Warwick looked around him, at the swords thrown down and the bodies on all sides. He felt his blood pound and he took off his own helmet, sending it spinning into the air as he roared for the victory. Thousands of Kent men echoed him, a great hoarse cry that could have been heard for miles.
Warwick turned to March, feeling for once that nothing the young earl could say would possibly spoil his mood.
‘The king?’ March said, chuckling at his expression.
‘Yes. The king,’ Warwick replied.
The two men turned as one to face the royal tent behind them.
They found king Henry sitting in the gloom of his tent. He had removed his armour and sat wearing only black broadcloth, a long tunic and hose all dyed the same colour, with no rings or jewels beyond a royal crest picked out in gold thread on his chest. As March ducked to enter the canopy, he shuddered at the thought of the king sitting the whole time in silence while thousands died nearby.
‘Your Majesty?’ Warwick said. He sheathed his sword when he saw there were no guards around, or even servants to tend him. They had all fled. Henry looked up, frowning at them.
‘Will you kill me?’ he said. Warwick could see he was shaking. ‘Will there be blood?’
‘We should,’ March said, stepping forward. He looked around angrily as Warwick took a good grip on his arm. It was like holding a branch and both men knew March could shrug it off.
Warwick spoke quickly, his voice low.
‘If the king dies here, his son, Edward of Lancaster, inherits the throne. A boy who would have no love of us.’
March grunted in irritation and Warwick’s eyes widened as he saw the young earl held a long dagger in his right hand.
‘What do I care for that?’ March growled, staring at the slender man watching them both. ‘His is a weak line. I do not fear it.’
Warwick felt anger surge in him.
‘Care then for your father! He will not be York until the Attainder is reversed. With King Henry alive, his Seal and Parliament will give our families back everything we have lost.’
To his relief, March made a grumbling sound deep in his chest and put away the blade.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Yet I think it will come after that. I have no use for a king who would take my inheritance from me.’
Warwick let his hand fall, feeling ill at how close March had come to murdering the man who still stared at them with wide, dark eyes. The possibility of violence remained in March’s every brooding glance.
‘We have what we hoped, Edward,’ Warwick said slowly. He spoke as if to a dangerous hound who might turn savage at any moment. ‘We’ll take the king back to London and meet your father there. Be at peace. We’ve won.’
27
York ran his hand over a smooth white square, blank and ready for repainting. The panels in that room had once been an unbroken blaze of colours, the arms of every noble house in England. It had been one of the pleasures of his youth, to come to the Palace of Westminster and see the crest of his house sitting proudly with all the others. No longer. The painted panels stretched right around the four walls of the room, emblems and histories written in the symbols of ancient houses. Three white squares spoiled the unbroken run. Three that had been ripped out and replastered in palest cream. The crests of York, Salisbury and Warwick had been removed by the king’s heralds. It was some consolation that the Earldom of March was still there, quartered in blue, yellow, red and white. It seemed the agents of the royal courts had been uncertain whether that title should be included in the Attainder, given that it had already been passed on.
Salisbury watched the duke sweeping his hand across the blank plaster, lost in thought.
‘They’ll be replaced now, Richard,’ he said. ‘The king’s own Seal has undone all the lies of his queen. It gave me great pleasure to see all those little Parliament men running to do our bidding.’
York blew air, his lips twisting.
‘It was a foul thing and it should not have been attempted. Our families are England, deep into the bone. Yet I’ve seen your crest and mine cut from stone and wood, hacked smooth by files and chisels. Those damned heralds were busy while I was in Ireland. Ludlow Castle was stripped, did you hear that? Sandal Castle had tapestries and statues as old as Rome, but they have all vanished, spirited away while I could not defend them. The damage of this Attainder will take me a lifetime to repair.’
‘I’ve seen as much, though it gave me some pleasure to take back my estates from those who bought them. Some of my lands are now in Percy hands, think of that! At least you were able to reclaim all of yours. While Henry Percy lives and spites me for the death of his father and brother, I’ll never get some of mine without bloodshed.’
York turned away from the wall at that.
