Edward had been thorough in his vengeance. Not one Lancaster lord had been spared. However they had been bound to King Henry’s line, whether by blood or by oath or by service, Edward of York had put them in the ground. The house of Lancaster had been brought to an end at Tewkesbury and on the headsman’s block, with not even the wounded spared.
Margaret mourned as her horse swayed, taking her she knew not where. Though she did not want the soldiers to hear her grieve, she found herself keening softly even so, like a child in pain. Her son, her Edward, had been cut down before he was truly a man, all his promise, all his joy gone. She would not see him laugh again and that was monstrous, so wrong that she could not understand it. She found she had been hollowed. She had given her youth and her faith and her only child to England and she had nothing else.
23
Edward was drunk, though he made some effort to hide it with his brother Richard standing before him. He could remember the cold clarity of the last days at Barnet and Tewkesbury only in bleary wonder. His appetites had woken like a furnace door opening, as if he had stored them up. He ate and drank himself senseless each and every day and yet the flames flickered in him still, always there, an itch he could not scratch, a burning coal he could not quench in wine. He did not tell Richard about the nightmares that plagued him. He could not bear the thought of his brother pitying him in his weakness. No. Edward felt the sweat dribbling cold from his armpits, but he smiled as if there was nothing wrong with him at all.
‘What news, Brother?’ he said, staring intently down the length of the audience room, trying to read every change of expression and subtle shift.
‘A terrible thing, Your Highness, a tragedy,’ Richard replied. Edward closed his eyes briefly. He had spent all the night before in the company of sixty lords and their ladies, with juggling and illusions and great feats of arms. His brother had not been with him.
‘Tell me, Richard, as we are alone,’ he whispered.
‘I spoke to King Henry about his son. He gave a great spasm of the spirit and he fell into a faint from which I could not rouse him. I am sorry, Brother. King Henry is dead.’
‘I will have to display his body, as I did with Warwick and Montagu. If I do not, there will always be some fool to mutter about Lancaster’s return. Can I … Is the body fit to be seen?’
Richard looked coldly at his brother, knowing very well what he was being asked.
‘If he wears a cowl, perhaps one of mail, yes. I will have his body dressed in long robes and guarded well so that no man can come too close.’
‘Thank you,’ Edward said. He looked for some trace of guilt in the eighteen-year-old duke and found only a calm and certain confidence. ‘Now have your brother brought in.’
With all the servants dismissed, Richard himself strode back down the room and hammered a gauntlet on to the oak doors. George of Clarence came in quietly, slipping through when the door was half open. He looked from one to the other of his brothers and his expression was wary.
‘Thank you for coming in to London, George,’ Edward said, inclining his head to his brother. George walked the length of the room almost in step with Richard. When he was close, he watched Edward in turn, seeing the flush and the sweating that meant the king was deep in his cups once again. George did not think Edward knew how often he paused and blew air in or out, his eyes dull. Yet his brother wore a simple crown and sat a throne in the audience chamber in the Palace of Westminster. Edward had broken the Nevilles and the house of Lancaster in battle. No man could criticize him. When they had drawn themselves up in vast numbers, he had gone out – and destroyed them. Not once, but twice, or even three times if Towton was added to the tally. There had not been such a famed battle king since Henry V and the tragedy was that Edward had spent his youth and strength protecting his throne in England, while France thrived in peace. As Edward sat his throne that day, the country was quiet and fearful.
‘I called you to me, George, for your advice,’ Edward said. His eyes looked red and as they watched him, he turned and reached for something, then pursed his lips in irritation, looking around for servants before giving up and settling his gaze once more on his brothers.
‘Richard here is considering a union with Warwick’s daughter Ann,’ Edward announced. He saw George’s eyes narrow in sharp suspicion and felt a smile come. He reached again for a cup of wine at his elbow and his fingers twitched for a moment before he remembered. Ah, yes. He had ordered it so. It was important for him to be sharp. There would be a great feast that very night, a celebration. Lord Rivers had some anniversary or other and Edward had agreed to host a banquet in Windsor. He could drink himself to oblivion then, in wine and spirits that would grant him sleep without dreams.
