At the door he turned back. ‘Richard – don’t expect it to be exciting. This is not war, and if it were, like it or not I would go on protecting you, my dear, and you’d have no part to play. I’m taking you only to give you experience of something other than dipping your wick. It won’t even be very interesting.’
Edward had many gifts, but not the gift of prophecy. Nor was his judgement always very good.
Two months later Warwick took him prisoner.
Five
1469
‘I’m a tyrant,’ Edward read. ‘A despot.’ Robin of Redesdale’s proclamation, torn from a village church door, was tattered and grubby. The King held it as if it were arse-wipes. ‘A tyrant like unto Edward II – Richard II – oh and Henry VI. Never thought of the poor old boy as despotic; rather the contrary one would have said... All deposed kings, you’ll notice... Hmm, avaricious favourites sucking the country’s blood – favourites! Makes me sound like a damned sodomite. Refusing the rule to those with the right – Warwick, of course. And my darling brother George. So.’ He screwed the paper into a ball and threw it into the fire. ‘And this ‘Robin of Redesdale’ is Warwick’s man, Conyers. I apologise to all of you who tried to make me believe Warwick meant real trouble.’
‘It’s to your credit, sire, that you were loath to believe it.’ That was his father-in-law, Earl Rivers, toadying busily.
‘To my credit as a man, perhaps; not as a king or soldier. So. What’s to do?’ When no one spoke he said, ‘Richard?’ A few weeks ago his brother would have been the last man he would have called upon. I suppose he had expected us to be little better than a nuisance, a formless group of boys needing guidance and care. (If so, he had under-rated both Richard and Warwick.) He had blinked when he came down prompt at nine that first morning to see a neat, well-equipped little troop standing briskly under Richard’s White Boar banner – blinked, then nodded in indulgent approval. Gradually he had forgotten about being indulgent, and by the time we heard that ‘Robin of Redesdale’ was advancing on us with an army and we had had to bolt for the safety of Nottingham Castle, he treated Richard like any of his other captains. And now, surrounded by his in-laws, the King turned to his brother.
Richard said, ‘Your Grace, if I may speak bluntly?’ Edward nodded, and for a heartbeat their eyes met. ‘Of course these ‘favourites’ in Warwick’s proclamation are the Queen’s family, and they may be at risk. We have scarcely two hundred men with us; this ‘Robin’ has perhaps five times that and is advancing on us rapidly. I think my lords and Sir John Woodville should get away to safety, now.’ To his credit Anthony Woodville protested, but his father and brother couldn’t agree fast enough. ‘Then send for more men; Lord Hastings is closest, and Lords Devon and Pembroke can join us quickly.’
‘Yes. Yes.’ Edward clapped Lord Rivers on the shoulder. ‘Gloucester’s right. Head for wherever you can be safe, and lie low for a while. Go now.’ They almost got jammed in the doorway, so quickly did they depart. ‘Where’s my secretary? Right, you heard the Duke. Prepare letters to Hastings and the Earls of Devon and Pembroke, the usual thing. And I think I’ll call Warwick and Clarence’s bluff.’ Richard raised one eyebrow. ‘Tempt them out into the open, dear cousin Archbishop Neville also. Martin, pen and paper, please. Right, now. Three loving letters in my own hand; that should impress them.’
‘Depends what you say.’
‘Why, that I’m distressed at the rumours that they are against me and long for the reassuring sight of their beloved faces.’
~~~
Whether Edward’s letters ever reached the conspirators I don’t know. They were in Calais, marrying Warwick’s daughter Isabel to George of Clarence.
But they were soon back, and by late July three armies were about to collide – on our side, ours with the Earls of Devon and Pembroke; on the side of the Prince of Darkness, Warwick moving quickly up from the south and ‘Robin of Redesdale’ from the north. Once Lord Hastings arrived with reinforcements, we moved gingerly south from Nottingham.
