by Paul Doherty
An eerie hush descended. A draught from somewhere made the torchlight dance, and for a brief while, the candlelight seemed to turn a pale blue. Raphael shivered and recalled the ancient tale about how ghosts turned all flames blue. Some men said Henry was a saint, others a fool. Raphael could sense the King’s obduracy as well as the sheer desperation of Beaufort. He glanced swiftly at Simon, but he sat, hands on knees, staring fixedly at the King. Was Henry really mad, Raphael wondered, or was he secretly pursuing vengeance against not York but Edmund Beaufort, second Duke of Somerset, alleged lover of the Queen and, as some evil tongues wagged, the true father of Margaret’s only son? He reflected on the present danger: if the King would not move, Beaufort would fall and the consequences for the Rosebloods might be devastating.
‘We shall go to meet Cousin York,’ Henry murmured. ‘I have already asked the Franciscan, Friar Aelred, to take messages of peace to Duke Richard.’ For the first time the King seemed to notice Raphael and Simon. He glanced at them and smiled, which transformed his pallid, narrow face. ‘I understand, Master Roseblood, that one of your sons will be part of that Franciscan delegation?’
‘Indeed two, sire,’ Raphael replied quickly. ‘I have also been asked to join them in their quest for peace.’
‘Good, good,’ murmured the King. ‘Tomorrow you will leave.’
‘But sire,’ Beaufort, who had been communicating with the Queen with his eyes, spoke up, ‘the Rosebloods are here to advise you about York’s great treachery, his alliance with enemies of this realm.’ And before the King could object, he ordered Simon to give his news. He did so, swift and succinct, describing York’s meddling in the city, the presence of Sevigny, the duplicity of Sheriff Malpas, the attempt to rob the silver and above all, the presence of LeCorbeil and what they intended. Raphael watched the royal party and felt a sharp spurt of fear. Beaufort was truly whistling into the dark; the King still wanted peace. Despite Simon’s stark description of the threat LeCorbeil posed, Henry was not moved.
‘We will order the Sheriff of Essex,’ he declared, ‘to ensure the village of Cottesloe is cleared. We shall search for these hidden pits, and my lord of Beaufort will send a war cog to stand off the mouth of the Orwell.’
Simon pressed on. He described the scurrilous writing of Argentine. How he had closed that physician’s filthy mouth once and for ever and destroyed his chronicle. Again the King was impassive. Once Simon had finished, Henry thanked him graciously and invited both father and son to kiss his hands. The meeting ended in an atmosphere of deep exasperation. Henry rose and wandered down the nave to stare at a wall painting depicting St John on the island of Patmos. Queen Margaret rose and collapsed quietly sobbing into the arms of Beaufort.
‘Nous sommes tous perdus,’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘We are all lost.’
Beaufort tried to comfort her, then beckoned Bray, Simon and Raphael to join him in the aisle. Once assembled, the duke stood drumming his fingers against his dagger hilt, watching narrow-eyed as the Queen went to join her husband at the far end of the chapel.
‘We will march north,’ he whispered. ‘We have troops enough. Raphael, go with the Franciscans, let us know what happens.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Master Bray, you will stay with me. Before we leave London, destroy any document that may prove dangerous. Simon, summon your levies and march with us. I want you to organise a cohort of bowmen to protect me.’ He gnawed the corner of his lip as he stared down the nave at the King and Queen. ‘It has begun,’ he whispered. ‘Remember this day, this meeting; this is where it all began. The kingdom will be torn apart. Mark this well; look to yourselves also, for the very Devil is loose.’
Amadeus Sevigny
St Albans, 22 May 1455
Amadeus Sevigny crossed himself, unbuckled his war belt, laid it beside his gauntlets on the small table and knelt down on a flock-filled cushion before Richard, Duke of York. Sevigny was here for the diffidatio, the solemn refutation of allegiance to his seigneur. He stared into his lord’s blood-flecked light green eyes, noting the grey in the once silver hair and freshly clipped moustache and beard, the deep furrows of care around the duke’s eyes and down his cheeks.
