‘Much as I’d like to think so: no. And knowing Edward, the marriage has been well and truly consummated. That was the whole point, of course: she is the one woman he couldn’t bed unless he married her.’
‘The oldest trick in the book,’ snarled Warwick, ‘and that idiot fell for it! Unforgivable in anyone of breeding and alleged sense; the humblest apprentice wouldn’t fall for that one – and Edward is the King.’
‘Woodville,’ said Richard, ‘Lord Rivers – isn’t he the one you and Edward took prisoner back in ’60, cousin, when you sailed across from Calais?’
‘Yes. And his mincing son, Anthony. And, as if the marriage itself is not bad enough, the woman has this great family, two sons and eleven brothers and sisters, Edward will have to provide for them all, heaven knows how, and I bet they’ll be trying to make themselves a power in the land. Oh, Jesu, why did he do it!’ He was almost crying. Rather pathetically he asked the Duchess, ‘Couldn’t you speak to him, Aunt Cecily?’
‘I most certainly will. But if the marriage is legal, and consummated, there is nothing to be done.’
‘There must be something!’
‘What?’
But Warwick didn’t know. Or not then.
~~~
‘Of course it’s obvious why he did it,’ George said to Richard and me that night in our bedchamber. ‘The bitch is incredibly beautiful – Edward wanted her – she held out for a wedding ring.’ He glanced around to be sure we were not overheard. ‘They say her mother dabbles in witch-craft.’ Instinctively we crossed ourselves. ‘There was talk of it years ago when she was married to Bedford. Nothing easier than to cast a little spell to bewitch the king. Though I doubt it was necessary; the woman’s famously beautiful, and no one has ever said no to Edward before. How could he be so stupid! Warwick’s right, it’s such an insult to France we will be at war soon. And it has insulted and humiliated Warwick.’
‘Perhaps,’ Richard said, ‘he should have been a little less sure he could rule the King.’
George stared at him. ‘But he made Edward king!’
‘Did he?’ This was heresy; George and I gaped. ‘Look, of course Warwick is Edward’s most loyal supporter; he is family; he controls more men than anyone else in the country. But he doesn’t win battles, does he? He made a pig’s breakfast of St Albans. He didn’t fight at Mortimer’s Cross; Edward alone won that battle, and then he won Towton. Warwick did none of that. And all the recent fighting, Hedgeley Moor, Hexham, all of that – those victories were John’s.’
Yes, I thought, that’s fact; Edward could not have done it without the Neville connection, but perhaps Warwick was more talk than substance.
George was gaping like a carp again. ‘I know you think Edward’s perfect – ’
‘No,’ Richard said placidly, ‘but I think he is a brilliant soldier and does his best to be a good king, and Warwick played a much smaller part than he cares to have people remember.’
‘A good king – with this marriage?’
‘No, there he was absolutely wrong. But he is king, and Warwick has to accept it.’
‘He will not.’
‘He must.’
And there, I later realised, you had the whole thing, in those two sentences between those two brothers. George was for Warwick, Richard for Edward. To Richard a subject must accept the King’s decisions; to George, no. Nor to Warwick.
~~~
At Michaelmas we went to Reading to see Elizabeth Woodville presented as Queen. This was not her coronation, of course, but now the cat was out of the bag Edward had to put a formal gloss on things. Or, as George put it, to force the woman down the country’s throat.
So you see us there in Reading Abbey, your humble servant squashed in between half the nobility of England and, in an impressive show of family solidarity, just about every Neville and Plantagenet above ground. In view of what happened over the next few years it might sound incredible that it was George and Warwick who escorted the new Queen into the chapel, but that is what happened. Edward had been at pains to make peace by giving them this honour, and I must say they carried it off well, even if they did look as if someone had clipped them over the back of the head with a brick.
I had expected Elizabeth Woodville to be boldly handsome, a bosomy, sensual woman, so the ice-maiden perfection of her beauty astounded me. She was small and slender, the top of her head barely reaching Edward’s shoulder, and she had the unusual combination of brown eyes and very pale, almost silvery, hair. And she was truly, truly beautiful. No wonder Edward had been so thoroughly ensnared.