The first we knew of the disaster was at Olney. There is no mistaking refugees from a battle, and these scurrying men wore the badges of Devon and Pembroke. Quickly we had the story – the two earls’ forces somehow became separated, and ‘Robin’ and Warwick fell on Pembroke’s army and wiped them out. Pembroke and his brother had been executed at the Nevilles’ headquarters, and Warwick and Clarence were even now leading a great force down upon us.
Caught out, under-manned, neither ready nor equipped for a battle, Edward dismissed those of his men who hadn’t already taken to their heels. So there we were – the King, Lord Hastings, Richard, and me. They tried to make me go too, and called me brave when I refused, but I remembered a boy of eighteen holding me as I wept for my parents, I remembered Richard’s friendship, and their mother’s loving care for me. If they were to die, I would die with them. It was friendship, or love, and if that’s courage, well, perhaps they are often not so different.
So we waited together, eating the last of our food and cracking bad jokes to pass the time, and soon we saw the cloud of dust on the horizon. Out of it appeared George Neville, Archbishop of York, ecclesiastically clad in full armour, the prick.
‘Ah, cousin!’ beamed Edward. ‘Well met!’
‘Er – ’
‘You come most timely to escort me to –?’
‘Warwick – ’
‘My dear cousin, the town, or the castle?’
‘All three... ’
‘Excellent! Ex-cell-ent! He has had my letter, I trust? You too? Now tell me, is it true my scamp of a brother has married that pretty little niece of yours?’
Looking like seven bells struck, the Archbishop said, ‘Quite true.’
‘Charming! I must think of an appropriate wedding gift for them.’ Edward smiled, or at least bared his teeth. ‘Well, there’s no point in stewing here in the sun. Richard, Will, Martin, thank you for bearing me company while I waited. God keep you.’ He rode forward with such aplomb that the Archbishop could only turn his horse and follow.
~~~
We headed for Fotheringhay, where the Queen was still enjoying her mother-in-law’s hospitality. Richard had sent his other squires ahead, so the castle was a-bustle when we rode in. The Duchess had mounted a guard – of course, she was an old hand at this sort of thing, and her fear showed only in the intensity with which she embraced Richard. By contrast the Queen was in a panic, near hysterics.
‘Where is the King! What has happened?’ Lord Hastings explained. The Queen fell back, blenching. ‘Warwick has taken him prisoner?’
‘In effect, Madam, yes.’
The Duchess said a French word that frankly I wouldn’t have thought she’d know. Travel broadens the mind, of course.
So tired his eyes were crossing Richard said, ‘Madam, they won’t dare harm him.’
‘They’ll kill him!’ the Queen shrieked, and began to scream and sob. I knew the Duchess itched to smack her, but she said gently,
‘My dear, take heart of grace. All shall be well.’
‘Well! Well! Oh! Oh! What will become of us?’
‘Madam,’ said Richard, ‘you are safe here. Lord Hastings’ men will guard you and your daughters. You will come to no harm, and nor will the king, I promise you.’
‘You promise.’ The pretty Woodville eyes moved over him in contempt. ‘What can you do!’ Again the Duchess made a tiny movement as of a slap aborted.
‘Madam, I can raise an army.’ As if ordering dinner. ‘Between us Lord Hastings and I will rouse the country. London is always staunch for Edward, and Charles of Burgundy will help.’ We hoped. ‘Warwick has a lot of support, yes, but the King has more. We will write to and visit every man who can raise troops. England won’t lie down under this, its king being taken prisoner by a couple of over-mighty subjects. And Warwick certainly won’t harm the King, that’s not the idea at all. No doubt Edward will agree to a few concessions to make them think they have their own way, but they are in for
a surprise.’
~~~
And so it proved. I must have ridden more than a thousand miles in the next few weeks as we quartered the country calling on every nobleman whose loyalty we could trust, explaining, giving the formal letters signed by the King’s brother and Lord Chamberlain. England was in uproar. The Duke of Burgundy threatened war; London rioted; John Neville refused to have any truck with his brothers’ schemes.
Hastings’ men found friends in the Warwick garrison, who reported that the King was in good health and heart and about to be moved north to Middleham. Off I galloped again, and at Middleham I was able to smuggle a message in to Francis Lovell, still reluctantly at his books in the household there. He would get news in to the King, and out to us.