‘She was married to Edward of Lancaster,’ George said suddenly. ‘Are you sure she is untouched, Richard? Edward of Lancaster was a very young man, full of vigour.’
‘I will wait long enough to be sure her womb is empty, of course,’ Richard said with a shrug. ‘That is not your concern.’ He looked up at Edward, and George of Clarence struggled with a growing sense of disaster. Richard was clearly prompting their brother and he could guess at the thrust of it. Before he could speak, Edward held up a finger and dashed his hopes.
‘Richard was a vital part of my victories at Barnet and Tewkesbury. In addition, he has done great service to the crown. It is my desire to find some suitable reward. When I heard the name of the one he will marry, well, I knew you would join me in finding a …’ Edward’s voice died away as he flicked his fingers for the word.
‘Reward, Your Highness,’ Richard said, smiling brightly at George.
‘Yes, reward. The Warwick estates – a dozen castles, hundreds of manors and towns and villages and fortresses. Some of the best land in England and Wales.’
‘Which I have inherited jure uxoris, by right of my wife,’ George said. He looked stubborn and Edward frowned at him, leaning over so that his big scarred hands rested on his knees.
‘Don’t fight me on this, George,’ Edward muttered. His brother still looked stubborn and Edward seemed to grow in size as his flush deepened. In him, anger was a physical change and both of his brothers could sense the threat that had stolen into that room.
‘Warwick’s titles were all attainted, George. Have you forgotten? I could pass them all to your brother as Crown estates – and what would you do? Go running to my Parliament? To my lords? Would you say your brother was acting within the laws of England and you did not like it?’
‘There are a thousand dispute cases in the courts, Edward. I have some forty of them being argued myself! All I ask is that you do not take from me what will be mine when the courts have run their course.’
‘No, George. I will rule on this now. If you challenge that ruling in the courts, you will stand against my direct command as your king. Do not take the risk, George. Blood will protect you – to a point. You stand at that point now.’
Edward had risen from his chair and loomed over both of them. George stood quivering in rage and then spat a curse, turning on his heel and storming out at enough speed to make his cloak swirl as he went. In temper, he slammed the door at the end of the room.
In the astonished silence that followed, Richard turned slowly to his brother. His eyebrows were raised and Edward sat down once again, waving a hand at the unasked question.
‘Yes, take what estates you would, Richard. Clarence is a fool. Perhaps that is the end of it and he will not challenge me again. If it is not …’ He did not need to finish.
‘I hope so,’ Richard said. ‘He’s a weak man, but he’s still our brother.’
‘And an uncle once more, or he will be, if he has the sense to stay out of my sight for a time.’
‘Elizabeth is pregnant? Again?’ Richard asked. He chuckled. ‘I suppose you were a long time apart.’
Edward shook his head in irritation.
‘I do not like her, Brother. But she has a way of enticing me … She is already
vomiting in the mornings. I think I must have the most potent seed. I have only to look in her direction and she is full again.’
‘I will hope for a brother for your son,’ Richard said. ‘I would not like to have had only sisters.’ He saw Edward was raising his hand to wave this off or make some jesting comment and he spoke over it.
‘I mean it. I will hope for another boy, so that they can have … this. I have friends, Edward. I value what you and I have more than friendship. It matters to me that we have trust between us. Since our father went, especially. You know I admire you, above all others. Though God knows you are a hard man to please.’
‘Thank you,’ Edward said. ‘I miss him still. I walk in his old rooms and his authority is not there. I can still hardly believe he is gone.’ He smiled and Richard saw his eyes swam with brightness. Edward cleared his throat, sniffing. The loud noises seemed to bring him out of his reverie. ‘But if George stands against me over your estates, I will not warn him again. Family or not, Richard, I am the king of England. I have seen more blood than any man ever should. I have earned this peace.’
