‘When do we leave, Mother?’ he said in English. ‘I have my dogs and my horses ready. Uncle Louis has said he will send his best men with me if I wish, just so he can say he played his part.’
Margaret smiled. ‘Uncle Louis’ and his webs had brought about a result he wanted. The French king had persuaded Margaret and Warwick to meet in the first place, taking enormous pains to put them in the same room. Edward of York had no time for the French royals, preferring Burgundy and all their vulgar grasping. No doubt King Louis would be raising a toast to Henry of Lancaster as she spoke.
‘There is one task yet to put behind us, my son, before we go rushing back to England. Your marriage to Warwick’s daughter. That much I promised him, as earnest of my goodwill and my trust. He has fulfilled his part of our bargain, at least for today. Until King Edward’s head is spiked like his father’s on the walls of York, I will not sleep soundly in my bed, but for today, it is … enough.’
To her pleasure, her son waved a hand as if at a mere formality. He had met the daughter of Warwick a few times once the betrothal was announced, more for the look of it than any great desire to know one another. Prince Edward’s heart and hawkish gaze were on England and always had been. Margaret knew he would give anything to set foot there once again. It was her task to rein him back from rashness, to be certain that England would not take her beloved son from her. That cold bitch of a country had taken everything else and all the years of her youth, after all.
‘As soon as it can be done, Mother, it does not matter to me. I want to be at sea! I want to watch those white cliffs grow once again after so many summers riding French coasts and seeing them out there – forbidden to me. I will be king, Mother! As you promised.’
‘Of course,’ Margaret replied. She had told him so a thousand times, but never been more certain than at that moment.
Warwick stared out over a winter sea. Armed men waited, packing the roads and fields all around. Beyond their grim ranks, the town of Bishop’s Lynn appeared utterly deserted, every house barred and shuttered just as they would be for a great storm.
Warwick looked to the two men with him, one bound by blood, the other by marriage. It was hard not to think of sixteen years before, when he had been the least experienced man, when his father, Earl Salisbury, and the Duke of York had contemplated raising banners against a king of England. He had come a long way since that day, though in the cold and the soft rain, it was not hard to imagine himself back on a muddy field by the town of St Albans, with it all to play out.
George, Duke of Clarence, seemed less certain of himself than was usual. Warwick watched him carefully, seeing that the young man had lost some of his confidence. Perhaps he felt Edward being driven out of England as a blow to his status, Warwick did not know. His son-in-law seemed lost in thought as they looked out over the waves. Warwick could hear seals somewhere out there, barking and yelping. He could not pursue Edward, not without a fleet already in place, ready to take up the chase over the trackless ocean.
Warwick dismissed his own irritation even as it surfaced. He could not be right every time and he refused to waste any more of his life on pointless blame and wishing-it-had-been. No. He accepted his errors and put them aside. He would go on.
His brother John, Lord Montagu, rather spoiled the fine feeling of the moment by raising his head and answering a question no one had asked.
‘We should have had a few fast ships out on the brine, waiting on him. Yes. We could have strung Edward up on a yard then and not have to worry now about him coming back.’
‘Thank you, John,’ Warwick said sourly. ‘That had not occurred to me.’
‘I’m just saying you don’t leave a man like Edward of York alive, is all. You know that even better than me. He doesn’t stay down, unless you put him down. That’s what I came to you for, Brother. That’s the hunt I wanted. A clean sweep, with all the scraps washed down the drain. Not this. Now I’ll be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life.’
Warwick scowled at his younger brother. John Neville was hard-bitten and dark, the skin of his face drawn tight across the bones beneath. He was one of the most ruthless men Warwick had ever known. John had even been called Edward’s hound for a while, until the king took the title of Earl of Northumberland away from him. It had been one of Edward’s key mistakes, and all for the whispers and manipulations of his little wife. Warwick made a grunting, growling sound at the thought, looking out to sea once more and recalling his resolution not to let the past bind him.
‘Nothing we can do about that now, John. You’ll get Northumberland back, just as we agreed. And I will have all the lands and titles taken from me – and denied to my daughters after me. Titles you will inherit, George, eh? When I am gone.’