I have to say that everyone thought the whole business would fizzle out. We trusted in Edward to contrive something. But Warwick and Clarence had executed the Earls of Pembroke and Devon, and some of their kin and supporters. And they caught and executed the Queen’s father and her brother John.
At this, even the most rabidly anti-Woodville people rose up. No one wanted to see rebels assuming the royal power for private vengeance. Warwick tried to call a Parliament in the King’s name. He could not. He tried to raise troops to put down a Lancastrian rising in the north. He could not. Not while he held the King prisoner. His coup d’état was a fiasco.
And in September Warwick and Clarence looked out from Pontefract Castle to see a force thousands strong, under the banners of Gloucester, Hastings, Buckingham, Howard, Suffolk, Northumberland, Norfolk, Essex, Arundel, Dacre, Mountjoy; I can’t remember them all.
‘My escort to London,’ said the King (so he told us) and, thanking his brother and cousin for their hospitality, he strolled out of Pontefract to freedom.
I remember that little scene vividly – the King strolling casually through the gate, pulling on his gloves and swinging his cloak over his shoulder; Warwick and Clarence behind him, their faces holding no expression at all. A squire unfurled the Royal Banner, and under its flapping shade Edward fell into Richard’s arms. ‘Oh Dickon, thank God for you,’ he whispered, ‘thank God.’ He was shaking with tension released, and as they hugged you would have been hard put to say which was the elder of the two.
‘It turned out quite exciting after all,’ Richard murmured, and gave the King a hand up into the saddle. Edward laughed, and leaned down to kiss him again. And I saw Warwick’s and Clarence’s faces, and almost crossed myself at such open, vengeful malice.
The Archbishop had the gall to join Edward’s triumphal procession to London. Edward sent him home.
~~~
Now Edward had to set about mending the damage. His grip on the Crown had been loosened; time, now, to show he was secure. Of course he should have sent Warwick and Clarence to the block for treason, and many people begged him to do just that, but he held off, and in fact was at pains to placate them. It was no time to goad them into civil war. But to the Welsh the time seemed ripe to rise against the English king, and with rebellion boiling they seized Carmarthen and Cardigan castles. Time for every last Lancastrian to emerge squeaking from the woodwork.
There was no more talk of protecting the inexperienced little brother. Edward made Richard Constable of England for life, and President of the Court of Chivalry and of Courts Martial, enlarging the Constable’s traditional powers so he had the power to execute traitors. He also granted him lands, and appointed him Chief Justice of North Wales and Chief Steward of Wales for the Earldom of March. Then he sent him west to stamp out the troubles.
Military skill evidently runs in families. Under Richard we raised those Welsh sieges in no time flat, and soon the bards who had sung of glorious war against the Saxons were slinking back into the mountains. At first men who had fought under Edward looked dubiously at his younger, smaller, inexperienced brother, but those who had served with the Duke of York said Chip off the old block. In the field efficiency is more valuable, and rarer, than you might think, and Richard had the knack of handling men. Soldiers will always follow a brave leader; they will love one who cares about them as individuals. Edward was famous for remembering people, I’ve seen him greet by name a man met only once, ten years before. Richard had the same knack; perhaps it is part of the royal heritage. If the interest is genuine, men like a commander who remembers that a baby is due, or asks after Tom’s ailing mother. On the other hand, anyone trying to take advantage of Richard never tried it a second time, especially once he realised that under his command they were well-fed, well-housed, well-equipped, and that he always put them first. It was the same in the towns; although the Welsh were never more than courteous, the English saw Richard taking pains to consider their civic pride. He always called on the Mayor and Council, asked permission to billet troops, noted down every problem they wanted referred to the King. In Gloucester, particularly, town of his dukedom, they thought the sun shone out of him – and eighteen months later that saved our lives.
