So I suppose the men of the north were not very impressed to have the King’s little brother foisted on them as their overlord. True, his mother was a Neville. True, he had been trained at Middleham. True, he had married Warwick’s daughter. True, he was a bonny fighter and he’d dealt with the Scots. Still, a southerner by birth and upbringing... Well, give the lad a chance, eh?
By the time I take up my story in 1475, you wouldn’t have found anyone north of the Trent with a bad word to say for him. Well, except perhaps for the Stanleys over in the northwest and Harry Percy of Northumberland. Rivalry between the Percys and the Nevilles went back for generations. Richard’s Wardenship of the West Marches had authority over Percy’s of the East and Middle Marches, but Richard was tactful with the prickly Earl, and if they were never close friends they soon achieved a modus operandi for the common weal. Percy was smart enough to see that it was a matter of coming to terms, or else see the North overrun by Scots. Despite the truce there were constant border raids, and to Richard fell the duties of seeing that the border castles were kept repaired and victualled, prisoners exchanged, envoys buttered up. He formed a council, a provincial seat of government and a court to which anyone could bring a dispute or complaint.
On the domestic side, Richard’s household was the greatest in the north. Although we roved between Sheriff Hutton, Pontefract, York and the border fortresses, Middleham was always our main residence. I still recall the day we arrived there. It was May, and spring had decked Wensleydale in lilac and green, blue and gold. The sky was an azure bowl, flecked with lambs’-tails of cloud. Beside the road primroses and windflowers stretched gaily to the sun. All around us reared the high hills, and ahead lay the stern bulk of the castle. I had been concerned about bringing Innogen here, for she had never been north of York, and what if she hated it? To me it was home, and I had planned for it to be so again. Of course we had our lands and houses in the south – Innogen’s in Kent and towards York, my patrimony in the Midlands and the new estates of Edward’s granting – but I was one of Richard’s household knights and commanders, and our brief was to keep the North. I could no more command Innogen to live unhappily than I could fly, yet I wanted her with me. But to my relief as we entered Middleham town I saw she was looking around in pleasure. Catching my eye, she nodded. For the last few miles John had been perched on my saddle bow, prattling questions about everything we passed on the way; now he too looked about brightly and said, ‘Pretty!’
I had wondered too about Anne. She had always loved Middleham, but might not returning here bring too sharp reminders of her father and a different form of happiness? She was gazing ahead, half-frowning at the banner flying from the castle’s topmost tower; no longer Warwick’s Bear and Ragged Staff in its scarlet and gold, but the Blanc Sanglier of Gloucester. Then, as I watched her, a smile lit her face. Her lips framed the word ‘Home,’ and she reached for Richard’s hand. Above us the castle gates opened, and Anne’s people formed up to welcome her back.
The townsfolk too gave us hearty welcome, running out to cheer us. Some of the women had little gifts for their new lady – a pot of honey, the cheesecakes they make so well in Yorkshire, a bunch of flowers, until she could hardly hold them all. Running backwards beside her horse to look at her, a grubby urchin stumbled and fell almost under her palfrey’s hooves. Terror flashed through Richard’s face and he grabbed for her bridle, but even with her lap full of presents Anne was a good horsewoman. She reined in, saying sternly, ‘Be careful there. You’re one of the Postlethwaites, aren’t you? Jacky – aye. Well, you should know better. Give my good wishes to your mother.’ It was no great feat of memory, for there was no mistaking one of the Postlethwaite brood, but the lad scampered away shouting that Lady Anne remembered me, aye she did, she knew me for Jacky Postlethwaite right off! And that was it – to all the Middleham people she was Lady Anne, who had come home. When they tried they remembered to call her ‘Your Grace’, but ask anyone who Lady Anne was and they’d look puzzled that you shouldn’t know.
