A shout came from among the gentlemen in the courtyard and Lord Lovell raised his arm to signal to us.
The Duke placed his gloved hand on my shoulder.
‘Come, Matt, we must be on our way again. And I am relying on you to put young Edward at his ease.’
As we walked back, Edward emerged from the house, flanked by the Duke of Buckingham and several soberly dressed older men, presumably the chamberlain and tutor the Duke had mentioned, and other members of the new King’s household. Soon they and we were all mounted – Edward on the fine-boned chestnut Lord Lovell had seized earlier – and back on the main road, travelling away from the morning sun towards Northampton. This time our party, now numbering several hundred men, rode at a more sedate pace, under not just the Dukes’ but also the King’s colourful banners. Rearing lion, white boar, leopards, silver rose and golden suns fluttered all together in the stiffening breeze.
After a few minutes I pushed Bess into a trot and wound a way through the King’s gentlemen until I was riding next to Edward himself. Several of the older men glanced askance at my impudence, but as the King showed no surprise at my approach, and even raised his riding whip to salute me, they voiced no complaint.
‘Matthew, isn’t it? I remember you from my father’s court at Westminster. And your little hound.’
‘I’m honoured, Your Grace.’
As ever, I was recollected as much for Murrey, slung across my saddle bow as usual now except on the shortest of journeys.
Edward reached across with his riding crop to tickle her behind her ear. Waking, she lifted her head and gnawed gently at its leather tip.
A smile touched the King’s pale lips.
‘Does she still dance?’
‘Aye, Your Grace. Since you taught her so well at Twelfth Night.’
His expression changed and he pulled his crop away.
‘That was the last day I spent with my father,’ he said.
I told him I was sad at his loss and we rode together side by side in silence for a mile or two. The Duke had asked me to speak with him, but my training as a page had drilled into me that it was not my place to start a conversation.
It wasn’t long, though, before Edward spoke again.
‘You were with my uncle Gloucester when I met you at Twelfth Night, were you not, Matthew?’
‘Yes, Your Grace.’
‘Edward was good enough for you on our ride then, Matthew. I wish that you would call me that again.’
‘Aye, Your Gr – I mean, Edward.’
‘And you were among his gentlemen this morning. Do you know my uncle well?’
‘A little.’ Recalling the past day or two – and how different the Duke had been – I could claim no more.
‘My uncle Rivers says he is angry at my family. That he hates us because of something that happened long ago – and that he may seek revenge on us.’
‘Your family?’ How strange that he spoke this way. And did he mean what Roger had told me months before – about the execution of the Duke’s brother George, which some blamed on the Queen and her family? ‘But Duke Richard is your family – he’s your father’s brother.’
‘Well, yes. I suppose I mean my mother’s family. Uncle Rivers is my mother’s brother. I know him better than my other uncles. I’ve lived with him for as long as I can remember. But no one now will tell me where he is, or even – even if he is alive.’
‘I saw him this morning and he was safe then,’ I said. ‘The Duke of Buckingham was angry with him, but he and Duke Richard spoke courteously to one another. I believe the Earl agreed to stay in Northampton while the Duke rode to meet you.’
‘And yet he is under arrest? Like my brother Richard?’
‘I believe so.’ I searched my memory. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure I know exactly what happened. It was all so quick, and so early in the morning. But the Earl was well when we left him. And I do know Duke Richard is a good man – and I believe that your father trusted him and wouldn’t have made him Lord Protector if he didn’t.’
‘I suppose you are right.’
We fell into a companionable silence again as we jogged along behind the Dukes and the banners, the great bulk of the soldiers formed up in lines behind us. As my thoughts drifted back over the morning’s events, I hoped fervently that I was right.
Within a few more miles, Edward was talking once more. His words spilled out like water from a cracked jug. Was I the first person he had been able to speak to like this since he’d been told of his father’s death?
‘It scares me, Matt, no matter who is to be Protector. I shall have to be King, I know that. I have trained for it ever since I was small. My uncle Rivers tells me I will be a good King, maybe even a great one. He’s been telling me so for months, and I had begun to believe him. But now my uncle Gloucester tells me I still have so much to learn. And my uncle Buckingham says I have been badly taught before now and must have better advisers. He even says that my mother should not help me, even though she is Queen.’
He paused. I had no response ready for him, but he needed no prompting to carry on after a moment.
‘I want to be a good King, Matt. I will do all I can to become one. But I had not expected to be King so soon, not for years. Not – not until my father was an old man and I had been in battles like him and uncle Gloucester. And now my father is gone, and perhaps my uncle Rivers and brother too. I’m not sure I know how to go on, or who I should trust.’
He fell quiet once more.
My heart went out to him – this boy who had so much before him, but to whom too much had come so soon. All that Duke Richard and his wife had spoken of that last night at Middleham came back to me – the intrigues among the young King’s family, the difficulty and responsibility of kingship, and the horrors of the civil war in our country’s so-recent past.
I also thought of my own close-knit family back home in York.
And I knew I would not change places with this King for all his riches, his palaces, his wonderful prospects, his title, his power – not for a single instant.