‘And I will be made Duke of York,’ George said suddenly, his voice strained.
‘Of course,’ Warwick replied immediately. ‘When Edward is attainted, the title will fall to you as of right.’
‘And heir. Heir to the throne,’ George went on. He looked mulish and ready for an argument, but Warwick only shrugged.
‘As I have said, though after Henry’s son.’
‘Yes … of course,’ George replied. He did not seem quite as pleased at that as he had been before. What had been a fantasy was coming true before his eyes. His brother King Edward had been driven from England. Henry of Lancaster was upon the throne once more and George recalled Henry’s son had been a fine young man. Still, to be second in line for the throne of England was no small thing. Warwick watched as George shrugged to himself and decided to wear it and wait. It was all he could ask.
‘Good lad,’ Warwick said, playing the expansive father-in-law to perfection as he gripped the young man’s shoulder. ‘Go now and see that the captains know to make camp. It’s too far to the London road to return to it today. There is something right and proper about keeping a watch, at least for one night. I can do no more now.’
George of Clarence dipped his head, pleased to be given the responsibility. He rode away and Warwick waited until he was out of earshot before turning to his brother, expecting the exact bitterness of expression he saw there.
‘We could not have gone faster, John, I swear it,’ Warwick said. ‘You told me Edward ran early. It saved his life.’
‘He’ll come back,’ Montagu said. He spat on to the cobbles as if the words themselves were bitter.
‘Perhaps,’ Warwick replied. ‘And if he does, we’ll be followers of the true king, with Henry and his wife and his son, the Prince of Wales, all safe. Maybe I’ll pay for an army to guard them, when Parliament give me back my estates. By God, I will! Why should we raise surly farmers each time we need them to stand? We should have proper soldiers, like the old legions. Men who don’t go home to their farms to take in the damned harvest.’
‘They say he grew fat,’ Montagu said, still grumbling. ‘But Edward of York is still the most dangerous man I ever met. He’ll come back – unless you move against him. Use the men you have. Derry Brewer for one. That vicious old whoreson has more cunning in him than a dozen of your Parliament fellows. Give Brewer a purse of gold and tell him to make sure Edward of York doesn’t bother us again. He’ll know what to do.’
Warwick rubbed his chin, sick of the cold and the damp. He recalled the times he had shown mercy in his life and everything that had cost him. The decision was not a difficult one and he felt no sense of regret.
‘I will try. No word to young George about it. He is already torn and I want to keep his loyalty.’
‘I wouldn’t trust him,’ Montagu said.
‘You don’t trust anyone,’ his brother replied.
‘And that has served me well.’
Jasper Tudor could hardly believe the bustle of London as he rode through narrow streets to the Palace of Westminster. He had spent the previous fourteen years in France and Flanders, surviving and taking on the sort of soldier’s work his father, Owen, would have known well. He had been a captain of a troop and a
warehouse guard, a sheriff’s bailiff and, at one low point, a prizefighter who had been knocked unconscious three times. All of that was behind and he could still hardly believe how his fortunes had changed.
Out on the river, he could see merchant ships and a thousand boats being rowed or poled along in the shallows. Anything the world could provide was being sold right there on the docks. Some of the noise and clamour dwindled as he and his nephew walked their mounts west, but there were houses and roads springing up in the land between the city and its great palace. One day, Jasper thought, the city would swallow Westminster completely. He shook his head, amazed at it all.
Yet it was not the noise of trade that excited him. In the Palace of Westminster, his half-brother Henry wore an old crown. His mother’s first son, Jasper thought in wonder, taken out of captivity like Daniel from the lion’s den, or Joseph from the pit where his brothers had thrown him. Henry was king and the star of Lancaster had risen once again. It was a heady feeling and Jasper kept glancing at his nephew, looking to share his astonishment and joy.
