‘Then he’ll come back,’ Jasper said with certainty. Derry Brewer looked at him, considering whether it was worth his while to argue the point. He decided it was not.
‘He’ll try. And we will kill him when he does. He’s fat and slow now, did you know? Drunk on spirits half the day, weeping and vomiting. The throne was too much for him, in the end. No, his time is finished. Be sure of that much.’
‘Have you ever been wrong, Master Brewer?’ Jasper said with a bitter smile. He had spent more than a decade in exile, with strangers and enemies in his home. To his surprise, Brewer chuckled.
‘I have made such errors as you would not believe, son. Just one of them cost me this eye. Still, we ain’t angels, are we? We do our best, failures and bleedin’ all. And we go on, without looking back.’
The last two words perhaps reminded both men that they had left the king and Henry Tudor alone. When they turned, it was to see the two of them talking together. The king was smiling, the lines of worry easing on his face. Derry felt his eyes prickle and shook his head.
‘Jesus, no one ever warned me that getting old would mean weeping like a little girl whenever I saw something touching.’ He glanced over to check that Jasper was not mocking him, then laughed at himself. ‘His Highness has known a great deal of pain. I like to see him smile. Your nephew must have a way with him.’
‘Perhaps he has,’ Jasper said, shaking his head in wonder.
Edward of York stepped on to shore in Flanders, at a stone dock some hundred miles or so to the north and east of Calais. Still pale, his brother stayed close to his side. Richard had blessed his saints that the sea-illness had gone. He had never known anything leave him so weak, and yet when it had passed his strength and fitness returned almost as if they had not been stolen. The ground seemed to sway beneath his feet for a time, but then settled, his confidence coming back.
There were no soldiers waiting to capture them or hold them for ransom. Richard knew they would have outrun any pursuit over four days at sea. He felt his spirits creep upward and saw the same in Edward as his brother stood taller, looking around him with interest at the busy little market port, with scores of fishing vessels drawn up on to a shingle beach and painted a dozen colours.
‘I have been here before,’ Edward said. ‘There is a barracks, or there was, not six miles from here. If it is still there, they will carry a message to Burgundy for us.’ He looked up at the flags waving in light winds above the town. ‘It seems Duke Charles has kept his gains here. I can only hope he will remember our friendship.’
‘He will help us?’ Richard asked. His brother nodded firmly.
‘He hates the French king – and where have Warwick and George been in their exile? No, Brother, Duke Charles will see his interests lie with us. To frustrate the plans of his enemy has ever been his delight. They call him the Bold – Charles le Téméraire. You will see.’
Richard understood his brother was talking up their chances, sounding more confident than he felt. The truth was that they were abandoned on a foreign shore, with just a few loyal men. Edward had lost all their father had won and he was heartbroken and utterly ashamed, hardly able to meet his brother’s eye.
The captain of the ship came over then, to stand before the two brothers.
‘My lords, I have fulfilled my duty, but you must understand, I had to leave my cargo on the docks at Bishop’s Lynn. I am not a wealthy man and in winter … I could lose it all. Will you pay some part of my costs, my lords?’
Richard felt anger surge. He began to step forward with one hand dropping to his sword hilt. Edward’s arm stopped him like a bar across his chest.
‘No, Richard. He is right. There is a debt to be repaid.’
The jacket Edward wore was studded with rattling pearls along the seams. To his brother’s dismay, Edward removed it and passed it into the astonished arms of the captain.
‘There, is it enough?’ Edward said. The wind was cold and he was already shivering. The captain hesitated, caught between pity and greed. His greed won and he clutched the coat tightly and nodded, bowing as he backed away.
‘Let me take it back,’ Richard murmured. The captain still expected a reverse in his fortunes, glancing nervously over his shoulder as he put distance between them. It had been a royal gift.
Edward shook his head.
‘Let him have it. It will do me good to shiver for a time. I am too fat, Brother! I should mortify my flesh like the monks who prick and stripe themselves.’ He seemed to brighten at the idea. ‘Yes, like those words you mutter when your back makes you weep.’
