Son of York

by Amy Licence

  *

  The mist was swirling. Visibility was poor. Warwick’s men charged forward across the road, some heading for the field, some for the town. Somehow his scouts had missed the queen’s diversion to the west. It meant her army had approached the town in the dead of night, silently moving into range, ready to launch their attack at dawn. He had been taken by surprise, hurrying to rouse the men, but now all depended upon the next hour. And this terrible fog made it impossible to see whether a man was friend or foe, until almost too late. There was nothing to be done about it, except to fight as best he could. He raised his sword and raced forward.

  TWENTY-FOUR: The Race for the City

  Foot by foot and inch by inch, the mist rolled away; rolled back from the green fields around St Albans, driven out by the sunlight, fading into the hollows. The white veil lifted from the town and details became clearer. The world became patterned again, with branches and knots in wood, chinks in armour and the print of a footstep in the mud. A silence descended and birds on the rooftops thought it was safe to sing again.

  On the high point of the ridge, Queen Margaret sat mounted on her horse, trapped in cloth of gold embroidered with the blue fleur-de-lys of France. She held herself tall and proud, feeling the stiffness in her spine, the tension in her shoulders under their swathes of silk and fur. Yet along with her regal posture there was a curve of triumph about her lips and her eyes, those dark, slanting almond eyes that seemed to hold all under their spell, gazed out boldly across the landscape. She took in the arc of every tree, each winding lane and twist of bushes, each wisp of smoke and spread of clouds, falling somewhere between white and blue. But there was more than boldness in them: her face told of victory, of entitlement, of possession.

  The day was hers and she knew it. The tide was turning and soon all England would be at her feet. The rebel Earl of Warwick had been sighted fleeing from the scene on horseback, his men scattered and defeated, in spite of all his careful planning. And she had had the satisfaction of riding through the streets into the market square, where the traitor York had once killed her loyal friend Somerset, and seeing the wounded lying there, bleeding through their liveries, pulling themselves onto their knees in hopes of saving their pitiful lives. And then had followed the moment when they had found Henry himself, awaiting her outside his tent: the king of England finally free from his captors again. Such had been his joy to see her, that he had drawn his sword and knighted their son, Prince Edward, the rightful heir to the throne. The world was righting itself again.

  On this bright morning that followed, this rebirth of all their hopes, the road to London stretched out before them, snaking its way south through the valley, all the way to Westminster. She breathed in the air. The tang of woodsmoke mixed with the hair and dung of the horses. Such were the moments when decisions were made that might overturn a country.

  ‘My Lady?’

  She turned to see Beaufort approaching from the camp, with his usual air of smooth control.

  ‘The women have arrived.’

  ‘So it is true,’ she answered breathily. ‘The mayor and aldermen of London have sent a deputation of women to negotiate for them.’ She paused and her eyes sought the horizon. ‘I wonder. Is this an honour or a grave insult?’

  ‘I have shown them into the royal tent. They bring the message that the mayor asks you not to attempt entry into the city. He regrets to inform you that the gates will be locked for the safety of the citizens.’

  ‘Henry?’

  He turned back, his sharp features suddenly attentive. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Who have they sent?’

  ‘Lady Scales, the Duchess of Buckingham and Lady Rivers.’

  ‘Lady Rivers. Jacquetta?’

  Beaufort nodded his dark head.

  ‘I had not thought it would be her. She was once Henry’s aunt by marriage, you know that?’

  ‘From her first marriage to the Duke of Bedford.’

  ‘And now the wife of a squire. I think they do mean to insult me.’

  Beaufort put his head on one side. He knew her moods, her pride and her passions.

  ‘Don’t forget that squire has just fought with us, and lost his son-in-law yesterday for our cause.’

  ‘Is that true? Here, help me.’ She held out a hand and Beaufort took it, smiling as she dismounted. ‘Then I shall pour her wine with my own hands. Until we are secure in Westminster again, we shall take our friends as we find them.’

  ‘A very wise policy my Lady.’