‘I trusted you at Ludlow. And you kept your word. I will not forget it. You and your son brought me back from despair and disaster, such a feeling as I will not endure again for anyone. I will always be in your debt.’ He held out his hand and Salisbury took it, hand to elbow, gripping the forearm.
Bells across London began to sound noon then, a long clamour that had both York and Salisbury turning to the door.
‘How is the king?’ Salisbury asked as they swept out into a corridor.
‘Well enough,’ York replied. ‘Bishop Kempe says he is the most agreeable guest he has ever known. Henry spends his time in the chapel, or reading, so I’ve heard. He has to be reminded to eat.’
‘Have you considered what you will do with him, now the Attainders have been struck from the rolls?’
‘I have considered it many times,’ York replied, stiffly. ‘I have not yet come to a decision.’
The two men made their way up a set of stairs, passing over the room where the Commons met and into the chamber at the far end. It was already busy with voices, all of which fell silent as York was sighted.
The White Chamber was little more than a debating hall, much smaller than the one where members of Parliament met below. It had benches running along each side and a lectern to address those present. At one side, placed to overlook the room, the king’s seat remained empty, a simple oak throne carved with three lions and gilded along the edge.
York’s mind was still on his own losses and he barely acknowledged the assembly of lords. They were small enough in number and rank. No Percy had come, no Somerset, no Clifford, nor any of the others who had fought for the king. York recognized a dozen minor barons, Cromwell among them. He paused on the raised step and inclined his head to Lord Grey. The baron had put on a great deal of weight since the battle close by Northampton, York noticed, developing chins and jowls better suited to a bishop. York had heard every detail of Grey’s part in that victory from his son and Warwick. It pleased him to imagine the king’s forces being told their enemies were miles away when they were almost upon them. More importantly, Grey had kept his word and turned his men against Buckingham at the right moment. Growing fat on new wealth and being made Treasurer of England was small return for such a vital betrayal.
As York stood by the lectern, Salisbury walked down, joining Warwick and Edward of March and some twenty others. They looked up at the duke and Salisbury’s eyes widened as York laid his hand on the royal seat, as if he claimed it. He nodded sharply and York smiled.
The expression lasted just an instant, as the other men there saw where his hand lay and what it might mean. York frowned as someone hissed and another growled angry words. He looked up into a cluster of forbidding faces and saw only March, Grey, Salisbury and Warwick were raising their hands in his support. Four Lords Spiritual were present and, to his irritation, he saw Bishop Kempe shake his large head slowly from side to side. York considered sitting down in the royal seat and scorning them all for their tutting and sighing. The chancellor, William Oldhall, entered from the side and looked horror-struck at the scene before him.
York removed his hand. The tension in the room vanished instantly and the chancellor came across to speak, h
is voice barely a murmur as the rest chattered like birds.
‘My lord York, the king lives,’ Oldhall murmured into his ear. ‘As does his heir. These men dare not accept you as things stand, but be assured my work has borne fruit. The good fellows of Parliament have debated the best course forward. If you would take your place, my lord, I promise you, you will be pleased at the result.’
With ill grace, York left the lectern and the royal seat and stepped down to the benches. Salisbury made a great show of welcoming him, as if they had not witnessed anything untoward at all.
Oldhall guided them through the opening prayer and then gave florid thanks for the reversal of Attainder on the houses of York, Salisbury and Warwick. That formal announcement brought forth a cheer from the gathered lords, going some way to ease York’s glowering mood.
‘My lords, it is my pleasure to pass on the will of the Commons in this matter. The members have sought some way to show their gratitude to Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York, for his service to the king, for keeping King Henry safe and rescuing His Highness from traitors. An Act of Accord has been proposed, naming York as heir to the throne of England. The vote will be held at sunset tonight. If it is successful, the new law will be drafted tomorrow for the king’s Seal.’
York’s brow smoothed and he sat up straight, hardly hearing the congratulations of all the men who had frowned at him only moments before. The cowards in either chamber would not allow him to claim a throne, but they were willing enough to place Henry’s fate in his hands and leave any action to him. He felt only disgust for them all in that moment, though they had delivered his greatest ambition. He looked back to the bench behind him, catching the eye of his son. Edward knew what it meant and he was beaming, gripping the wood with his big hands.