‘I do not weep,’ Richard whispered. He was appalled that his brother had noticed.
‘All right, Richard. But the words, what are they? That give you power over your weakness?’
‘Non draco sit mihi dux. Vade retro Satana.’
‘The dragon is not my master?’
‘Yes. Get thee behind me, Satan.’
Edward closed his eyes and muttered the words to himself, over and over, throwing back his shoulders and raising his head into the cold wind. To Richard’s surprise, the shivering stopped. When his brother looked down once again, his grief had eased just a fraction.
‘I shall train with you tonight, if I may,’ Edward said. Richard nodded, even as his back sent a fresh cry of protest.
The horses had been unloaded and the merchant crew were like spiders hanging on the ropes and yards, getting their ship ready for sea once again. Edward mounted with the others, patting his gut ruefully where it poked through the shirt. ‘I will master the dragon, Richard,’ he called, his hair wild. The king dug in his heels and the horse sprang forward, clattering along the road south.
7
Elizabeth frowned at the monk’s bald head. He had dipped it in a show of respect, but though he still trembled under her stare, he had made a point of remaining standing. As if in echo of her own seething anger, her newborn son began to squall, the sound pulling at her marrow, so that her breasts ached and a pang rushed from her womb to her throat.
‘I do not understand your hesitation, Brother Paul. All the grounds of Westminster Abbey are consecrated and part of Sanctuary, is that not so?’
‘That … is true,’ replied the young man grudgingly, his colour deepening shade by shade under her close scrutiny. ‘But this building is the safest part. The abbot …’
‘And my newborn son must be baptized as quickly as possible, is that not also true?’
‘Of course, my lady, but you must understand …’
‘And yet you come to me,’ Elizabeth went on over his weak protests, ‘with this nonsense? This … lack of manners that I can only assume is a deliberate insult to my husband, the king of England?’
The monk gaped at her in misery. His mouth moved, but only to make a strangled sound. He shook his head and chose to look down once more, staring at his toes in their sandals where they peeped from under his black robe.
‘I believe an error has been made, Brother Paul, perhaps one your dear abbot has not understood to the very roots. My son was born on consecrated ground – in Sanctuary. I would have him baptized in Westminster Abbey – on consecrated ground and safe from all my enemies. The small stretch of garden from here to there is all under the authority of the Church, is it not?’
‘My lady, it is of course, but you know the abbot cannot guarantee your safety if you leave this place, even to cross to the Abbey itself. A single bolt, my lady – a madman or a traitor … Please! I have been ordained as a priest, of course. I can baptize your son here, in quiet and safety.’
In fury, Elizabeth Woodville remained utterly silent, knowing the young man would fold upon himself like a snail touched by salt. She did not need words to shame such a weakling.
When he seemed close to tears of embarrassment, she replied.
‘Your abbot cares nothing for my safety, young man. Or the safety of my son, Edward. No, if you had the courage of a child, you would say so clearly. Your abbot panders to Earl W
arwick and perhaps to Henry of Lancaster, that empty sack. Or is it that my husband has been killed? Does your abbot wish me to vanish as well? Will men come in the night for me?’ All the while, she watched him, frowning at the odd twitches and shakes of the head and clenches of his jaw. The monk knew something and had almost corrected her. She would return to that. She waved a hand.
‘But whatever fate has in store for me, my son will be baptized today – and in the Abbey. Not in this stone cell, like a prisoner. No. Like a boy who will be Prince of Wales, like a future king.’ She realized her voice had become harsh and loud, each word lashing the monk so that his trembling resembled a fit. With an effort, Elizabeth gentled her tone.
‘Edward the First was baptized there. My son’s namesake, sir! His ancestor! The Abbey is the heart of London and I will not be kept away like a pauper. Do you understand? Now gather your monks and line the path for us if you must. I will walk the road on consecrated ground and you will witness every step.’
The young monk could only stammer and Elizabeth reached out suddenly and took his arm, feeling the surprising strength of him beneath the coarse cloth. His eyes widened in shock or revulsion and she wondered if he had felt the touch of a woman since taking his oaths.
