiritual and temporal, have sworn repeated oaths of loyalty to the anointed King Henry VI, as have our fathers, since he came to the throne almost forty years before. These cannot, and should not, be undone. Thus, by due process of debate and consultation with the law, and with our consciences, it has been decided that King Henry VI shall remain king for the duration of his life. After that time, the throne shall pass to the Duke of York and his heirs, nominally the Earls of March and Rutland, and his subsequent issue, George and Richard of York.’
A thrill ran through Edward’s body to hear those words.
‘By this act, the Duke of York and the legitimate heirs of his body are granted an annual income of ten thousand marks, drawn from the Earldom of Chester, formerly held by the Prince of Wales. Thus, the Duke of York is confirmed as the Prince of Wales, Earl of Chester, Duke of Cornwall and Lord Protector. To take arms against him, to speak against him or threaten or do injury to those of his blood is an act of high treason punishable by death. And this shall be made law.’
Edward thought of his mother, waiting in their chambers, while George and Richard read their Latin primers, just as he and Edmund had at Ludlow as boys.
‘Then all are agreed,’ concluded Bourchier. ‘By signing this act, King Henry VI consents to these terms, and to their immediate effect.’
There was a pause.
‘It only remains for his highness to sign the act.’
The long paper roll stretched out across the table in front of Henry. Just beside his hand, within reach, lay pens and ink.
And in that moment, poised on the verge of an unexpected victory, Edward could not help but feel a pang of compassion for the man in the chair. Henry had never seemed so old, so frail: he recalled the day at Windsor when he had crept into the sickroom with his father, to see the king prostrate in bed. But, even then, Henry had simply been waiting to reawaken: this was a sort of death-in-life, as if he was a natural fool being baited, required by his gaolers to sign away the rights of his eight-year-old son.
But Edward shrugged his conscience away. Kingdoms could not be run on pity. Henry was more suited to a life of monastic piety. England demanded a ruler who could fight to keep her strong, not this shell of a man. He stared at the top of Henry’s head, willing him to sign.
The long white fingers twitched. The king lifted his chin.
‘And this… I am still the king?’
‘And we your loyal subjects,’ replied York swiftly.
With a smooth gesture, that might be reassuring, or might be sinister, Warwick moved to place a hand upon Henry’s shoulder.
The king toyed with the pen, rolling it between finger and thumb as he read the terms again, for the final time.
Then, straining in the stillness, Edward could just hear the sound of the nib scratching on parchment.
*
York turned to survey the palace. Westminster stood out proudly against the white sky, with its turrets and sloping roofs, the steeple of the abbey and carvings of the great hall. Birds circled overhead, looping through the clouds and the streams of smoke rising from the dozens of hearths burning through piles of winter fuel. In the many rooms, stacked up behind one another like a puzzle, women were pounding laundry and watching boiling pans, clerks copied letters and added lists of figures, dogs dozed on thresholds, boys swept floors and sprinkled herbs. This was the heart of England, where laws were written and justice dispensed, where kings slept and woke, where the bones of saints gently turned to dust.
He faced his wife. ‘We shall not be long. The law will protect me; once the queen and Beaufort are defeated for good, no one will dare to challenge our position.’
Cecily was pale from lack of sleep. ‘I don’t see why
you must go to them. Why not wait until they make the first move against you and then use the new law?’
‘Because then I am in their hands, you know this. I will not sit tight and wait upon their fancy; I am their future king, Lord Protector of this realm and I will go to seek out my enemies and silence them. That is the way a king must be.’
‘But I have only just got you back.’
He kissed her forehead, touched his fingertips against her chin tenderly.
‘And I will be back soon. You will be quite safe here. Warwick remains in the capital to keep Henry safe. He will defend you against any dangers.’
‘I know it.’ She smiled at her nephew, standing nearby, waiting his turn to take his leave. ‘I do not fear for myself.’
‘We will be quite safe. Who better to look after me than your own brother?’ York gestured to Salisbury. ‘What can we not accomplish together?’
‘We shall be back in time for Easter,’ said the old man, creasing his pale eyes. ‘Sister, I give you my word. Live quietly and piously, observe Christmas, fast in Lent, teach your children well and the days will fly past. We will all celebrate together when spring arrives.’
York nodded. ‘This is our final battle, I give you my word. There will be no more enemies. After this, I shall hang up my spurs.’
Cecily laughed. ‘Now that I cannot imagine.’
Edmund came forward, wrapped about in his great cloak.
‘Mother? Give me your blessing.’
She cupped his face in her hands, feeling its new-found manly contours amid those of the boy she remembered.
‘Come home safely to me. My prayers will go with you.’
He nodded. ‘I will do such service in your name that you will never lack cause to be proud of me.’
‘I am proud enough already.’
Servants brought round the horses, hung with the murrey and blue liveries of the house of York. The duke went round to inspect them.
Warwick appeared at his aunt’s side. ‘All will be well, I will be here with you. Edward will go south to meet Tudor’s army and York will meet the queen. Remember they have the new law on their side: it is an act of treason even to raise arms against them, so there is a chance that not even a single blow will be exchanged. With this act, they will be forced to come to terms.’
