Not that he was often in London in those first years.
Never think that Edward ascended the throne to universal hosannas and England at once laid down its collective arms. That wouldn’t be the English way at all, now would it. So frequent were the uprisings, so persistent and strong was the Lancastrian opposition, so sharp an eye to the main chance did our international enemies have, that for a long time no one would have put money on Edward still being King six months from then. Six weeks, often. The Lancastrian threat lingered on, with the Duke of Somerset first coming to terms with Edward then betraying him for the older allegiance. Margaret of Anjou had no trouble whipping up rebellions in the north, for that area was Lancastrian by inclination and the Percys and the Nevilles had been struggling for control for more than a century. Warwick and his brother John of Montagu besieged the northern fortresses of Bamburgh and Dunstanburgh which Somerset had handed over to her, and she fled to our dear friends the Scots who, always eager to make trouble for England, gave her enough men to invade again. (That woman never learned.) Again Warwick and his brother defeated her, and this time she and her son sailed away to France to take refuge with her cousin King Louis. Yet still it wasn’t over, by early ’64 it looked like civil war all over again. For once Richard and I stepped forth into the greater world – he had commissions of array for the southwest, and led the troops north to join the King’s army at Pontefract. However, John Neville routed the Lancastrians in two short but fierce battles, at Hedgeley Moor and Hexham. The King rewarded him with the Percy Earldom of Northumberland, which gave him not only one of the oldest titles in England but one of the greatest fortunes. King Henry was found wandering about Lancashire with only a handful of attendants. Edward sent him to London and lodged him in the Tower. Being Edward, he treated the poor old fellow with great kindness, and if you ask me Henry was far happier tucked snugly away with nothing to keep him from his books and prayers.
~~~
So I take up my story in the late summer of 1464, when I was twelve and Richard a month short of that age. It seemed the Lancastrian threat was over and England could enjoy peace for the first time in nearly twenty years.
There was plague in London that summer. This is nothing unusual, but with nearly two thousands deaths a day, anyone who could do so cleared out to the purer air of the countryside. Pursuing his policy of keeping Richard and me away from Court (thus giving it the allure of the Cities of the Plain) Edward packed us off to stay with his mother at Berkhamsted, her dower manor some thirty miles northwest of London. Also making holiday there were Lady Warwick and her daughters, and Warwick’s brother John Northumberland; Warwick, himself, was constantly going back and forth to the Continent on government business.
It was a pleasant, idle summer. The Duchess was lenient about our lessons, and in fact our tutor spent most of his time helping her establish her garden. We boys had to look lively not to be conscripted to help. Most mornings we took our bows or fishing rods and made ourselves scarce the moment we’d bolted our breakfast. Usually we took Anne Warwick with us, for at eight she’d become quite sensible, for a girl; she could climb trees with the best, and she liked our boys’ games. Her mother was content to trust her to us and never minded her coming home wet and grubby. At first Isabel used to come with us, but she was thirteen that September and became very grown-up all of a sudden, much too grand to play with little boys. It was her loss, we thought, leaving her to the thrill of the embroidery needle and new ways of doing her hair.
The first crackle of autumn was in the air when Warwick returned in triumph from France. He came laden with gifts for his family, and he brought George with him. And to Richard’s and my hooting delight Isabel promptly fell in love with him. He didn’t seem to mind; what boy of fifteen minds a ravishingly pretty girl thinking the sun shines out of him? Nor did Warwick mind, for a match between his daughter and the King’s brother was his dearest dream. And something more than a dream, for Warwick was the great man, the power behind the throne, and he was currently brokering the King’s marriage to the French Princess Bona of Savoy. That marriage would write Warwick down in history as the man who secured peace between England and France, he could expect a dukedom at least for his reward; French honours too. If he wanted George to marry Isabel, the King would dance at the wedding.
And so, in the second week of September, Warwick and George rode away to Reading for the Great Council meeting at which the French marriage was to be ratified.