4 The Road to London
Our entry into the city of London four days later far outshone the Duke’s arrival before Christmas. That, though a spectacle in my eyes, had been just the start of a family visit. This by contrast was the first entry of a new King into his loyal capital.
He came flanked by two royal Dukes and accompanied by an escort of five hundred retainers. The procession approaching Aldersgate must have been impressive indeed – so many men clad in ashy black, the only specks of colour being the royal and ducal banners. Duke Richard had even ensured that Edward’s gaudy saddlecloth was exchanged for one of midnight blue velvet stitched with silver to match the young King’s own outfit.
Townsfolk lined the city walls to watch our coming. A single dolorous note was tolled by the bells in each of those more than four score churches that I knew were in the city, and had thought perhaps I might never see again. Before we reached the vast gatehouse, we were met by the mayor and aldermen resplendent in fur-trimmed scarlet robes, followed by such hordes of important men arrayed in vivid violet that I lost count.
The numbers and finery of the citizens, and the size and clamour of the crowds as we passed under the portcullis, and the din of their cheering, and the sudden outpouring of bell peals from the churches as we wound through the narrow streets, put our reception at York two months before in the shade – though I would never have confessed it out loud.
I fear that Master Kendall, had he not himself been overwhelmed by the display, would have told me to close my gawping mouth as he did on my first entry into London. He and I rode close enough behind the King and his two uncles that the city folk’s joy and affection for their new sovereign were clear. Flowers of many hues were strewn before him on the cobbles, swept clean today in his honour, and colourful tapestries and bannerettes draped and fluttered from windows at every turn. On occasion someone would dart forward – a woman carrying an infant, an old
man – to beg a favour from the King. To each of these Lord Lovell’s men, forming Edward’s personal bodyguard, slipped a shiny coin before pressing them back into the throng.
One jarring note alone marred that joyous morning. Far ahead of the river of black-clad soldiers trundled four gigantic wagons piled high with weapons and harness. Seized from the ambushers on the road from Northampton, among the haul was equipment that had been found to bear the emblems of Earl Rivers and his family. My lord of Buckingham claimed this proved they were to blame for the plot. He had wished the weapons to be carried immediately in front of the King, as though the spoils of war of some victorious general on his triumphal entry to the city of Rome. Duke Richard had refused, preferring to send the wagons some way before us. Accompanying them, heralds on every street corner announced the King’s approach, bringing the cheering crowds flooding into the streets.
In this way the procession wended its way towards Ludgate Hill and the tall spire of St Paul’s Cathedral. In after days, onlookers said it took more than an hour to pass by.
Skirting the massive buttresses of the ancient church, the cavalcade came to a halt at the ornate carved door of the palace of the Bishop of London. Here Edward was to stay and to receive oaths of fealty from all the lords and churchmen and great citizens there gathered. I watched as his small figure, flanked by the dukes, mounted the wide flight of steps to be greeted by the Bishop in his full regalia. Then I turned Bess’s head to follow Master Kendall away from the palace, my thoughts full of all that had happened. Would I and the King ever meet again – let alone as friends?
For I believed we had become friends in the days after that tumultuous morning in Stony Stratford. We were often thrown together when he was not needed by his uncles for official business, and he seemed to enjoy the company of someone outside his usual circle. He had asked that I attend him as page, though he already had pages and squires of the body aplenty in his retinue. Duke Richard had agreed, ordering that my mattress be laid outside the King’s chamber in the inn that night.
I was proud of my new privilege, but sad no longer to do the same for Duke Richard. For that day a letter had at last reached us from the Duke’s friend Master Ashley in London, agreeing to take me as apprentice in his merchant’s business, and I knew my brief spell as the Duke’s page was over. My unhappiness was doubled when I realized that my last ever night of that service was one when the Duke had had to nudge me awake – knowing that I had failed in my duty on the very night when it might have been most needed.
Much business was undertaken during those days before our entry into London. Master Kendall and several other secretaries were almost constantly employed in sending letters and messages both for Duke Richard and in the King’s name. News of the Duke’s actions was sent to the capital, and we received word of events there in return.
Everything the Duke had done was approved both by Lord Hastings and by other lords who had been assembling for the coronation. For it was discovered that the Marquess of Dorset had persuaded the Royal Council to set a date to crown his younger brother that was only three days ahead. The Duke of Buckingham insisted this confirmed what he had said – that Dorset and Rivers had planned to rush young Edward ahead of us to the capital – and that it was more proof that the Marquess himself was determined to rule England through the new King.
Master Kendall was my chief informant throughout this time. Not directly, of course. He would often speak of such matters to the other gentlemen over dinner. They were not confidential, he said. But I was not sure how happy my lord of Buckingham would have been knowing his words were overheard by a mere page.
‘So, yes, Lord Hastings says Sir Edward Woodville has launched his own fleet and is busy menacing English ships in the Channel. And, yes, it seems he did ransack the royal treasury before he left – half of it went with him on his fleet. And most worrying of all, the Marquess of Dorset did boast in Council that he could rule without Duke Richard.’
Gasps and grumbles rumbled around the supper table as the gentlemen digested these snippets along with their meal.