They were alone in this strange six-sided exorcist’s chamber built into the north wall, close to the Devil’s door of St Swithin’s church, which served the hamlet of Key Field, close to St Albans, where the royal forces had set up camp. Sevigny had arrived the night before, and in whispered conversations had informed York about Malpas, the situation in London and, above all, the alleged prophecies of Ravenspur. He had kept silent about Katherine Roseblood and his own secret meetings with her father and family.
York had been taciturn, distracted, more interested in Ravenspur’s prophecies than anything else, asking Sevigny to repeat them time and again. Sevigny had decided to keep his own counsel. Soon York would no longer be his lord, and if the duke wished to dabble in sorcery, then he must pay the consequences. If he patronised LeCorbeil, that too would demand a price. Sevigny had informed York, without giving precise details, how LeCorbeil, although acting as mercenaries, were certainly in the pay of the French Crown and might even be planning to aid a landing by their countrymen along the deserted coast of Essex. York had been dismissive about that; he would, he claimed, use LeCorbeil to win his rightful place on the Council of the King and provide strong government. Only in this way could England be defended from outside attack. Sevigny had accepted this in silence. There was much left unsaid. Both he and York knew that the good duke and his family were intent not just on controlling the royal Council but on seizing the crown itself. Eventually York had dismissed him, but told him to meet him here in this eerie chamber just before dawn. Outside, in St Swithin’s spacious graveyard, the duke’s retainers were preparing for York to meet the Franciscan envoys.
‘So, Amadeus, you have come to bid farewell.’ York’s voice was soft, and Sevigny, for all his mistrust, caught a genuine sadness in the duke’s eyes.
‘I have come,’ Sevigny half smiled, ‘to formally withdraw from your household and service.’
‘My clerk has destroyed the indenture,’ York agreed. ‘And now,’ he stretched out his hands, and Sevigny gripped them in the solemn clasp of farewell, ‘I withdraw my protection from you, Amadeus Sevigny. You are no longer in my love, but I shall do nothing to hurt you.’
‘Or to help me,’ Sevigny broke in. ‘Bardolph the bowman was no assistance.’
‘I know, I know.’ York glanced away; when he looked back, tears laced his eyes. ‘I have always loved you, Amadeus. I saw you as a son, a skilled clerk, a true warrior, but above all, a man of good heart.’ He paused. Sevigny guessed what he was going to say next; no wonder he had insisted that all his servants and henchmen leave the church. ‘My wife Cecily, the duchess…’ He glanced up. ‘I love her, Amadeus.’
‘And you need her kinsmen, the Nevilles?’
‘Yes, yes, I do.’ York balled his fingers into a fist and gently beat against Sevigny’s shoulder. ‘Amadeus, you heard Ravenspur’s prophecies. Richard II was deposed by the House of Lancaster. The House of York has a better claim. The crown is our destiny, our right.’
‘Ravenspur is a witch, a warlock, a traitor. He may help you,’ Sevigny lifted one hand, as if taking an oath, ‘but, I swear in this holy place, once he has inflicted vengeance on Beaufort, he will turn his fighting dogs on you. Moreover, if he had found Argentine’s chronicle—’
‘Well he didn’t, and neither did you,’ York snapped. ‘You say Roseblood may have it.’ He shrugged one shoulder. ‘It doesn’t matter now.’ He added in a half-whisper, ‘I am sure our French bitch-queen will think the same as me: at least Argentine is dead and his prattling tongue is silenced for ever.’ He got to his feet. ‘The diffidatio, this renunciation of homage, is completed. Strange,’ he mused, gesturing around. ‘This was once an exorcism chamber, a holy place to eject demons and drive them out through the north door. Today, Sevigny, I will exorcise mine—’ He broke off abruptly and strode out of t
he chamber, calling over his shoulder that the rest of his household would be waiting to receive the Franciscan delegation.
Sevigny stood listening to his former lord stride away. He realised why York had stopped himself so sharply. The duke had been on the verge of conceding that whatever the Franciscans said or offered, he intended to attack immediately. Such suspicions had been pricked when Sevigny first arrived in the camp the night before. He had seen the preparations: phalanxes of spearmen being organised, archers waiting at arrow carts, war bows being strung, daggers and maces distributed. The King and Beaufort had moved north and were now lodged at St Albans, a few miles away. Today, 22 May, the Year of Our Lord 1455, would not pass unnoticed. King Henry could talk peace to the last trumpet, but York intended to seize the moment and settle matters once and for all.