Jasper Tudor dropped on to the stuffed cushion of his chair, as if his legs had given way beneath him. He held a single sheet of vellum in his hands, much sanded and scratched over, then refilled with black letters that stole away the last of his hopes. He wanted to throw it into the kitchen fire and he twitched to do so, before staying his hand. Henry would want to read it. God knew, it was his concern.
As if in answer, the boy came in at that moment, holding up a length of twine with the tiny bodies of sparrows threaded on to it. Jasper had taught him how to snare the birds and also how to make a pie of them. He could not help but smile at Henry’s pleased expression, though Jasper’s hand made the paper tremble even as he did.
‘Sit down, Henry,’ he said softly, indicating the second chair. The cottage was small and there was room only for the two of them. Even in the short time since they’d arrived, it had grown around them in comfort. For the first time, Jasper felt smothered by the place. He took Henry’s arm and jerked his head to the yard outside.
‘The woodsmoke is making my eyes red, Henry. Walk with me. I have news from home.’
He watched as his nephew laid the thread of sparrows down on the table, leaving a spattering of bright-red droplets on the polished wood. Jasper felt his gaze drawn to it and held. He shook himself free and led the way out to the evening warmth.
For a time, neither of them spoke. Jasper strode away from the little house, down the lane by the dovecote and out on to the main field that stretched away down into a valley. A naked oak stood at the crest of the hill, its bark stripped by death, the wood beneath made the colour of old cream by sun and passing time. Jasper walked to its foot and patted the smooth trunk. He held up the piece of vellum and his nephew glanced warily at it.
‘I wish it were not so, Harry, but we cannot go home. Edward of York has won his battles and King Henry is gone to salvation, God have mercy on his soul. They say it was from heartbreak and despair, but I think he came to the end of the rope they allowed him.’
‘He was kind to me,’ Henry said. ‘I liked him. Is my mother safe?’ Jasper nodded.
‘She says she is. I will let you read it, I promise. The king’s hunters care not for the women of the line, only the men. Give thanks for that, in your prayers tonight.’
Henry nodded, his eyes dark.
‘I will. Is she to come to us here, then? I would … like that.’
Jasper held up the paper.
‘She spoke not of it. If she is threatened, you have my word I will bring her away, Harry. As I did with you.’
Some slight tension went out of his nephew. Jasper saw with fresh eyes how much faith the young man had in him. It broke his heart. The fields were green around the bare oak, the summer’s beauty written on the land. Yet Jasper felt himself cold and dark in the midst of new life, weary with pity and grief. There would be no return in glory to Pembroke for him then, nor would his nephew see Richmond and the court. They had only a lonely exile ahead, with a few coins from the French king each month to pay for food and red wine.
‘We can make a fair life here,’ Jasper said, forcing cheer into his voice. ‘There is a little money from Paris – and the dovecote earns us more. I’ll find work for us both, I am sure. You have been trained as a knight, Harry. That has value and you will not go hungry. We can keep those skills sharp and perhaps when you are a little older, I’ll find you a bride from the local barons. Who knows, we might find one with a fortune.’
Henry didn’t blink as he looked him over and Jasper felt himself growing uncomfortable.
‘Will I not go home again, Uncle? Never?’ Henry asked.
‘Harry, listen. Your mother is the last daughter of the line of John of Gaunt – the house of Lancaster. You are her only child and she is almost thirty. The last man of Lancaster stands before me now. You, Harry. All the rest have been cut down. Do you understand? If you go home, if you appear in London and try to live a quiet life, I would not give a bent copper for your chances. Perhaps King Edward was driven to his vengeance, but he drank deep when he had the chance, son. He has so many dead by his hands now, he would not hold back from one more, not to finish the task. I’m sorry, I really am. But you must think of your life here now. You must find a way to leave all of that behind.’
