It was time. Warwick kissed the ladies, hugged his daughters, spoke cheerfully to us boys. The banners cracked out overhead, the word of command was given, the gates were opened, and in tidy file they rode away through London.
Those were days of stretched nerves and silly quarrels over nothing. We boys were supposed to do our usual lessons, but the chaplain released us when we couldn’t so much as conjugate the Latin amo correctly. Nor did the Duchess insist. On the fourth day news came that the royal force was at Dunstable, and that Warwick had made camp at St Albans. Tomorrow it would come to battle. Poor St Albans, I thought: there’d been a battle there before, back in ’55. I took heart from the omen, because that time York had won. And Warwick had all the modern weapons, he had cannon and Burgundian gunners, and calthorps – the metal star-shapes that will lame a horse or an unwary man – and he had spearsmen, pike-men and archers.
Eleven o’clock dinner on Shrove Tuesday was a silent occasion of crumbled bread and food pushed around trenchers. Battles begin early in the day and it might already be over. The slightest sound had us springing to the windows. Once, going to my room for something, I saw the Duchess pacing silently up and down the gallery, her clenched hands pressed to her mouth, and for the first time it occurred to me that an adult could be afraid.
It was the Lord Mayor of London, Richard Lee, who brought the news. We tumbled into the hall to see him standing before the ladies, an awkward figure in half-armour, turning his sallet round and round between his hands.
‘My lady, I’ve had a message. Lord Warwick brought the royal army to battle at St Albans this morning.’
Lady Warwick gasped and put her hands fearfully over her face. Isabel burst into tears. Anne sidled close to her mother, clutching her skirt.
‘And?’ said the Duchess.
‘Lord Warwick is safe and unhurt, my word on that. But – but he lost the battle.’
‘Lost?’ faltered Lady Warwick, and George laughed in disbelief. I was watching the Duchess, and although her face didn’t change I saw a cool, speculative glint in her eye. I thought, She’s not surprised! Shocked, but not surprised.
‘Yes. I gather… the royal army took Lord Warwick unawares. They came down before dawn, and my lord was changing the positions of some of his troops; the scouts had brought some wrong message, Lord Warwick did not understand the Queen’s army was so close. The archers held the royal army off, but there was some sort of flanking attack... and although Lord Warwick fought most valiantly, of course, his forces were split... and the Kentish men went over to the Queen.’ He seemed to be finding the brim of his sallet of absorbing interest. ‘And Lord Warwick lost the battle. They reckon three thousand died, mostly on Warwick’s side. His brother Lord Montagu and some others of his leaders were taken prisoner.’
The Duchess flinched, for she was very fond of her nephew John. So too was Lady Warwick, who was weeping silently. The Duchess put her arm around her, and looked back at the Mayor. ‘But why, sir, do you bring us this news? Where is Lord Warwick?’
‘He has fled westward to join up with your son Edward. He feels that the two armies should join up, and under his command Lord March – your pardon, Madam: His Grace of York – will march back to London.’
‘Leaving London defenceless meanwhile?’
That brought the Mayor’s head up. ‘London is not defenceless, Madam. The Watch is out; you see me in armour, a military captain. The apprentices are armed and patrol the city as we speak, each Guild has its armed troop. We have barred the gates against the Queen. London will hold.’
‘Of course,’ the Duchess apologised. ‘No one can doubt London’s spirit. But without my nephew Warwick there is no military man to command an army. And the Queen’s forces – ’
‘Are already besieging the city,’ the poor man admitted. ‘Refugees have been pouring in for the last few hours. But, Madam, London is for York – for your son, now. We will hold.’
We were sent upstairs to our room then. We perched on the beds, no one willing to be the first to speak. At last George said, ‘Well, I admit at first I thought Cousin Warwick was wrong, but when you think of it, it makes sense. You should not split your forces. I don’t know why Edward went to the west in the first place.’
‘Because much of the Queen’s support is in the west,’ Richard said. ‘Wales and everything. The Tudors.’
‘Who are they?’ I asked, more for something to say than because I cared.