The night after they left, Lady Warwick, playing primero with the Duchess and John Neville, suddenly said, ‘Cecily, what do you think of this French marriage?’
The Duchess laid out her hand, called the score, then looked up, her blue eyes guileless. ‘Why, Nan, surely that sort of thing is not for us women to concern ourselves with?’
John Neville choked on his wine. Patting his back Lady Warwick said, ‘Yes, Cecily, we all know your modest nature. Come, what’s your true opinion? Because I have my doubts. King Louis of France is pushing for it, and my husband is all for it – but it is not a popular idea. England has had enough of Frenchwomen marrying our kings. People don’t want another Margaret of Anjou or Edward the Second’s Isabella.’
‘Can’t see Edward letting her be,’ Northumberland objected.
‘Hmm yes, but that’s hardly the point, is it?’
‘No.’ The Duchess picked up her cards, stared at them, then threw them down again. ‘No, Nan, it is not popular. As to its wisdom... I’m not sure. Of course it would be a wonderful thing to have France tied up in a good binding peace agreement secured by a marriage – and certainly England could do with the dowry the Princess would bring. But, since we are speaking frankly, I don’t entirely share Dick’s confidence.’ (It took me a moment to remember that ‘Dick’ was Warwick. Hard to think of him as a grubby small boy being chivvied by his aunts.) ‘King Louis would make war on us whenever it suited him, marriage or no marriage. I cannot trust that man.’
‘Dick believes,’ his brother put in, ‘that once we are allied to France the Lancastrians can whistle for any more help from Louis. That’ll put a spoke in Margaret of Anjou’s wheel.’
‘Or the other way round: no marriage, and therefore no alliance, and King Louis whips up trouble for us.’
‘Possibly.’ Absently Lady Warwick swept up the cards and began to shuffle them. ‘But I know Edward is not keen on this marriage, he’s been dragging his feet. He knows it is not a popular idea, but it has gone too far now to turn back, it’s all but settled, it needs only the Council to ratify it. Dick hopes the Princess will be here and married by Christmas. And of course,’ she sighed, ‘it means another journey to France; Dick and I are to escort Princess Bona to England.’
‘Arriving in the dead of winter won’t give her the best impression of her new country,’ Northumberland remarked.
‘She’ll have the envy of every lady in Christendom to keep her warm. It’s not every girl who marries a king and a young, handsome man.’
‘Is Princess Bona pretty?’ Isabel piped up.
‘All princesses are pretty by definition,’ Richard said.
‘But is she?’ Isabel persisted. ‘The King likes pretty ladies.’ Lady Warwick coughed and seemed to grow larger; we children weren’t supposed to know about Edward’s reputation with women. At Greenwich I had heard a new version of the old joke: What’s the definition of a virgin? A girl who can run faster than the King.
‘I am sure she is charming, Isabel. And it is past your bed-time.’
That made the Duchess chase us boys off to bed too. On my way upstairs I remembered I had left my bow outside, and stumped crossly off to fetch it. I took a few moments to find it, for one of the gardeners had tidied it onto a bench. As I came back past the rose garden I heard voices. One was Margaret’s, and I stopped to listen – not because I was the sly sort of child who enjoys eavesdropping but because in the last few days I, like Isabel, had fallen in love. Laugh if you will, but the object of my affections was Richa
rd’s sister. Margaret was eighteen then and still unmarried, because a King’s sister, be she never so ugly, is still too great a prize to be given to just anyone. Not that Margaret was ugly; on the contrary, she was the beauty of that handsome family – tall, slender, with lucent grey eyes and hair of the beautiful shade that is called strawberry blonde. She was my princesse lointaine, beyond my wildest dreams; although of course I did dream, innocent boyish dreams of winning her heart and hand by some feat worthy of one of Arthur’s knights. So, because her every word was music to my ears, I stopped and listened.
She was talking to John Neville, and they were discussing the King’s marriage.
‘The thing is, Cousin Nan is right: Edward is not keen, but it has gone too far for him to draw back.’