Sevigny doubted whether any battle orders had been distributed to the royal levies. He recalled riding through St Albans over a year ago, its narrow streets leading on to the main thoroughfare of St Peter’s Lane. Those streets could be infiltrated by men-at-arms supported by archers. He thought of LeCorbeil creeping forward, arbalests primed, intent on one target and one alone: the total destruction of the Beaufort lords and their allies. He stared up at a stone carving of a crowned angel and suppressed a shiver. Was it just the Beaufort lords York wanted to destroy? What if the King was slain, even his lady wife? Their son was only a child, and York would not tolerate the prince living any longer than his parents. Others were also in St Albans, unaware of the trap closing around them, including Simon Roseblood and his Queenhithe company.
‘Amadeus,’ York’s voice rang out, ‘your last task.’
Sevigny joined the duke near the baptismal font. York clutched his arm as a sign of farewell, then strode forward and opened the great door of the church, going out on to the wide, sweeping steps to receive the acclamation of his massed troops. For a short while Sevigny was blinded by the rising sun, dazzled by shimmering steel and the myriad colours of heraldic devices that seemed to fill the church’s great cemetery. He glimpsed the blue and murrey of York hoisted above the raven’s sable, the ragged staffs and muzzled bears, the blue, yellow, scarlet, green and gold of fluttering pennants and standards. The hoarse voices of the thronging soldiery chanted greetings. Over all swept the smoke and stench of war. Destriers eager for the charge pawed the ground, metal shoes drawing sparks. Archers were stringing their bows, their boys mixing pots of fiery charcoal; nearby, war carts laden with barrels of pitch stood at the ready. Sevigny glanced at these and recalled the thatched roofs and wood and plaster walls of those houses in St Albans, where men might hide only to be burnt out.
He followed the duke to the edge of the steps and glanced to his right, where York’s waiting lords, already dressed in half-armour, grouped around the mastiff-faced Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, a man by his own public admission born to war and keen for the kill. For a while York just stood revelling in his power before raising his arms in salute, to be greeted by fresh roars of approval and the ominous clatter of swords against shields. This was a war host intent on battle, whatever courtly formalities might take place.
York moved across to whisper to Warwick. Sevigny swiftly surveyed the massed ranks and found what he was searching for: the dark blood-red livery with its black crow wings spread. LeCorbeil! They stood, about sixty in number, under the standard of a crow in full flight. They did not join in the general acclamation, but just watched silently, at their feet the arbalests with which they were so skilled. Sevigny used the excitement of the acclamation to study LeCorbeil more closely. He searched out their leader, Bertrand, a cloak half hiding his mailed shirt, standing slightly forward. ‘A veritable hawk of a man,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Like me, a killer to the bone.’ His hand fell to the hilt of his dagger. If battle came and God was good, he would seek out Bertrand and kill him.
York continued to revel in the salutation, until Warwick sidled up, whispering in his ear and pointing across the great cemetery. Sevigny followed his direction and glimpsed the Franciscans in their earth-coloured robes assembled under the massive lychgate. York signalled to his heralds, and the trumpeters blew shrill blasts, stilling the clamour. Once silence had fallen, the words of the ‘Veni Creator Spiritus’ wafted clear and strong as the Franciscans, led by Brother Gabriel carrying a cross, moved up the paved cemetery path to kneel on the bottom step to the church: Prior Aelred, Wilfred, Gabriel and, beside him, Raphael Roseblood, also garbed like a Franciscan in a simple brown robe. Raphael, still chanting the verses, glanced quickly at Sevigny, who just stared back.
Once the hymn was finished, Prior Aelred lifted his hands and in a clear, resounding voice declared the King’s peace before moving on to the real content of his visit. York must disband his forces and withdraw to his post of Lord Lieutenant of Ireland; only then would the Council meet to discuss the resolution of his grievances. The prior laced his talk with allusions to Scripture and the classics. Finally he begged York to stay within the King’s peace and enjoy his love. Then he fell silent.
York was brutal in his reply. Sevigny clearly saw the shock in the poor Franciscan’s face.