‘Remember the messenger said one of the men executed after Mortimer’s Cross was a Welshman called Owen Tudor? Well, when King Henry the Fifth died the present King was just a baby, he was brought up at Court by his uncles and the Royal Council. Queen Katherine wasn’t very important any more and she was given a household over in the west, in Wales I think. And she had, well, she – ’
‘She had some babies with Owen Tudor,’ George said impatiently. ‘Some people say she and Tudor were married, but I don’t know. Anyway, Martin, Queen Katherine had three children before anyone knew. Well, that means they’re King Henry’s half-brothers. One married Mother’s cousin Lady Margaret Beaufort, but he died years ago. Jasper Tudor, he’s Earl of Pembroke, has thousands of men.’
‘And as I was trying to say,’ Richard said between his teeth, ‘that is why Edward took his army to the west. It’s not only Jasper Tudor, there are many others over there who are for the Queen.’
‘Yes, well,’ said George in triumph, ‘that’s why Cousin Warwick was right to go to him.’ This did not seem to follow, to me. I was a soldier’s son, I had grown up hearing military talk. I thought: Warwick is a grown man, an experienced soldier, the senior man of the York-Neville connection. England’s capital city and its government were entrusted to him. He should not have fled. He should have fallen back on the city, disposed his forces, and defended London to the last man. To the last drop of his own blood. Edward is a week away: London could hold, had Warwick stayed. Would have to hold, regardless. Chilled, I remembered the night-time fears Richard had confided to me; remembered what I had heard of the dishonourable treatment the Queen had given York and his men. Remembered what her army had done to my mother and my home. I had heard of sieges: could Baynard’s Castle hold out if the Queen came to get York’s two last sons? It was a castle, built to be defensible. Bar the gates, and its walls stood sheer to the river. What of the city side? But we had no men. The City would send men to protect us. Or would it? History was full of cities that had saved themselves, and prospered, by yielding quickly to an enemy...
And in fact Mayor Lee had lied to us. Oh, to be sure, the city was for York, but the Mayor and magistrates, some of the merchants, were for the Queen. No doubt they were concerned to protect the city from the outrages that had made the Queen’s army infamous, but against the will of the people they sent a group of ladies to treat with the Queen. If they let her into London, ran the offer, she must promise to hold her troops back from plunder or any attack on the citizens.
It says much for the people of London that they dealt with this clever scheme as it deserved. Perhaps they were spurred on by the Queen openly declaring Edward a traitor, or by the news that she had made a pact with the Scots to give them the northern fortress of Berwick in return for support. Anyway, the citizens took charge of their own affairs – they armed, they formed troops, they forced the magistrates to bar the city gates against the Queen, and they refused to admit her emissaries. At that, her troops began to pillage the suburbs. That was the last straw for the Londoners – and, no doubt, for the Queen, for London was now truly under siege.
We boys were making ready for bed, trying to pretend we didn’t hear the guns half a mile away, when the Duchess came in. ‘My dears, I have something to tell you.’
Richard turned white as bone. ‘Edward’s dead?’
‘No. Nothing like that. Listen.’ She went over to sit on the cushioned chest, tucking her skirts around her. ‘You’re old enough and have seen enough to know that I cannot trust Lancaster to be merciful
to children. You are York’s sons.’ Normally a serene woman not given to fidgeting, she was twisting her rosary tightly around her hand. ‘So I have decided to send you away. Abroad. To Burgundy.’
‘Why Burgundy?’ said George. ‘Why not Calais? France?’
‘Because Duke Philip of Burgundy is well disposed towards England, our two countries depend on the trade between us. And Louis of France is cousin to both King Henry and his wife; the moment you set foot in France he would deliver you up to Margaret of Anjou with a garnish of parsley. No, Burgundy is the only safe place. Besides, there is a large colony of English there.’
‘I see. When do we go?’
‘Now. On the next tide. I have arranged your passage on a trading ship. My squire Master Skelton goes with you, he is in charge of you.’
‘And when do we come back? When Edward’s here?’
‘As soon as it is safe. A few weeks, perhaps. Come now, gather your things.’ She stood up, clapping her hands to hurry us.