‘Yes,’ John Neville agreed rather glumly, ‘he has never been more than luke-warm about it, but my brother went ahead and arranged it. He still thinks of Edward as a child to be told what to do.’
‘Not the way to handle Edward. John, between ourselves – and I would not offend you for the world – I have wondered if Cousin Warwick isn’t riding for a fall?’
‘You could never offend me, Meg. I don’t disagree with you. My brother hasn’t the faintest notion of how to handle Edward. I say, dear, look out, that bench is damp... ’ I heard the silken rustle of her skirts as they sat down. ‘Meg, since we are being frank, Louis of France has got my brother running tame. Louis says Jump; Dick says, How high? Between them they have presented Edward with a fait accompli. He’s cornered.’
‘Yet Edward could have been persuaded. But you know what he’s like, bully him and he digs his toes in. Stubborn as a mule.’ They laughed together. ‘But Cousin Nan is right, England has had enough of Frenchwomen marrying our kings. And that’s something else, John – Warwick doesn’t realise how much Edward loathes Margaret of Anjou. It is real hatred and it’s personal. Edward told me once that when he rode into York in ’61 our father’s head was still rotting over Mickel Gate. Poor Edmund’s too. Margaret of Anjou did that.’
‘I know.’ John’s mild voice had turned harsh. ‘I too saw those heads. My father’s and my brother’s too. And I was held prisoner by the Queen after the St Albans battle, and she threatened me with the same treatment. If Edward had not won at Towton and come when he did... ’
There was a silence, then Margaret went on, ‘Yes, Margaret of Anjou is responsible, and she brought England close to ruin. Edward hates her, and he is suspicious of France.’
‘So he is definitely for Burgundy?’ Because that was the thing. In the ’60s England was pretty much forced into choosing between France and Burgundy. Much of England’s vital trade, especially in wool, was with Burgundy, and our two countries had always been friends, or at least united in ancient hatred of France. Louis XI of France could not abide Burgundy’s independence, and was determined to bring it back under French rule. But for any move, either country needed England’s help. Edward was too canny to commit himself outright to either side; he was a clever diplomatist, and for every French kiss there was a Burgundian cuddle. Short truces with both, was the rule.
‘On the whole I think he is for Burgundy,’ Margaret said. ‘Though he would be more so if the Duke of Burgundy’s son weren’t harbouring Somerset and Exeter and almost every other Lancastrian under the sun.’
‘The moment Louis of France makes another move against Burgundy – as he is bound to – all those Lancastrian exiles will be booted out.’
‘Yes, and they’ll go to France,’ Margaret said tartly. ‘Between us, John, Edward has talked of a marriage to unite us to Burgundy. Count Charles has a little daughter, she would do for George or Richard. Or, who knows, I could marry Count Charles.’ (At this, I almost gave myself away by crying out.) ‘No, Edward doesn’t want England tied to France; as we would be, with this marriage to Princess Bona, unless we were prepared to make outright war again. And he hates feeling he is forced into this decision. There are plenty of other ladies he could marry, it doesn’t have to be a Frenchwoman. Princess Isabella of Castile has been suggested. He wants to keep his options open, and Warwick has put a spoke in his wheel. Too late now, though.’
‘Yes,’ John Neville agreed, and they rose and began to wander back to the house. ‘Too late now, I’m afraid.’
~~~
She died in 1492, Edward’s wife, and because in the end we were on pleasant terms I sorrowed for her death. She must have been close on sixty, for she was a good few years older than Edward. I wonder if she ever thought of writing down her life, to pass the time in her nunnery? What a romance that would make! Born a commoner – made a Queen – betrayed by her husband – forgiven by her brother-in-law – imprisoned by her son-in-law. (For it was imprisonment, though a polite word was put on it.) Poor woman. Well, I can say ‘poor woman’ now, but Jesu, the trouble she caused!