Henry Tudor appeared unmoved by the spectacle of the capital’s river, though Jasper could only marvel at the contrast for one who had been raised in Pembroke. Perhaps it was that his nephew had expected shouts and crowds, so had not been surprised by it all. Or perhaps, Jasper had begun to suspect, there was something off in the boy, some part that did not respond as it should. Still, he grinned at Henry, inviting him to smile. The boy had been poorly treated, no doubt, raised by cuffs and curses without parents or friends. It was no wonder he was cold in his ways and his manners. Jasper nodded to himself. He’d known a dog that had been beaten savagely for months before it broke its rope and found him in his little camp in the woods, drawn to the smell of his stew. It had taken a long time for it to stop snapping and shivering, to find its confidence again. Perhaps that would be his task for his nephew, he thought, to teach him to find a little joy, even in a raw winter’s day.
Jasper followed a path away from the river around the huge walls of the palace. He and Henry dismounted with the Abbey at their backs, looking up in awe as they entered Westminster Hall, stretching up and away. It never failed to catch Jasper’s breath, the scale and the sheer brag of it. The king’s councils met in the cavernous halls of Westminster, the Commons and the Lords – and beyond and above were the royal quarters themselves.
Jasper touched a wooden stall for luck, where a wizened old man sold goose quills to lawyers, a penny a dozen. It was in King Henry’s gift to grant Pembroke Castle back to the man who loved her above all. Jasper hardly dared form the thought in his mind, for the discomfort it caused him. A man could hold a full bladder for a long, long time, but then be in agony as he dragged out the pot. To be close to your greatest desire could be an exquisite pain.
Floor by floor they climbed, into rooms where sound was muffled by tapestries and rugs and thick, heavy furniture, so that the whole world outside seemed to recede. Jasper and Henry were stopped again and again by king’s men wearing the embroidered red-rose livery of Lancaster and the king’s symbols of the swan and the antelope. Jasper stopped to examine a pewter badge showing King Henry on horseback, holding an orb and a cross. The guard looked pleased at the attention, replying to the enquiry while he stared straight ahead.
‘I bought it in the market, sir. Take it if you’d like. I can get another.’
‘No. Your loyalty gives me joy enough,’ Jasper said. ‘I will find my own. What a city this is, to be selling badges of King Henry before he has warmed his seat.’
‘Nowhere like London, sir, that’s true,’ the man replied, pushing his chin and chest just a little further out. Jasper grinned suddenly, heading for the next flight of stairs that would take them to the king’s rooms. More guards waited there, staring down at him. Jasper endured it all in good spirits, noting that his nephew seemed fascinated by everything, his eyes never still.
Uncle and nephew were thoroughly searched at the last door. Jasper handed over two daggers before they could be discovered and taken.
‘I want those back,’ he said, as he and his brother’s son walked into the presence of King Henry of England.
Jasper found himself smiling as he followed the lad through. Some thirty yards away, the king was seated, his head turned to the sun streaming in through a window over the Thames. Though there were guards along the walls, only one herald and Derry Brewer stood close by the throne. Jasper had spent enough years in Pembroke’s tower keep not to be too awed at the sheer height, but it was still hard to drag his gaze from the picture of London it revealed, a place of busy little houses and roads and markets and great fields, with the river meandering through it all at a winter’s pace. It was a clear day and he tried to hold the picture as a memory.
‘Master Jasper Tudor,’ the herald announced as he drew closer, ‘who was Earl of Pembroke. His nephew Henry Tudor, son of Edmund Tudor, who was Earl of Richmond.’ The man seemed disappointed not to be able to go on further. Jasper frowned as King Henry continued to stare out of the window.
Derry Brewer stepped forward then, dressed in a fine brown doublet jacket and black hose. Jasper took in the leather strip over his eye and the gnarled-looking cane Brewer carried, more a blackthorn club than an aid to balance.
‘His Majesty is not so given to speech and idle chatter as he was when you met him last, Master Tudor. His heart was broken at St Albans – and it is not healed yet. I remember you, though. You fought well and gave your archers to their fates without a backward glance.’
‘We’ve all had our knocks and cuts, Master Brewer. I had Pembroke taken from me and given to my enemies.’