So quickly did Richard fulfil his commission that we were back in London by Christmas. I would as soon have stayed away, for now I had had a taste of real soldiering life at Court was a hollow thing; especially without Innogen. But the King had asked Richard to come, to help him choke down the snarling jollities of a Christmas not only seething with outraged Woodvilles but honoured by the presence of Warwick and Clarence. All was sweetness and light, you see, forgiveness all round, everyone friends again.
We arrived in London late in the day, tired, wet and irritable, longing for hot water, hot wine, and bed, and in no mood to find our way blocked. (London’s the very devil for that, or was in my time. Much as I love that city I’m the first to admit her streets are too narrow, straggling without form or plan and always filthy with mud and rubbish. If you ask me they should ban all wheeled traffic within the walls. There has been many a hand-to-hand fight when the retinue of one nobleman has found its way blocked by that of some other. Still, Londoners like a free show.)
We were about to turn off Watling Street when a group of men-at-arms filled the way, coming from our right. We pulled up, and peering through the drizzle I made out Clarence’s Black Bull insignia on the men – and, behind them, Warwick’s. Richard could have asserted his rank to make Warwick give way to him, but his lifted hand stayed us and we watched them pass. They didn’t see us waiting there, the King’s loyal brother and his men shivering in sopping cloaks over battered leathers and scratched armour.
Sleek with confidence, bouncing with hubris, the Earl waved to the street crowds. Behind him rode a little group of ladies. Warwick liked his womenfolk to ride side-saddle in London, he thought it elegant. It always looks unsafe to me, but I admit it gives a pretty effect with the ladies’ gowns draping gracefully down their steeds’ flanks. In fact even in that murky light the whole cavalcade had the vivid elegance of an illustration in a Book of Hours – the bright flowing colours, the glint of gold and flash of jewels, the proud horses, the banners. No – it reminded me of the story that terrified me in childhood, that on a certain night the King and Queen of Elfland come out into the mortal world, riding in glory with their court, seeking humans to kill.
As they passed, one of the ladies glanced idly around. Her cloak’s furry hood framed an enchantingly pretty face. I had recognised the Countess of Warwick, and from the way Clarence rode close to it that litter must hold his new Duchess; but this girl was unknown to me. I said as much to Richard when at last we rode on.
Yawning with cold he said, ‘No, it was Anne.’
‘Anne? Little Anne? She doesn’t look like that!’
‘I wish I knew everything like you. It was Anne. It seems she’s grown up.’ He sounded thoughtful. I knew that tone. Oh no. Not Anne. Anyone but Warwick’s daughter.
Not that I was convinced that lovely girl was Anne, or not until the banquet the following night. This was the great kiss-and-make-up feast with most of the nobility, and on the King’s left at high table we see his dear brother George looking like the cat that
swallowed the cream, and his loyal cousin the Earl of Warwick, late murderer of the Queen’s relations.
It pleases me to report that that street glimpse of the treacherous pair riding so prideful and sleek had stung Richard into asserting both his royal rank and his position as the King’s highest lieutenant. He took pains to arrive last, and had himself announced with the full formality of trumpet fanfare and the seneschal bellowing every title he possessed. And of course we had dressed for the occasion; we were fresh from our third bath in two days, our hair gleamed with washing, we were shaved, groomed and polished to perfection. I rather fancied myself in green velvet with cloth of silver and a tasteful diamond or two (I had also profited from the King’s gratitude) but Richard was magnificent, and it was the first time the Court had seen him in his adult splendour. He wore dark blue that night, blue velvet on cloth of gold, patterned with York white roses fashioned with pearls and diamonds, the huge sleeves of his doublet caught in by jewelled wristbands. His belt was of gold links clasped with sapphires and diamonds, his stockings were of paler blue silk and his shoes scarlet leather (the devil to walk in, those piked shoes with the long stuffed toes; I was glad when that little fashion took itself into the past.) He wore the Garter, and around his neck a gold and sapphire chain held a White Boar pendant of enamel. When he strode into the Great Hall there was a moment when few recognised him – he had grown physically as well as mentally in the last six months, irrevocably changed from boy to man; he had authority. Ignore or patronise him at your peril, now.
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