~~~
That day in mid-September we were in the Duchess’s solar after dinner, loafing and daydreaming. Richard was reading to us from Chaucer’s Book of the Duchesse. The ladies sewed, and Margaret, who was clever at languages, was translating to and fro between French and Italian versions of Chrétien de Troyes. I played a lazy game of chess with Anne, and I think we were all half asleep from good food and the warmth of the day.
The sound of galloping hooves roused us. Several men were approaching, and at speed. Richard leapt to the window. ‘It’s Cousin Warwick – and George.’ It was scarcely three days since Warwick had left. Of course our first thought was for the King... Plague… Rebellion… We ran to the hall just as Warwick burst in, nearly flattening the steward who held open the door.
‘What has happened?’ the Duchess demanded. ‘Is it Edward?’
George pushed past Warwick to take his mother’s hands. ‘Ned’s safe, Mother. Don’t look like that. Mother!’
‘Yes, I hear you. But what has happened?’
Warwick threw down his hat and gloves. Planting his fists on the table, he snarled, ‘I’ll tell you what has happened! Your son, Aunt, your son our glorious king has undone all my work, shattered any chance of agreement with France, brought this country to ruin, slighted me and insulted King Louis of France. Insulted all of us! Christ help us! The French marriage all agreed, everything arranged – ’
‘Dick!’ the Duchess said with such fury he was brought up sharp. ‘If you cannot tell us the plain tale, take your tantrum outside. What has happened?’
‘He is married.’
Well, Jesu, after that build-up we had expected war at the very least. The Duchess laughed with relief. ‘Married! Is that – ’ Then, realising: ‘Married? Whatever do you mean?’
‘Oddly enough, Aunt, I mean that he is married.’ The Duchess took cheek from no one; she gave him a look that had him shuffling his feet and tugging at his collar-band. ‘Madam, your pardon. But when you hear – ’
‘I am waiting to – ’
With a deep breath Warwick said, ‘He has married Elizabeth Woodville.’
It meant nothing to me, and Richard and the girls looked blank. The Duchess and Lady Warwick stared at each other, then spoke in unison. ‘Elizabeth Woodville?’
‘Yes. So you see.’
‘Indeed I do.’ Slowly the Duchess sat down. At her nod I poured wine.
‘Who is Elizabeth Woodville?’ Richard asked.
Warwick drained his cup in one swallow and held it out for more. ‘She is the daughter of that jumped-up squire Richard Woodville – Baron Rivers – and Jacquetta, the old Duchess of Bedford. Jacquetta was Henry the Fifth's sister-in-law and Bedford was hardly cold in his grave before she eloped with this penniless nobody... They have twelve children. Elizabeth is the eldest daughter. A widow; she was married to Sir John Grey, he died in battle at St Albans. The whole family is a nest of Lancastrians; her father and brother and husband all fought for Margaret of Anjou – God’s bones, it’s probably all a Lancastrian plot to bring Edward down. She’s years older than Edward, she has two great sons, she is nobody. A commoner. And Edward h
as married her.’
‘I believe she is very beautiful,’ George said innocently.
‘Oh yes, she is beautiful,’ the Duchess said. She too was on her second cup of wine. ‘All that family are. Warwick, Edward has actually married her? You are quite sure? It’s not simply some promise – ’
‘No. Married. Aunt Cecily, madam, he married her four months ago! Nearly five! Slunk off while I was busy managing his kingdom and married the bitch at her home, Grafton Regis, isn’t it? Married her in secret.’
‘Clandestine marriages are illegal,’ Lady Warwick objected.
‘Did it with witnesses, though, and a proper priest. And he sat there in Council and let me go right through the marriage treaty, every detail right down to the bows on his wedding-night bed-gown, then smirked like the cat that got the cream and said he could not marry Princess Bona because he was married already.’
‘Actually,’ George said, ‘I don’t think he smirked, cousin. He was damn nervous about telling us – which makes me wonder if he hasn’t already had second thoughts?’
Warwick cocked an eye at him. ‘Think the marriage could be overset?’
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