Master Ratcliffe’s wine-cup stopped halfway to his mouth.
‘And what of the citizenry? And the lords? How have they taken these outrages?’
Master Kendall stabbed another piece of mutton with his knife and chewed on it for a moment before continuing.
‘Well, it seems that separate factions had been forming in the city – those who support Duke Richard and Lord Hastings, and those who openly favoured the Woodvilles.’ Several gentlemen hissed in disapproval. ‘But Lord Hastings says, now it’s widely known that old King Edward appointed the Duke as Protector in his will, and people have heard what he’s done here – well, most people believe he’s in the right.’
‘And the Woodvilles?’ asked another gentleman.
‘Ah, well, there’s a story. And one I wouldn’t have believed if it hadn’t come from Bishop Russell as well as our esteemed Lord Chamberlain himself.’
Master Kendall laid down his knife and looked around the table at his listeners. When certain he had their full attention, he said,
‘When they finally realized that the people weren’t with them, and that they wouldn’t be able to raise troops to challenge the Duke, the Queen and the Marquess took themselves off to sanctuary at Westminster.’
‘Sanctuary?’ gasped one gentleman.
‘At the Abbey?’ asked another.
The rest sat in silence, stunned by the news.
Even to a lowly boy such as myself, listening in with no knowledge of politics, this revelation was shocking. Everyone knew that fleeing to sanctuary was usually only the last resort of someone, criminal or otherwise, who believed they were about to be arrested or even executed. They could throw themselves on the mercy of the church and they would be safe from their enemy – but only for as long as they remained on that church’s premises. It was not a route chosen lightly or by those who had nothing to fear.
‘Not only that,’ resumed Master Kendall, ‘but the Queen took all her other children – and what was left in the treasury.’
Master Ratcliffe snorted.
‘No more evidence of their guilt is needed if you ask me. If they weren’t plotting to seize power, and if they were innocent of those ambushes, why would they flee like that – and take all young Edward’s treasure with them?’ He shook his head as though struggling to believe what he’d heard. ‘If I were His Grace, I’d break down the Abbey walls and drag them out by force. They say King Edward did that to the Duke of Somerset when he claimed sanctuary after the battle at Tewkesbury. But we all know Richard won’t.’
The other gentlemen around the table nodded in agreement.
‘He’s not so like his brother as that,’ said Master Kendall. ‘He’ll probably try to talk them out and offer them a pardon for their crimes. My Lord Buckingham said he should rather leave them there to rot, bricked up like rats in a drain.’
But far from heeding his gentlemen’s views or those of the Duke of Buckingham, Duke Richard’s calm response had been to write to tell London’s mayor and aldermen to expect the new King’s entry on the following Sunday, and to request that the great royal seal be kept safe so it did not fall into the hands of the Queen or Marquess.
That night I was woken from my sleep by the noise of men and horses outside the inn.
Squinting out into the darkness, I spied Master Ratcliffe leading a detachment of soldiers setting off away from the London road. In their midst rode the cowed figures of Earl Rivers, Lord Grey and several of Edward’s household gentlemen, their hands bound.
The following day we had left the inn at Northampton to travel to St Albans, the final stop before London. Once more I rode alongside Edward. This time he requested that Murrey lie across the front of his fine leather saddle when she wasn’t scampering at our horses’ hooves. I was happy to say yes, to give him some small pleasure in the midst of all his difficulties. He hadn’t talked so openly to me again as he had on the roa
d to Northampton and I could hardly imagine how he felt about what was awaiting him in London – or how his confidence in his mother and her family must have been badly shaken by their actions.
Instead, on our rides, and when he had time to spare from signing documents and letters with his uncles, we chatted on much the same topics as I would with Alys, Roger or Ed – hawking, horses, hounds, archery, romances, music and the foibles of our tutors – subjects favoured by boys our age the world over I imagined. On the morning that we rode to St Albans, he told me of an incident the evening before. Duke Richard had been urging him to practise his new royal signature, and to encourage him, had neatly signed his own name on a scrap of parchment, topping it with his motto.
‘Loyaulté me lie,’ I said promptly. ‘Loyalty binds me.’
‘I know,’ said Edward. ‘He wants me to choose a motto too, though I haven’t any idea for one yet. He says every nobleman should have one, and especially the King. So he asked my uncle Buckingham to sign too.’
‘What’s his?’
He fished a piece of parchment from his pouch and squinted at it.
‘Souvente me souvene, I think.’
He handed it to me. Beneath Duke Richard’s neat signature and the words ‘Edwardus Quintus’ in a boyish hand was an unfamiliar ink scrawl.
‘Remember me often,’ I translated roughly. ‘That’s rather strange.’
‘Not so strange as his translation,’ returned Edward. ‘He said it was “Often I recall” – but couldn’t recall why, or what he meant by it!’
As I laughed along with him, this talk of mottoes brought to mind my very first meeting with Roger and his idea for an emblem for our fellow page, Hugh Soulsby: a dumb ox, or ‘vache noir on a muck brun champ’. Roger and I had no love for Hugh – even less now after the part he’d played in my dismissal.
The King's Man (The Order of the White Boar Book 2) Page 4