For ensnared he certainly was. Throughout the ceremony he couldn’t take his eyes off the woman, and afterwards, when she was privately presented to his family, it went to my heart to see him frisking and simpering, hanging on her every word. Not that she uttered many words. Far from the simple, good-hearted country girl I had half expected, she was cold, haughty and arrogant, and clearly thought ordinary politeness beneath her. When I was presented to her she did not so much as look at me. Well, I was only an insignificant boy, yet she could have been civil. I was her husband’s cousin, after all, and although I had no title or great fortune, the Sieur de Robessarte who came over with the Conqueror had been of high family when the Woodvilles were still shovelling dung. Foolish woman, she made enemies that day, and by doing so she wrenched England’s history out of true.
Elizabeth’s many enemies, such as Warwick, called her haughty rudeness the mark of ill-breeding, but in fact she was quite well-born, for her mother was the niece of the Count of St Pol, and her father was of no worse than modest stock. As I was to learn, the trouble was that Elizabeth Woodville simply wasn’t very bright. None of that family ever had any brains, even her brother Anthony was more learned than intelligent, and her two sons from her first marriage, Thomas and Richard Grey, were frankly thick. Also, the Woodvilles were not a rich family, and they had the touchy pride of poverty.
The other thing that struck me about Elizabeth was that she had no sense of humour whatsoever; she had the clear ha-ha-ha laugh of the utterly humourless. Well, she was lovely, chaste, devout and fertile, and I don’t suppose Edward married her for witty conversation. Can’t have everything.
What took place among the adults that night I don’t know, though I can imagine. Sent off to bed, Richard and I exchanged a glance, then resolutely refused to talk about it at all. Even more resolutely did we refuse to admit, even to ourselves, that some of our adoring admiration of Edward had been chipped away.
Three
1464 –1468
In the following May, Elizabeth was duly crowned Queen. By then, however, Richard and I were up in Yorkshire, at Warwick’s castle, Middleham, in the first year of our knight’s training. It may seem odd that after the Reading fiasco, and the no doubt frank exchange of views between Warwick and the King, we should go to Warwick’s household. But it was what had been planned, and to make a change would have caused an open breach, which no one was yet prepared to allow. Certainly Edward, saying farewell to us, spoke of nothing but his complete confidence in Warwick and the training we would receive, and he and the Earl embraced with genuine affection.
It took us two weeks to reach Middleham. I have since ridden the distance in three days, but on that first journey we were held down to the lumbering pace of the baggage wagons and Lady Warwick’s litter. With Edward and Richard I had travelled in royal style, but I was astounded when I first realised the size of Warwick’s entourage. I had vaguely pictured a dozen of us on horseback with a couple of carts, and I could hardly comprehend this mile-long train. There were some five hundred men-at-arms in their scarlet livery, and ten of the wagons held their equipment as well as their arms. Two wagons carried Warwick’s upper servants – his secretaries, his cooks, his butler and panterer, his valets de chambre, his grooms and pages, the minstrels, Lady Warwick’s and Isabel’s maids; Anne’s nurse and the chaplains. (The rest of the servants piled hugger-mugger into a cart towards the rear of the train
.) Three more wagons held linen, carpets, tapestries, chests of books and papers, Warwick’s travelling bed and his beloved carved chairs, as well as such small items as cushions, stools and tables. Another was entirely given over to clothing; yet another, heavily guarded, to coffers of jewels, glass, and gold and silver plate. One wagon bore the wine Warwick had purchased in London and another was stuffed with food.
To my amusement I discovered that Warwick believed himself to be travelling light.
Add to all this the men surrounding Lady Warwick’s litter, and the girls on their ponies; add too, Warwick himself with friends and kinsmen taking advantage of a safe journey north and, lost in the middle, Richard and me, and you have some idea of what a right royal progress it was: the progress of England’s richest man. The first time we stopped overnight at an Abbey you would have thought it was the king indeed.
We came to Middleham at the close of day. Tired out, we looked at the high rectangular bulk of the castle with relief, sighing at the pleasant thought of baths and wine and comfortable beds. The steward came out to greet his lord and lady, and we were conducted straight up the outside staircase into the great hall. Here a fire was burning briskly, a welcome sight for although it was spring, the North was still very cold. I had seen snow lingering on the highest peaks. The hall held a degree of luxury I had rarely seen even at Court or Baynard’s Castle – arrases on every wall, carpets as well as rushes underfoot, splendid silver on even the lowest tables. Warwick would tolerate nothing but the best wax candles, so the room was lit with uncommon brilliance.