‘Tell your abbot to expect me. I am coming.’
Brother Paul lurched and almost fell as he scrambled out of the room. Elizabeth sighed as she looked after him. He was one of those who could not bear the bustle of the world, with its noise and threats and bargains. Poor Brother Paul was suited to a cloistered life and the murmurs of prayers. He had chosen a gentle post and yet on that day he had been bullied, threatened, shouted at and forced to run back and forth between Elizabeth and the abbot until he was red-faced and stank of fresh sweat over the old.
Her mother, Jacquetta, had watched the entire scene from a chair in the corner, working a mortar and pestle to grind ginger, cinnamon, black pepper and a little sugar into poudre forte, or ‘strong powder’, to add to the insipid fare provided by the brothers. The woman looked up as Elizabeth turned to her. They broke that shared gaze only when the baby shuffled in his tiny wooden cot. One of the monks had made it from fallen wood as a gift. Elizabeth stood with a grunt and leaned over, rocking the tiny crib before her son could begin to scream.
‘He’s hungry again,’ her mother said. ‘Shall I summon that lazy girl, Jenny?’
‘Not unless he cries. He might yet go back to sleep.’
‘Not if we are going out into the cold, my love. He’ll shake his fists and wail, I tell you.’
Elizabeth saw her mother was afraid. She had come from a quiet retirement to visit her daughter and been snatched up into a rush of events that saw the house of York tumbling down around their ears. When her mother put the grinding bowl aside, Elizabeth saw her hands were shaking before she clasped them. Jacquetta was not a brave woman, though perhaps it was in part the oppression of Sanctuary, a place built with no thought of comfort or ease.
Elizabeth made her decision and picked up her son, leaning him on to her shoulder and walking up and down. Her mother rose immediately, placing a cloth under his head in case he vomited up his milk.
‘You do not have to go with me, Mother,’ Elizabeth said after a time. ‘Wait for me here, please. I would like to know you are safe. And I would like … my daughters to be protected.’
To her surprise, her mother waved a hand to dismiss the idea.
‘Would I miss such a moment of your life? The girls are in no danger here, with the nurse. I think Katie would take on a Tower lion if he even licked his lips at them. Worry about tonight only, Elizabeth. The girls are safe here.’ Her mother smiled at her and Elizabeth took comfort, for all she knew it was just an echo of a child’s belief in her mother’s love. Still, it eased her fears.
‘You will have me at your side,’ her mother said firmly. ‘I saw a stick by the door when I came in. I’ll take it up and cudgel any rude scoundrel who steps too close.’
Elizabeth felt her own heart beating hard at the thought. Had she made a mistake?
‘My pride has led me to this point, Mother. Was I wrong?’
‘No, don’t be silly, Elizabeth. You are a queen! They will not hide you away, or your son.’
‘But that monk was so afraid, he makes my heart flutter.’
‘Pfui! He was just a boy, almost. A mere lily of a man. Not like your Edward. Think of him as you step out. Show them no fear, Elizabeth. It is just a hundred yards or so. If there are men there, they will not dare to intrude upon you.’
Her mother spoke to bolster her confidence, to reassure her, but Elizabeth’s fear seemed to double and soar as they went downstairs together and nodded to the wet nurse, Jenny. Elizabeth’s three daughters came rushing out of a room, scattering wooden bricks from where they had gathered them in the laps of their skirts, holding their arms out to her. The oldest, named Lisabet for her mother, was just four. That little girl frowned at the two younger ones as they sensed the tension in the room and began to cry. Mary and Cecily both sat down hard, raising their arms to be held and growing red in the face with the force of their sobbing.
‘Shh now, girls,’ Elizabeth said as firmly as she could. ‘I am leaving for just a short time, to have your brother blessed in the font at the Abbey. I will not be gone for long, I promise you.’
Their nurse came out at last behind them, with the same doting expression of bovine love as always. The woman hardly looked up as she gathered in her charges and shooed them back to the side rooms.