  *

  It was London: London was the answer. Edward felt the certainty of it pulsing through his veins as he galloped along the path. London, louring over the Thames with its church steeples and tall narrow houses, from the green sprawl of Moor Fields up to the gardens of the Charterhouse and over to Smith Fields; London, from the tower to the abbey, St Paul’s to Cripplegate, where every street trader or leper, every swineherd and tavern owner, every alderman and silversmith could hear the bells tolling and smell the smoke of the many fires in the thousands of hearths: London was the answer. If they could only beat the queen into Westminster, Edward’s victory at Mortimer’s Cross would overshadow Warwick’s tactical withdrawal at St Albans.

  Hastings drew alongside him, driving his own horse hard. The wind blew his fair hair and gave his features a pinched look.

  ‘The scout spotted a party ahead,’ he shouted.

  ‘Hostile?’

  ‘Some in Neville livery, but it might be a trap.’

  ‘How far?’

  ‘Three or four miles on, where we planned to cross the river.’

  *

  They saw the men waiting by the bridge, a dozen or so wrapped in cloaks stamping their feet and hugging themselves close against the cold. The little group shifted and exchanged glances as the riders approached, Edward and Hastings flanked by Herbert, Grey and Audley, followed by a retinue of fifty.

  Edward came to a halt a little way off and raised his hand. ‘Wait here,’ he declared. ‘We know the queen’s ways.’

  But one of the group had broken free and was striding down the lane towards them. Edward’s hand hovered above his sword, but then the figure drew back its hood to reveal a square head covered with dark curls.

  ‘Warwick!’ Edward dismounted rapidly. ‘It’s Warwick. All is well.’

  He hurried to embrace the sturdy figure of the earl, drawing him so tight that the man winced.

  ‘A shoulder wound, a few bruises,’ he explained.

  ‘Tell me how it went.’

  ‘We met them at St Albans. I prepared the ground well, but at the last moment they veered off the road and approached from the west. We held our ground until dusk, but the men were demoralised and outnumbered, so I made the decision to withdraw.’

  Edward nodded. ‘You did right to leave. There was no point staying and sacrificing all your lives.’

  ‘We heard about Mortimer’s Cross, about the sign in the sky.’

  ‘Indeed, a sign of approval from heaven.’

  ‘And of the death of Owen Tudor.’

  Edward breathed deeply, recalling the old man on his knees, the white head bent and the blood spilt on the mossy stones as cathedral bells tolled.

  ‘He survived the battle and was taken prisoner. I was lenient where circumstances allowed but we took Tudor to Hereford and beheaded him in the marketplace. Since Wakefield, the rules of engagement have changed.’

  ‘Did he make a good death?’

  ‘At the end, but he did not quite believe it was going to happen until the axeman swung.’

  Warwick spoke softly. ‘So it must have been with my father. I heard that Salisbury was taken alive after Wakefield and beheaded in Pontefract castle.’

  ‘Aye, I heard the same. Let them now taste the bitter loss of fathers.’

  The earl snapped back to the moment. ‘What now?’

  ‘By killing my father they broke the Act of Accord and committed treason.’

  ‘And King Henry has gone b
ack on his word. He reinstated his son as his heir, the day we fled the field.’

  Edward looked behind the earl to the group of men, ‘The king?’

  Warwick shook his head. ‘It was not possible. I placed him in a tent outside the town, well guarded, but I could do no more, other than take him into fight with me.’

  Edward raised his hand to signal for fresh horses, ‘The loss of the king is a blow but what matters is what we do now. By the act signed in October, and by my victory in the west, I am the lawful king of England. We must ride to Westminster and make the council enforce the terms of the act.’

  ‘They must indeed. The council themselves were responsible for setting those terms; they cannot ignore them now.’

  ‘Come, we will ride ahead of the army and be in London by nightfall.’

  ‘Only pray that the queen takes her time.’

  ‘She can no longer be queen by virtue of her actions. If I am England’s new king, she is merely the daughter of the Duke of Anjou, the wife of Henry Plantagenet. I will force her to accept it.’

  ‘Then all speed,’ added Hastings, drawing alongside. ‘All speed to London, the day draws on.’

  And the horses kicked up the dust into a cloud which did not settle until they had crossed the river.