Henry had watched Jasper reach out to the oak as he spoke, stroking the rippled smoothness. As silence returned, Henry put his own hand on to the wood and let his fingers drift across it. He left no mark and he tilted his head in interest, like a bird.
‘I will wait, Uncle,’ he said suddenly. ‘I waited in Pembroke for a long time – and you came. If I wait again, perhaps we’ll see a way home. You must not lose hope.’
Jasper felt his eyes prickle and he laughed at his own emotion.
‘I won’t, Harry. I will dream of home, of Wales and Pembroke.’ On impulse, he turned in the long grass, eyeing the sun until he thought he faced to the north-west. ‘It is … over there, Harry, at this very moment. In the rain, probably, but still home.’
Margaret watched the lights of Paris growing brighter along the river. She had been four days at sea and she was calm and broken-hearted, as if she had a piece of jagged flint in her chest. Losing her son was a grief she could not encompass, could not even describe. Perhaps it had been a sort of mercy for Edward to allow her to return to France. She’d been told some sort of offer had been made, though for the longest time she had been so deep in grief that she had understood very little and her own life had meant nothing. She had not washed for weeks, so that her skin had gone grey and her hair thick with dirt. She’d made some small effort with a bucket and cloth as the boat made its way from the open sea to the more peaceful river beyond. The sail creaked in the breeze and the men of the crew murmured to each other, but still she was cold as ashes. She looked up from her shawls and her bags as the boat bumped against the docks. It had grown dark and there were soldiers standing there with torches fluttering overhead. She saw King Louis had come down to meet her and she found that there were still tears inside, though she had thought they had all gone. Margaret stood with a heavy bag in each hand as the little gangway was placed. She came down it and set her things on the quayside as Louis came up and took her hands in his, his eyes full of sorrow.
‘Ah, madame, he was a fine, brave boy. I asked for him to be sent to me here for burial, but they would not. I am so sorry. Your husband too. It is a tragedy. You deserved more, Margaret, truly. Yet you are home now. You are safe and you do not ever have to leave again.’
He kissed her on both cheeks and Margaret pressed a hand to her mouth and nodded, unable to speak as he led her away. Her bags were taken up by others, but her shoulders were bowed and her beauty had gone. No one who had seen her then would have known her for the girl who crossed to England in joy and anticipation, with William de la Pole at her side and her first glimpse of England still ahead.
Christm
as 1482
Eleven years after Tewkesbury
We will unite the white rose and the red.
William Shakespeare, Richard III
24
Edward knew he drank more when he was maudlin. He’d heard an archer refer once to the ‘bowstrings of a man’ – the strands that made him who he was. Edward shared at least one of his strands with a certain type of Northman, prone to melancholy. The darkest moods drove him to the jug – and the jug made them worse. Sorrows could not be drowned. They swam.
The music did not touch him. Dancers swept by his table as he stared out, unseeing. On a raised dais, Edward sat on a high-backed chair of velvet and oak and propped his chin on a hand. A jug of clear spirit lay by his side and a servant stood behind him to judge the perfect moment to refill his goblet. Both of them had lost count of how many times the cup had been emptied.
The Christmas celebrations at Westminster were a feast of light and music, of gifts to the poor and banqueting tables set for hundreds. Lit by candles, the crowds were entertained by troupes of musicians, conjurers, knife-throwers and two acrobats wearing spotted furs, who seemed to have skin made of night. The evening had started well and grown ever more raucous as the drink flowed.
The old men and women had long retired and the night had worn into the small hours. The sun would rise again – and only that reappearance would call an end to the revels, with all the scars, scratches and scuffs revealed once more. Candles suited them all, while the drums rattled and the pipes played another reel.
Edward watched three of his daughters dance together, all awake when they should have been in bed hours before. His eldest, Elizabeth, was swan-necked and red-haired, with a fine, upright carriage. The sight of her happiness could pierce Edward’s gloom as nothing else. Seeing her gathering the others and calling a measure to the musicians had their drunken father beaming at them.
Ravenspur: Rise of the Tudors Page 30