Elizabeth thought she might be sick as Jenny lifted a heavy cloak to her shoulders, shielding the child from any cold wind.
‘He must be baptized,’ Elizabeth whispered to herself as if reciting prayers. ‘I will not deny him heaven if he dies – and I have waited days already. The Abbey grounds are covered by the protection of Sanctuary. I will not hide him away in shame, never.’ She saw her mother’s eyes sparkle with pride and tears and Jacquetta really did take up the cudgel left by the door. Jenny stepped around her mistress to open it, the sound of the river coming in on the night air.
Light spilled across them and, for a moment, Elizabeth cringed back at the sight of men with torches, waiting for her. She heard her mother gasp, but then she understood. The abbot had decided to aid her rather than rebuke her further or continue to resist. Perhaps her trembling monk had put her case rather better than she had hoped, or the elderly abbot had just given up over her stubbornness, she did not know. She stepped out between a line of monks in black habits, each with his hood raised and a torch held in his hand. The flames lit their faces and Elizabeth relaxed further when she saw how many were smiling. This was not a mob, come to drag her out, nor even a jury sitting in judgement on her actions. They nodded to the queen and smiled at the babe resting in the folds of the great cloak.
Elizabeth raised her head and walked through them. She could not see past the light of the torches to the darkness outside it. The grounds all around her were hidden, but the path of light stretched all the way to the huge open door of the Abbey. She saw there were more people waiting there and her steps faltered. Her mother touched her arm then.
‘Show no fear, my pigeon. Trust in God … and the abbot. They will not allow harm to come to you.’
Elizabeth forced a smile and though she felt her heart skip and race, she reached the Abbey and passed out of the night’s cold into the equal cold within.
Edward looked nervous for a moment as Duke Charles of Burgundy entered the room. They had not been kept waiting and as his brother Richard rose from his seat to bow, they saw the duke tug a napkin from his throat and toss it aside.
‘Edward, my friend! This perfidy! This invidiousness! I had word of it only this morning.’ Edward reached out his right hand, but the older man embraced him. When he stood back, Edward seemed to have grown in stature as his confidence continued to return.
‘You honour me by coming here, Your Highness,’ Duke Charles said. His gaze dropped to Edward’s throat, takin
g in the travel-stained cloth of his shirt. As Richard looked on, the man touched a gold ornament and chain he wore as a pendant.
‘You do not wear the fleece?’ Duke Charles said.
‘I have only the shirt on my back, Charles, I’m sorry. It is at home.’
‘I will have another brought to you, that all men may know you are a knight of Burgundy as well as a king of England, eh? And clothes! I swear to you, before the sun sets, you will be dressed as a king once again. And who is this fine young fellow?’
‘My brother, Richard – Duke of Gloucester, if our titles have not yet been attainted.’ Saying the word seemed to steal away Edward’s returning spirits, so that he dipped his head and his skin took on a greyish hue once more. Duke Charles noticed immediately.
‘Edward, you have been my friend as long as you have held the crown. When that spider, Louis of France, was sniffing around with Warwick, you welcomed my father and me to London. I still remember those nights, Edward. How we drank! You were generous then, more than generous. You recognized my father as an equal and he was proud. Now that he is gone, I count you among my dearest friends. Let me repay you.’ The Duke of Burgundy favoured Richard with a glance and a nod, to acknowledge him, but all his excitement, all his energy was focused on the giant English king, suddenly in his debt and under his control.
Richard wondered if they could even trust the man, though he thought they could depend on his enmity towards the French king. That Louis and Duke Charles were cousins mattered not at all – the men of York and Lancaster could testify to that. More important was that Charles had inherited his estates only three years before – and already earned the nickname ‘Téméraire’. He had captured Flanders in a series of pitched battles and it was the thought of those professional fighting men that made Richard smile.
‘I will not live in exile, Charles,’ Edward said suddenly. ‘I will return to my kingdom before spring and I will die there or make a bloodletting of all the foul humours. That is my oath to you.’
Ravenspur: Rise of the Tudors Page 10