Those towns-people remembered most of us, and kindly gave us a cheer as we rode through. Look, it’s Master Martin, eh, with the pretty new wife and the baby, and Lord Lovell, and that’s Rob Percy for sure, and Sir William Parre and Lord Scrope, and ain’t Duke Richard the fine man now, eh, and look at all the men-at-arms and the wagons. A few people noted John’s likeness to Richard, and there were knowing grins and elbows nudging ribs, but country people take a robust view of sexual peccadilloes. Richard had married Anne and brought her home, he was their good lord now, and to the people of the north he could do no wrong.
Thus we came home, and soon the north became our life. Middleham was always full, I suppose it was a rare day when less then three hundred sat down to dinner. There were always visitors – the Scropes of Bolton, the Scropes of Masham, Lord Greystoke, Miles Metcalfe the Recorder of York, Richard’s various Neville cousins, Lord Northumberland, the merchants and landowners of all around the North.
Also there was Lady Warwick, for in 1473 the King gave her permission to leave Beaulieu, and James Tyrell had conducted her north to Middleham. Whether George ever offered her a home with him and Isabel, I don’t know.
And children. A year after our Cecily’s birth Innogen gave me a son, Martin, and in 1474 twins, a boy and girl whom we called Richard and Alison. With Rob and Joyce Percy’s children, John, and Richard’s wards, quite a horde, especially once Richard’s daughter Katherine joined the household on her mother’s death.
So life was going along contentedly, when the King decided to invade France.
~~~
‘Who does he think he is,’ Innogen asked, ‘Henry the Fifth?’
Anne could still be faintly shocked by Innogen’s outspokenness, and she knew how Richard took any criticism of the King. But Richard and Innogen had settled into a relationship like that of brother and sister; they bickered and sparred, teased each other, united against outsiders, said the things no one else would dare to.
‘I believe he thinks he is King of England.’ Richard settled back with his feet outstretched and his arms behind his head. ‘But pray give us the benefit of your thoughts, Dame Robsart.’ He and Innogen regarded each other with a glint in their eyes.
‘Well,’ said Innogen, ‘this idea that England has some claim to France – ’
‘It has.’
‘Oh yes, I’ve read the Gesta Henrici Quintus, I’ve studied the arguments; rather thin, some of them. But yes, an hereditary claim. But who in their right mind would take it up?’ Innogen said thoughtfully. ‘So I wonder what he’s up to?’
‘Pray continue.’
‘Well, consider Henry the Fifth. He won a battle – all well and good. And spent the rest of his life, and half England’s money, trying to keep the French kingdom he’d won. And it went soon enough, didn’t it? Because it was impossible to maintain without committing all of England’s resources to just that task.’
‘It would have been different had Henry not died in 1421 leaving a baby as his heir. It was bad management and English faction-fighting during Henry the Sixth’s minority that lost us France.’
‘True – as I’m sure the King has considered. The same situation could arise again, his sons are only four and two. Now, the King being in full possession of his wits – ’ Richard bowed ironic thanks – ‘he is not going to waste years and fortunes fighting to hold what he wins in France. So what is he up to?’
‘England’s honour?’ suggested Anna Lovell. Innogen snorted, and I saw the corner of Richard’s mouth twitch.
‘Louis of France is a constant thorn in Edward’s flesh,’ he said. ‘He’s behind all our troubles with the Scots, and if he’s not behind these uprisings the Earl of Oxford’s always fomenting, I’ll be very surprised.’ No one wanted to remember, much less say, that Clarence was probably hand-in-glove with Oxford.
‘No one wants war?’ Anne said. ‘Surely? Especially not after a decade of civil war?’ She spoke calmly, for she was a rational
woman, but I caught the glances that flew among the women. For the first time I wondered what it was like for them to send their men to fight. I even worried if Innogen went to London without me.
‘No,’ said my darling, ‘no one wants war. The King surely doesn’t. But it is a real threat to France. Burgundy and England together – perhaps others – France has many enemies. But war? Invading France. No, it’s obvious.’
‘Then explain, my dear Innogen, for us less witty mortals.’
‘Oh dear, it’s bad enough for sarcasm, is it? Well, my dear Richard, I believe that the King will take a vast army to France – invade, in fact – and will make peace the first chance he gets. For a price.’