  *

  The priest hesitated outside the closed door. The entire house was dark and quiet: anyone might think that Baynard’s Castle had been uninhabited this past month, with its hearths cold and its kitchens so still. Within those walls, so elegantly and powerfully built, it seemed as if a permanent night had fallen. Life, such as it was, had retreated to a corner of the chapel, behind lock and key, with only communion bread and wine for sustenance. And yet, although he felt deep sympathy with the poor lady for her loss, it was his job to coax the bereaved back to the world, in order that they might continue to go about God’s work.

  Reluctantly, he raised his hand and knocked upon the wood.

  The sound echoed hollowly within but, soon, there was the scrape of a wooden chair across the floor, followed by footsteps.

  The door opened a crack. From inside, the breath of incense and sorrow escaped like a blast from a tomb. A figure in black slipped into the space made by the opening, a creature from a hinterland between this world and the next. It had been the same yesterday, and the day before that.

  ‘Might the duchess admit me today?

  Margaret pushed back her hood, her dark eyes lined and heavy, looking much older than her fourteen years. ‘Not today, Friar Jerome. She is prostrate again. I fear I will never reach her.’

  ‘Does she sleep? Eat?’

  ‘A little of both, she takes some broth but she is waking for all the observances of the night.’

  ‘And yourself? It is hard on you.’

  ‘I am…’ her voice faltered.

  ‘You are a young woman, with your life ahead of you, soon to be a wife. You must take care of your health.’

  ‘I will, Friar, thank you.’

  ‘Is there any word from the little boys, masters George and Richard, from Burgundy?’

  ‘We only know that they are safe and that is a blessing. But the duchess takes their absence hard.’

  ‘I will offer my prayers for you all, and for the souls of the duke and the Earls of Rutland and Salisbury. Tomorrow I will bring a poultice that might ease her suffering. Perhaps she will be persuaded to admit me.’

  ‘I will try my best, thank you for coming.’

  As Margaret stepped back, the friar caught a brief glimpse of a woman on her knees before an altar, draped in black, her hands clasped in prayer. He had been in service to Duchess Cecily long enough to recognise her form, but also to see that she was much changed by tragedy, in a way that would never leave her. And who could blame her, with the loss of her husband and son in such terrible circumstances and the two little boys sent across the sea for their own safety.

  The door clicked shut and Friar Jerome shuffled off down the corridor back into the quiet of the house. His feet padded softly across the rushes of the great hall and past the cold hearth where the family had used to feast together in the past. Pausing, he looked at the two carved chairs, empty under the canopy, where the duke and duchess used to sit, their children ranged on each side, laughing and feasting, or bowing their heads in thanks. The arms and achievements of the house of York were hung about the walls, to the east and west, and seemed to look down upon the friar now in reproach. He told them silently there was nothing more he could do. Perhaps he might find a meal in the kitchen, where the cooks and servants sat idly, from among the cold meats and winter preserves. Surely the fires must have been lit to bake bread this morning, if only to provide for the communion table?

  But there was all of a sudden such a stirring in the house, such a clattering in the courtyard outside that it seemed as if the world was being rearranged. The friar stood rooted to the spot. In the last few days he had overheard people’s fears in the London streets, swapped in the marketplace or outside the church porch; women who pulled their children closer, or dared not take their washing down to the stream. Stories of the queen’s army had been read aloud at St Paul’s Cross and ran rife along Thames Street, down to the merchants arriving at the docks, wondering whether it was safe to unload their cargoes. This noise could only mean the army had arrived, hell bent upon rape and destruction. He looked wildly about for a weapon, his heart beating fast in his chest. They would have to climb over his dead body in order to reach the women. At least he might buy them some time.

  But time was not on his side. The double doors that linked the great chamber to the courtyard burst open, letting in the daylight. Jerome gasped and turned, to find that this was no marauding mob. Instead, the space was filled by Edward, Earl of March, striding into the hall as he had done during his father’s time, except that now he was master of all.

  Jerome dropped at once to one knee.

  ‘My Lord! Thank God…’

  ‘Where is my mother?’

  ‘In the chapel, my Lord.’

  He scurried behind as Edward strode across the open space and down the corridor. Pulling off his glove, the earl rapped once upon the door, turned the handle himself and entered the darkness. Jerome reached the door in time to see him raising Duchess Cecily up from the floor and holding her in his arms.