Supper was served at once, and an excellent meal it was. Ah, we thought, this is the life, and we could hardly bear to leave the hall for the chapel.
The moment Mass was over, however, Warwick beckoned over a man in the plain clothing of an upper servant. ‘This is my Master of Henchmen, who will be in charge of you now. Boys, I bid you goodnight.’
A little bemused, we said our goodnights to Lady Warwick and the girls, and followed this man to what he called the dormitory. I had only heard the word used for monks’ quarters in monasteries, and as we climbed staircase after staircase, up into the very highest and farthest reaches of the castle, I began to wonder if we had been mistaken about the good life we had come to.
At last the man stopped outside a door. ‘Your dormitory, gentlemen. Your baggage has been brought up. There is a bed set aside for you. The other gentlemen will show you what to do. I wish you goodnight.’
I have since read of that Greek trimmer Alcibiades betraying Athens and going over to Sparta. No doubt he found his consolations, as did we eventually, but I wonder if Sparta was as great a shock to him as Middleham’s training school was to us?
We went into a large, bare, stonewalled room with not so much as a cushion to soften its bleakness. There were three beds (which at least had good thick curtains), three clothes chests, six cloak pegs, three candelabra, and a table down the middle of the room holding three washbasins. Beside each of these lay a pile of towels, a comb and brush, and soap. That was all. No fire burned in the hearth; we were to learn that bedroom fires stopped on Lady Day.
I suppose we looked around in horror, for a brown-haired lad sitting cross-legged on one of the beds said, ‘Cheer up, you’ll soon get used to it.’ Then at a nudge from one of his fellows, a blond boy mending a bow, he scrambled to his feet and bowed to Richard. ‘Your Grace,’ he said formally. ‘May I present myself? I am Robert Percy, head of this dormitory. This is John Milwater – ’ the blond boy bowed – ‘and Thomas Parr.’ He was dark and had freckles.
‘Good evening. I am Richard Gloucester and this is my cousin Martin Robsart.’ We all looked at one another with the witless smiles of shy goodwill. ‘Er – the Master said one of you would tell us what to do?’
‘Go to bed,’ Robert said with a grin. ‘It’s the rule: washed and into bed by eight of the clock, with the candles out. You two are to have the bed near the door; it’s warmer.’ And that, we learned, was the sole recognition of Richard’s rank, that and the fact that we were placed in what we learned was the smallest dormitory, with only these three other boys. Warwick had some fifteen boys in training at the time, and the rest pigged it in one large room. ‘The garderobe is along to your right outside the door,’ Robert went on, ‘and that is about all there is to know.’
‘Oh, well, thank you.’ Not meeting each other’s eye, Richard and I prepared for bed. The moment we were snuggled down Robert extinguished the candles. Almost at once the door opened and the Master said, ‘Goodnight, gentlemen.’ Silence reigned. Richard slid his icy feet against mine. Shivering, we didn’t quite like to huddle together as we usually did, in case the others heard us and thought us soft.
‘Prince Richard?’ came Robert’s voice out of the darkness.
‘Yes?’
‘We wondered – I hope it is not an impertinence, but here in private must we address you as Your Grace?’
‘Oh no,’ Richard said at once, leaning up on his elbow to pull the bed curtains a little aside. ‘Not unless it’s expected. I would rather you didn’t. I’m Richard, he is Martin.’
‘And I’m Rob to everyone.’ I could tell by Robert’s voice that Richard had passed a test. ‘Tom is Tom and John is – ’
‘John, by any chance?’
They all laughed. ‘Yes, never Jack. The Master calls us ‘gentlemen’, usually with sarcasm, and by our Christian names. He’s good, though, tough but fair. If you have any difficulties at first you can go to him. Well, goodnight.’
‘Yes, goodnight,’ we all said, ‘Sleep well.’