‘But Mother,’ Richard said, ‘what about you and Margaret? And Lady Warwick and the girls? If we’re in danger, aren’t you too? The Queen could use you as a hostage to make Edward and Cousin Warwick surrender?’
‘No, my dear. It is different with women. Not even Margaret of Anjou would dare harm women.’ Despite her certainty, I thought of my mother. ‘And Edward and I agreed long since that he must not be swayed by our safety. But you boys are politically important, you are the last heirs of York. You too, Martin, you are my kinsman and at risk. So you will go, as I say. We will be quite safe. Now, George, you’re the eldest: I put your brother and cousin in your care.’
‘Of course. Mother, you didn’t have to say that.’
For a moment she looked at him, then gave him a kiss. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’
She packed for us with her own hands. We changed our house shoes for boots, found our travelling cloaks and a few favourite things. Downstairs Master Skelton awaited us, a dark, stocky man who looked exactly the sort you would entrust with this venture. Lady Warwick and the girls fluttered around us, all saying goodbye at once, but there was no time for more than a quick word.
The Duchess and Margaret came to the landing stage with us. It was already dark, and very cold, snow threatening. Margaret hugged and kissed me as she did her brothers. The Duchess embraced me, blessed me and said, ‘Au revoir, my dear. That is all it is, a brief parting. Not farewell but au revoir.’ She knelt down then and took her two sons in her arms. It was too private to watch; I let Master Skelton guide me down into the barge that would row us to our ship.
~~~
I have now crossed the Channel six times, and every time was a torment of seasickness. That first time I was puking before we were out of the river, and soon I thought I would die, then feared I wouldn’t. George was nearly as bad until he found his sea-legs, but Richard proved to have the cast-iron stomach of the true sailor, and he held our heads and passed us basins, puzzled throughout that we should feel poorly. And I’ll say this for George – seasick or not, he did his best to care for us. When we were bundled off to lodgings at Utrecht it was George who insisted we were given decent rooms, who made Master Skelton buy us clothes and secure a tutor (we had hoped for a holiday from lessons) and who in general saw that we were comfortable by reminding people that for the moment we were unimportant refugees, but one never knew...
We had no news. Rumours floated our way: London had held; London had fallen. The Queen had won; she had lost. Edward and Warwick were dead; they were flourishing. Battles were reported from all over England.
Then, in March, came the glory of a whole bundle of letters.
‘From Mother, from Margaret,’ said George, shuffling through them. ‘And one from Edward! Edward has written!’ The seal shattered under his impatient fingers. As he unfolded the paper we leaned close to read over his shoulders.
Edward wrote briefly of the battle at Mortimer’s Cross, assured us all his family were well. Then followed:
‘And now I must tell you of something else. With our cousin Warwick, I returned to London with our army, and London received us right joyously, for no one there now supports Lancaster. And in token of my victory, and of my right as our father’s heir, the Lords and Commons offered me the crown of England. Lancaster’s Queen is held to have forfeited her husband’s rights by making war on our father in breach of the oath she swore last year.
But I cannot yet sign this letter Edwardus Rex, for the will of the people and of the Lords is one thing, but to secure peace I must defeat Lancaster once and for all in battle. With our cousin Warwick I am mustering a great army, near twenty thousand men, and tomorrow we set out in pursuit of the Lancastrian force, which has withdrawn from London and is moving swiftly. Soon it will come to battle, and, Deo volonte, one way or the other the troubles that began when Margaret of Anjou married Henry of Lancaster will be at an end. Whatever happens, my dear boys, remember I have loved you. You must stay in Burgundy until England is secure, but with God’s help it will not be long before I embrace you again. Pray for
Your loving brother and cousin, Edward York.’
~~~
Glorious news indeed; but it was followed by silence from England, for weeks. Then one day in early April our schoolroom door burst open and a sweating messenger in Edward’s livery dropped to his knees in front of us.
‘Prince George, Prince Richard – there has been the most glorious victory! Your brother Edward is King of England! Vivat Rex!’
Two
1464
You might suppose that we greeted this news with cheers, or wept or sent up prayers of thanksgiving. What we did was stare at each other, and nod: of course Edward had won the battle, of course he was king. George said, ‘We can go home now. I hope it is soon.’ It meant little more than that, at first; we had no understanding of how things had changed. We soon learnt.