‘Henry Beaufort, Duke of Somerset,’ bellowed Warwick on behalf of his master, ‘must, for the sake of peace and the common good, surrender himself to His Grace the Duke of York, without any qualification or quibbling, for judgement.’
‘But my lord…’ Aelred, still kneeling on the bottom step, clasped his hands in prayer. ‘That will not happen.’
‘Then we must,’ Warwick shouted back, ‘seize Beaufort as the traitor and felon he is and prepare him for judgement.’
‘But the King—’
‘The King is ill advised.’ Warwick’s powerful voice carried for all to hear. ‘Beaufort must surrender himself within an hour of your return. Once Beaufort is removed, His Grace the King will be able to receive good counsel and guidance for the safety of his realm.’
‘Go back to His Grace,’ York called out. He gestured at Sevigny. ‘My household clerk will accompany you and ensure your safety. Tell the King my terms.’
‘Or else what?’ Gabriel, kneeling beside his prior, spoke up.
‘Or face war with fire and sword,’ Warwick retorted.
‘We are finished,’ York declared, and spinning on his heel, he walked back into the church followed by Warwick and other of his captains.
Sevigny recalled Ravenspur’s words. York would unleash his war dog Warwick. He hurried down the steps and, gesturing with his arms, swept the hapless Franciscans back along the path to the lychgate. Once there, he clasped their hands, teasing Gabriel that he recognised him immediately as his father’s son. Then he indicated with his head.
‘York’s soldiers will not harm you, but LeCorbeil are here. The King, and more importantly, your father, must be warned.’
‘It is war!’ Prior Aelred wailed. ‘Our words meant nothing.’
‘Good Father,’ Amadeus retorted, ‘not even an angel from heaven could change York’s heart. Warwick is his war master; his host is well armed and prepared. As God is my witness, they hope to be in St Albans before the Angelus bell sounds. So hurry, we must go.’
He coaxed and bullied the Franciscans on to their sorry mounts, then harnessed Leonardo, collected his bulging pannier and checked his armour and harness on the sturdy sumpter pony. Nobody troubled them, though he glimpsed two of LeCorbeil watching intently. He ignored these, keeping up his haste. A short while later, he led the Franciscans and Raphael out of Key Field. Once they were in the countryside, he turned his destrier, going back to console Prior Aelred, who was almost in tears at his failure.
‘Father,’ he pleaded, ‘you have done what you could. Remember the psalms: “Put not your trust in princes.” York wants war sooner than you think; within the hour his troops will be on the move.’
He dug in his spurs and forced his escort to do likewise, galloping along the lanes and into the cobbled streets of St Albans. His heart sank at what he saw there. The blu
e and white standards of the royal household were everywhere, as well as the banners of the various Lancastrian lords. Troops were bivouacked in the town but were totally unprepared for any attack. Streets and lanes were open; no carts or chains had been pulled across. Scouts and messengers galloped furiously south to where, Sevigny supposed, more royal forces were mustering, yet there were no defences to the north or east.
‘In God’s name!’ he whispered. ‘York could stroll in here and take what he wanted.’
A royal messenger gave him directions, and Sevigny led Prior Aelred’s party up Cock Lane into the broad expanse of St Peter’s Street. Only here had the danger been sensed. The busy main thoroughfare of the town was empty of its usual market stalls. Soldiers thronged about, but there seemed to be little preparation for an imminent attack. Sevigny and his party dismounted in the great tavern yard of the Castle Inn. Prior Aelred had urgent words with the knight bannerets of the royal chamber, and they were allowed into the spacious, sweet-smelling taproom.
The light was dim, the windows still shuttered, but the taverner had lit candles and lantern horns. A group of men and a woman, heavily swathed, sat around the great common table. A voice told the prior’s party to approach. They stepped into a pool of light and genuflected. Sevigny recognised the warrior-faced Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, sitting at the centre of the table; on his right was the beautiful Margaret of Anjou, her halo of golden hair and lovely face shrouded in a dark blue ermine-lined hood. The rest of the men, like Beaufort, were in half-armour. They looked ill at ease, fingers dropping to the daggers on their belts or tapping at the platters and goblets on the table.