‘You think that, do you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wager on it?’
‘Whatever you like.’ Both angrier than they would admit, they eyed each other.
‘That jet and ivory chess set you love so much?’
‘Done. And I, dear Richard, have a great fancy for a diamond necklace. Earrings to match, I think.’
‘Done.’ They shook hands on it.
With the sublime tactlessness of children John piped up, worried, ‘Is Father angry with you, Mama?’
Innogen looked at Richard, eyebrows raised. Smoothing John’s hair he said, ‘No, John, I’m not. Your mother was merely speaking her mind. A short speech.’
Laughing, Jenny allowed the hit, and the matter rested. No one cared to make the point that there is nothing like a foreign war for keeping the peace at home; and George of Clarence had spent the last four years stirring the pot of domestic rebellion.
Well, then we were busy raising our army to take to France. Parliament had granted money to the King and, kicking and screaming, the people coughed up their ‘benevolences’, pretty word for a tax at sword-point. They say that one lady offered twenty pounds, whereupon Edward kissed her and she increased it to forty. All the great landowners were indentured to supply a certain number of men – in Richard’s case a thousand archers and a hundred and twenty men-at-arms, although eventually he raised some hundreds more, so eagerly did the men of the north respond. From my own lands I was able to raise nearly a hundred. Oh, it was a popular cause, despite the hated benevolences.
Not popular among our women, of course. Loyally Anne received the gentlemen who flocked into Middleham with their troops, carefully she mended Richard’s banners and saw to her side of the provisioning, but she went about heavy-eyed and silent. Innogen was sharp-tempered, Anna Lovell wept when she thought no one was watching. Joyce Percy was her brisk and practical self, but I knew she shared Innogen’s view of the venture and she grew quiet as time went on.
Supper on our last day was a miserable affair of food toyed with, conversations broken off. Once, when the minstrels ended a song, I heard Richard say in an undertone to Anne, ‘When it’s a matter of chivvying the Scots you send me off cheerfully enough –’
‘Cheerfully!’ She’d spoken too loudly, and everyone looked up. They smiled unconvincingly around, and changed the subject.
In bed that night I asked Innogen, ‘Why is it different this time? Why does it seem so bad?’
She rolled over to face me. In the candlelight her eyes were wide, dark. ‘Do you think we can ever take it as a matter of course? We get used to it, but we never cease to worry. But it is different this time, or it seems so. Patrolling the borders, or civil strife, is one thing. If England were invaded, that would be one thing. But seeking out war, making war, is different. You men, you like it, you want to go, it is more than duty or an exercise of power. And all we women can do is let you go, and wait, and hope that each letter isn’t bringing word of your death, every wagon we see coming isn’t bringing you home to die.’ She put her hand on my face, her fingers playing in my hair. ‘And if you die... I’m twenty-four, Anne is nineteen, and that’s a long time widowed. Oh, I’d survive, I have money, I could be independent; but what of all the life we’ve made? Our children? And for Anne – her life has been shattered once, by her father, she lost everything. She adores Richard. If he dies, she loses not only her husband but her home, her life, her lands. What is there for her but being forced to marry again at the King’s whim; that or a convent in the end. Me too.
‘Martin, I love you. Those are simple words to say you are my life, my heart’s desire, my companion in mirth, my friend. You complete me.’
We had our arms around each other now, she was crying, and if I’m honest I was near tears too. ‘All I can say is that I love you too, in the same way. I hate to leave you; but yes, I want to go. It is more than duty.’
‘And do you understand that it’s this unnecessary war–’
‘I think so. Yes. Though remember, sweetheart, that this is a way of drawing Louis’s sting, if we don’t take action against him it may well come to defending England against a French invasion.’
‘Perhaps. Yes.’
‘But anyway, you don’t believe it will mean battle.’
‘No. But still I fear for you.’
‘If you’re right the worst you have to fear for me is sea-sickness.’
She laughed despairingly, understanding, I think, that I joked because of my own fears. I licked the tears from her eyes, caressed her, and when I looked down at her during our lovemaking I saw her watching me with the hurt intensity of a child. No, not of a child – of a woman.