  *

  St John’s Fields lay outside the city walls, at Clerkenwell, overlooked by the church. It was a cool morning but the turnout was good. Men came in pairs, or groups, bringing their friends and kin, or their associates. There was a particularly strong presence from the guilds and their apprentices, some still dressed in stained aprons, waiting with expectant faces to witness the city poised on a cliff of change. Warwick recognised a number of his retainers, of men in Neville and Yorkist livery, along with those summoned by Bourchier, Hastings and those who had served in Salisbury’s London household. He turned to look down towards the city, a jumble of roofs emitting smoke, spires jutting up to the heavens. Still they kept coming, in defiance of the old king, the French queen and her favourites, in remembrance of kindnesses done by York and his family, or in defence against their worst fears. The queen might have done the unthinkable and turned her troops north again, back to York, but Warwick would not tell the citizens just yet.

  He leaped up onto the back of a cart, Fauconberg and George Neville steady at his feet.

  ‘Good men of London, I bid you welcome. You know right well the cause of the fear within our city at this time. There have been outbreaks of lawlessness in the country and we have heard the stories of destruction caused by the queen’s army so the mayor saw fit to close the city gates against the queen and send a party to her asking her not to attempt entry.’

  There was murmuring among the crowd.

  ‘Well, I can tell you now that a saviour has come forward to protect the city from harm: a man who loves this city as his home, who would defend it to the death and has the power and might to ensure each and every one of you will s
leep soundly in your beds this night and every night after.’

  He scanned the men with his eyes. ‘Moreover, this man is nothing less than the rightful king of this land. By assent, the Lords of Parliament swore an oath and passed an act, that the Duke of York be named as the rightful heir of Henry VI, on account of his lawful descent from a senior line of Edward III. From that moment, it was an act of treason to harm the duke or his bloodline, the Earl of March and Duke of Rutland. And yet, just weeks later this bloodthirsty queen pitifully slew the duke in the middle of a truce when he was celebrating the Christmas season.’

  He paused to let this sink in.

  ‘Thus the queen has committed an act of treason. As if that was not enough, the king, who put his signature to the act, has gone back on his word and reinstated his own son as his heir. A son whom many at court whisper was not conceived in wedlock, after eight years of unfruitful marriage, and most unlikely to be of the royal blood, but instead a bastard sired by a bastard, borne by a woman of France.’

  George shot him up a glance as if to warn his brother not to go too far.

  ‘And on these terms, can we truly say that King Henry is fit to rule this city and this land? What do you say to that?’

  Those primed in the front row raised up their voices first, and the rest were swift to join in: ‘Nay, nay, nay!’

  ‘But instead, the rightful king is a young, strong man of honour, of royal and legitimate birth, elected by the lords of our land. A man who has won a great victory in defence of his father’s memory, a man of generosity, charity and forgiveness. Will you consent to be ruled by Edward, Earl of March? Will you accept him as your king, as Edward IV?’

  The cheer went up at once, ‘Aye, aye.’

  Warwick smiled in satisfaction and stared above their heads in the direction of Baynard’s Castle.

  *

  Baynard’s had come to life again. A great fire burned in the hearth, the hall had been freshly swept and cleared and the kitchen fires were baking again. Under the canopy, in the old duke’s carved chair, sat Edward, Earl of March, resplendent in a pleated doublet of gold and yellow satin, hung with jewels, over a fur-trimmed tunic, every inch befitting a king; to his side sat Cecily, still dressed in deep mourning, her pale face covered by a thick grey veil. Around her neck she wore a heavy silver cross, given to her once by Edmund, and her hand held that of her youngest daughter, Margaret. Two other young women stood behind her chair. Her two elder daughters had travelled to be by their mother’s side: Anne, the unhappy wife of the traitorous Duke of Exeter, who had brought her own small, wide-eyed daughter, and Elizabeth, Duchess of Suffolk, almost seventeen, and wife to John, who waited loyally at her side. It seemed that an age had passed since Cecily and York had celebrated their wedding, walking from the church with their arms full of spring blossoms.