I thought I had barely fallen asleep when a bell rang. I jerked upright and tugged back the curtains to see the other boys climbing out of bed and the Master standing in the doorway swinging a large brass bell. ‘Downstairs at once, gentlemen,’ he said with what I thought an evil smile. Quickly I shook Richard awake and we joined the frantic bustle to dress and wash, then panted after the others downstairs into the courtyard.
‘What about breakfast?’ Richard asked Rob, who said only,
‘Later. Exercises first.’
Exercises? It was barely light! But exercises it indeed was, by the light of the torch the Master held. Jumping and running on the spot, knee bends, push-ups, then just when I was sure I would die it was light enough for the morning run, two miles, around the castle, down to the river, back again, all at breakneck speed. In warmer weather, we learnt, we would also play tennis or shoot, or start the day with a swim.
‘Welcome to Middleham,’ Rob said wryly as, red-faced and gasping, we staggered after him into a bare, scrubbed room downstairs. It held two long tables, so at least we were now to be fed. The food was good and plentiful – a mess of oatmeal which to my surprise I came to like; all the fresh milk and ale we could drink, bacon and beef, eggs, fish, cheese and day-old bread (pancakes on high days) and fruit, always fruit, for Warwick believed it kept one from becoming costive. Over breakfast we had a chance to meet the other boys who were to become our ‘marrers’, as the Yorkshire expression goes: friends, comrades.
After breakfast it was down to lessons: Latin, Greek, French, logic, rhetoric and grammar, penmanship, mathematics, law, until dinner at eleven o’clock. At meals we took turns to serve at table, for we had to learn the ritual of service, all the duties of laverer, butler, panterer and sewerer. After dinner we had an hour for quiet recreation, for Warwick believed exercise too soon after eating was bad for you. Afternoons were devoted to the knightly arts: learning to fight with sword and dagger, with the battle-axe, the mace, and every other weapon our instructors could think of; to fight on foot, on horseback, and unarmed, and to ride bareback and without reins, or on war-horses fully armed and accoutred. We learned to arm a knight for battle, and every other detail of a squire’s duties, and to load and fire cannon and the new handguns Warwick was so keen on, to use a crossbow and longbow with deadly accuracy. An hour a day was given over to tilting at the quintain and learning the ritual of the joust. By late a
fternoon it was back to the schoolroom to study strategy and tactics and the great commanders’ campaigns. Then, after a swim when it was fine weather, we had to wash and change for supper and for an evening spent making music, dancing, and practising elegant conversation with Lady Warwick and her daughters. We were expected to master at least three instruments, and to know something of the theory of music. The day closed with reading from the classical works, then after Compline, bed – except on Saturdays, when we had our baths. Warwick believed one should keep one’s body as clean as one’s weapons.
As I write this, using the elegant Italian hand we learnt at Middleham, I flex the finger broken at sword practice and feel again the twinges and aches of the first months of training, and remember the bliss of falling into bed each night, wondering in the few moments before sleep claimed me if I could survive another day. Survive I did, of course, and soon I began to like it. I discovered I had a knack for soldiering. I had to work hard, however, not to be quite out-stripped by Richard. By the end of the first summer we’d grown, we were brown and fit and hard. Our particular friends were Rob Percy, Tom Parr, John Milwater. Later Francis, Lord Lovell joined us – he was married to Warwick’s niece Anna Fitzhugh – and although he was a few years our junior we took to him and made him part of our group.
It was not all work, of course. We always made holiday on saints’ days and festivals, or whenever there was a fair within a half-day’s ride. In summer Warwick was fond of taking the entire household to some pleasant spot in the dales, there to eat our dinner in the sun and pass the lazy time with songs and stories or what games we chose. As well, there were outings to the great abbeys of Yorkshire, where Warwick bought his splendid horses, or to visit neighbouring landowners. We were always at York for Corpus Christi, and I still think the Miracle Plays by the York Guilds the best in England. Twice Warwick took us boys to Scarborough to teach us something of sea-faring. After the first experiment he left me at home, for I am living proof that those old sailors’ cures – drinking a mug of seawater, or swallowing a lump of salt pork on a string and pulling it back up – do nothing for seasickness. There were also Richard’s official duties to give us time away from learning, so really, after the first few months, once we became used to it, it was a good life.
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