The messenger had called George and Richard ‘Prince’, but it seemed merely a formal way of breaking the news. Hardly had the messenger left than other men came, and they all bowed, all said ‘prince’ or ‘my lord’. Even I was addressed as ‘sir’ or ‘Master Robsart’. People who that morning had been merely civil were now obsequious. Nothing was too much trouble. Instead of taking supper in our room we were conducted downstairs to a dining chamber we had not known existed, a long, high room decked with elaborate tapestries, the table laden with gold and silver plate that made us stretch our eyes. At bedtime we were undressed with ceremony, and we laid our heads on fresh linen scented with lavender and rosewater. In the morning new clothes were brought, and a selection of jewels. Richard and I got the giggles under this treatment, but George grew thoughtful, and by the time we set out for Bruges he had acquired quite an air, and I noticed him using some of his mother’s gestures.
We travelled to Bruges in great style, and the day we arrived Duke Philip of Burgundy and his son Charles, Count of Charolais received us. Duke Philip treated us most kindly, but what I remember best is that he had the biggest nose I’d ever seen – I hadn’t yet seen Louis of France. The high style of the Burgundian court was beyond our imagination, we felt ignorant and provincial, even George was quite subdued. But quickly we realised that whatever we did was accepted as right or merely the English way, and we were treated with a formal gravity befitting ambassadors.
It was that which finally brought home to us how things had changed. In our own eyes we were insignificant children; to the rest of the world we were the King of England’s brothers and cousin. We were important. We had status. And with that knowledge came our first understanding of what it meant to be a king. King of England. Duke Philip was immensely rich, he wielded great power: but when all’s said and done he was the ruler of a small dukedom which some would say – Louis of France did say – had no real independent existence. England was different. England was one of the great powers, and its King was to be courted; and feared. His brothers were to be flattered and pleased.
All this went to George’
s head like wine. In fact, he became a pain in the arse. Richard and I suffered his airs and graces, for we dimly understood that he was reacting in his own way to the turmoils of the last two years. Also, we were fond of him. But often we longed to kick his lordly rump, especially when he began to speculate on what title Edward would grant him: Duke of York? Of Clarence? Some new creation? And if he said, ‘After all, I am the King’s Heir,’ once, he said it a hundred times. Richard’s patience ended when, just before we embarked for home, George decreed that I should bow to them and call them ‘my lord’. ‘For,’ he said pompously, ‘you are neither royal nor of equal rank with us. People who hear you calling us by our names will think you presumptuous.’
There are some moments that stick in your mind for their hurt and humiliation. All these years later I’ve not forgiven that remark. I have no idea what I would have said or done, but Richard launched himself on his brother with such force George went flailing to the floor.
‘Don’t say that! He’s our friend! He’s our cousin! Don’t treat him like that! Take it back!’
George wasn’t much bigger than Richard, if he was heavier it was childish puppyfat, and Richard had the strength of pure rage. He got in a few shrewd punches and kicks before Master Skelton ran in and pulled them roughly apart. Well, of course children don’t tell tales; we mumbled that it was only in fun, only playing, and Master Skelton had the sense not to push it. That evening George apologised to me, and nothing more was said of the matter.
~~~
I don’t suppose there is any interest in the tale of our return to England, and should anyone reading these papers wish to know about Edward’s coronation, well, I daresay there are histories enough. To be honest, I can’t remember much of the coronation, except that I wept when the Archbishop put the crown on Edward’s head. Nor do I have many memories of the next few years. Suffice it to say that Edward was crowned on the twenty-sixth day of June AD 1461, and that he duly created George Duke of Clarence and Richard Duke of Gloucester and Earl of Cambridge, and made them both Knights of the Bath and of the Garter. He made me legally his ward, and gave me a position as one of Richard’s pages, and we lived in George’s household at Greenwich. But while George peacocked about full of his own importance as the King’s Heir, Richard and I were kept to our books, venturing into the wider world only for Richard’s occasional official duties or when Edward was in London.
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