‘Aye, the world’s a hard place,’ Derry replied carelessly, understanding that the man before him was pleased at a chance to bring up his lost possessions. Everyone who came to see King Henry had some tale of that sort. Half the lands and titles of England had been given as favours over the previous decade. It would be sorted out by the courts and in private, one or the other, though Derry suspected it would take a lifetime of wrangling.
Jasper reached over and pressed his nephew forward a pace, so that the young man stood almost touching the king.
‘This is Henry. Son of Margaret Beaufort and my brother Edmund. Nephew to King Henry himself.’
‘On the mother’s side though, wasn’t it?’ Derry said cheerfully. ‘You are the son of Owen Tudor, Master Jasper, not King Harry of Agincourt. That is a difference, in the blood and in the heart.’
‘His mother, Margaret, is of the line of kings, from John of Gaunt,’ Jasper said stiffly, recalling how irritating he found the king’s spymaster.
Derry tutted at him, then shrugged.
‘I remember there was a mistress? Some children born out of the marriage bed? It is all so long ago – and the legitimate male line is what matters. Henry the Fourth, Fifth and Sixth, mate, with York just usurpers, leaping and grabbing for coins like the London cripples on feast days.’ Jasper saw the man’s face turn ugly, his mouth twisting to a sneer. ‘So, whatever you’re after, you have no claim at all, beyond that too great a part which has already fallen to you.’
For the first time, Jasper’s brow cleared. He wondered how many others had come to beg for old titles and anything else in the king’s gift.
‘I am not here with a claim, sir,’ he said firmly. It was bitterly hard at that moment not to mention Pembroke and make himself a liar. ‘I have brought my nephew out of Wales and I thought it would be a fine thing to introduce him to his namesake and his blood relative, King Henry. For all your barbs, Master Brewer, my nephew is of Lancaster.’
Derry Brewer weighed them both in a cold gaze that took in the mended tears and hard-brushed cloth as well as the quality of the old boots Jasper wore. He nodded, seeming to relax. To Jasper’s astonishment, Derry took King Henry by the hand, leaning in to look him in the eye.
‘Your Majesty? Your brother is here, with your nephew, Edmund’s son.’
With the slowness of a winter tha
w, Henry’s eyes drew in some spark. He tilted his head and turned to them, the corners of his mouth rising.
‘How blessed I am, gentlemen. How blessed to see you both,’ he said. His voice was high and soft, caught between an old man’s fluting tone and a child’s song. He reached out and Jasper’s eyes tightened at seeing such pale fingers, more bone than flesh. He accepted the king’s grip even so, the touch seeming to please Henry. The king turned again towards his half-nephew and Henry Tudor let himself be pressed forward once more, silent and watchful as his hand was taken and held in turn.
‘Aren’t you a fine boy?’ King Henry said. ‘I am sorry about your father. There are so many lost now … I don’t know how …’ He trailed away and Derry Brewer was there instantly to lay the king’s arm back on to his lap and tuck a blanket in a little better. When he faced uncle and nephew once more, Derry watched them closely, protective as a ewe with her lamb.
‘His Highness has not been well and grows tired,’ he told them. ‘I will do what I can for you, Master Tudor.’
‘I did not ask,’ Jasper said.
‘I know, but you fought for him when his future was still golden. That deserves its reward.’
Jasper felt his breath catch, hardly daring to hope.
‘Is it true, then, that York has been driven out?’ he asked, dropping his voice to a whisper. London was full of lies and half-truths, without much real knowledge. All they knew for certain was that Warwick’s army had gone racing off into the north and not a word had come back since.
Jasper made no move to pull away as Derry took him by the shoulder. He would not insult a man who might win back Pembroke for him. Instead, he allowed Derry to walk him a few yards out of the king’s earshot.
‘I heard this morning that Edward of York was made to run,’ Derry said with grim satisfaction. He had worked for years to bring it about. His pride showed.
‘Not killed?’ Jasper said, biting his lip in thought.
‘Sadly, no. He reached a ship with a few men.’
Ravenspur: Rise of the Tudors Page 9