~~~
And so to the vasty fields of France, Harry V’s ‘Normandy Song’ in our ears and an army of some twelve thousand at our backs.
At Canterbury, where we mustered for the crossing, the first person we met was George.
Richard greeted him warily, but George was full of high spirits and kissed him with what looked like real affection. Well, probably it was, let’s not be too hard on him. I had forgotten how charming he could be, and my defences fell around me when he embraced me and greeted me by name. ‘Going to be sea-sick again?’ he teased. For a moment I wondered how he knew. It was odd to remember that within the changing, fleeting traitor lay the boy who had done his best to look after me and Richard on that first voyage to Burgundy.
‘Unless I’ve grown out of it, Your Grace, probably I am. What about you, do you still feed the fishes?’ For he had joined me at the rail many a time in 1461.
‘Hmm, not sure.’
‘Well, I hope not,’ said Richard, ‘for two of you might be beyond me. How many men did you bring, George?’
‘Around twelve hundred. You?’
‘About the same.’
‘Good,’ George said absently then – like Innogen – ‘Do you think this is all that it seems? Invading France seems rather rash. We’ll win, of course, but after that?’
‘No idea. I hope it doesn’t dwindle down to a long-drawn-out campaign. Edward thinks one brisk battle will do it, then we can treat with Louis as victors.’
‘And I hope he’s right. What about dear brother-in-law Charles?’
‘It’s in his interest to support us.’
‘Meaning you think he won’t?’
‘With Charles, who knows?’
‘True. Well, at least we’ll have the chance to see Margaret. Well – how is Anne?’
‘Well, thank you. Isabel? Your children?’ George had two now, a daughter Margaret, aged almost two, and a son Edward born earlier that year. His face lit up as he talked of them; he loved Isabel, but his children meant everything to him. Little Margaret, it seemed, was not only the most beautiful but the most intelligent child ever, and the boy full of promise. And through all that happened, that is how I remember George, prattling like any proud father about his children.
~~~
They were right to doubt Charles of Burgundy. For some reason known only to himself he had darted off to besiege Neuss, a place of no strategic importance, and Edward cooled his heels at Calais for ten days until in mid-July the Duke appeared. And where, pray, was the army he had promised? – if it had ever existed outside his head, which I doubt, for he arrived with no more
than a bodyguard. But never fear, he assured Edward, with an army such as this English one we could sweep through Europe even unto the very gates of Rome. With, of course, a detour to help Charles bring Lorraine to heel. All for the greater glory of Charles of Burgundy. One could almost hear the fanfares, the triumphal marches being sung.
Edward kindly declining these weird suggestions, Charles came to the point. The Count of St Pol was on our side and would turn St Quentin over to us – why not begin there, take the city and make it our base? Why not indeed, so off we set. Without Charles, of course, who went to visit Margaret at St Omer. We passed the site of the battle of Agincourt, wondering if we were bound for the same glory. But at St Quentin we found that either Charles had been deceived – or deluded – or St Pol had turned his coat again, for the town was heavily defended, and opened fire on us.
Louis was marching upon us with a great army, laying waste to the countryside so there was no provisioning for us. Edward had nearly exhausted his money. Charles was nowhere.
So what to do?
I must say that in Edward’s shoes I probably would have done what he did; perhaps it was what he had intended all along. A captured nobleman was allowed to overhear certain conversations, then to escape back to King Louis – and promptly came the French offer to meet for parley. Alluring hints were dropped about peace terms.
Edward called his commanders to conference. It was three years since I had seen him. He had put on flesh, yet his face was more lined than I remembered. His eyes were bloodshot, and he looked older than his thirty-three years; older and, despite the paddy flesh, harder. He had come to this meeting in a long gown of royal purple lined with crimson – the King in Council, not the royal warrior. By contrast his brothers wore short jackets over riding breeches and boots, and they looked more alike than I ever remembered, both sitting with one booted foot on the other knee.
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