York settled back into his seat, feeling a rush of vitality and fresh strength. He had been forced to run at Ludlow. He had seen his castles and his lands given away or sold to men with no right to take them. His very name and arms had been ripped from tapestries and chairs, hacked from wood and scoured from iron and stone across the country. Yet if he would be king in the end, all that would be no more than a bitter season. He knew the presence of an army infesting London was the heart of why the men of Parliament were suddenly so meek and helpful. Lord Scales had survived the wall of the Tower being broken, barricading it from within and escaping bloody vengeance by the London crowds. Scales had held out long enough to surrender to Warwick when they brought the king back. It had not saved him from the vengeance he had earned. It had taken just two days for someone to reach him in his cell in the Tower. York had seen the body, though he had no sympathy for the man after the orders he had given. There was still blood on the streets. More importantly, there was only one force in London that day, and they were loyal to York. He had the king and the city in his grip and Parliament knew it.
He closed his eyes for an instant, feeling an old pain. He had visited Henry at the Palace of Fulham further along the river, praying for hours with him and trying to understand the young man and his weakness. In all their years of dispute, York had never spent enough time with Henry to truly know the king’s character. He felt his eyes tighten at the thought of killing him. It would be the murder of a true innocent, the most terrible of sins, no matter how he brought it about. He would be damned, without a doubt, though being damned would make him king. Dredging for the will to see it through, he remembered again how mercy had nearly cost him his life and his house. York opened his eyes once more, the decision made. For propriety, he would do nothing for a time. Parliament would make him heir and before the year was out, Henry would slip silently into a sleep, never to wake. York would be king, as his great-grandfather Edward had been. His son would be king after him.
A further thought came as he drew in a breath, filling him with joy. His son would not be damned for the murder of an innocent. Edward would rule the house of York and all England – and what father would refuse to make such a gift, no matter what it cost? York told himself he would write to Cecily that very day, busy at Ludlow with repairs and overseeing hundreds of craftsmen. He smiled as he imagined her reaction. One more Act of Parliament and they would have everything they had ever wanted. The world would have been put right, after too many years with a weak house on the throne. He might even take back the lost lands in France. Who could refuse his right, when he was king? York felt his mind fill with glorious imaginings and it took Salisbury’s sharp elbow jabbing into his side to bring him back and make him listen to William Oldhall and the discussion still going on.
‘… there is as yet no news of Queen Margaret or her son, no, Lord Grey. I have a report that they were seen passing into Wales, but their whereabouts now are unknown.’ Oldhall showed his discomfort as he glanced over at York. ‘There are absences today in these benches, empty spaces that speak loudly enough. If my lord York is made heir, I do not doubt we will hear from those noble lords who have not come to London, to this chamber.’
York looked down, not caring to hear. He knew the names of those who would support the queen well enough: Percy, Somerset, Clifford, Exeter. It gave him more pleasure to think of men like Buckingham and Egremont who could no longer trouble him.
The news of a new heir to the throne would make Margaret tear her hair in rage when she heard. The image of it twitched at his lips, after all he had endured with Attainder. It was a pleasure as simple as a childhood summer, to think of his tormentors suffering in turn. Margaret had lost her husband. When the vote was passed, she would lose her son’s inheritance as well. He chuckled aloud at that thought, interrupting an elderly baron so that he stopped and stared. Salisbury laughed in turn. He had watched York closely as he mused, almost able to follow the meanderings of his mind and enjoying every moment.
Margaret blushed, pleased at the attention and the compliments. Jasper and Edmund Tudor may have been made earls by her husband, but they still stood in respectful silence in the presence of their father.
Owen Tudor took her hand to lead her in, smiling with such amused devilment that she could well believe he had charmed a French queen once before. He was thirty years her senior and though he was bald and white-haired, he had kept a rare vitality, his good health showing in tanned skin, clear eyes and a firm grip. He looked like a gentleman farmer, with little sign of the soldier he’d once been.
Prince Edward ran past them all, exclaiming in delight at the feast laid out before them. He bobbed and jumped around as Margaret was seated at the head of the table, coming to his own chair with enormous reluctance. He was nearly seven years old and saw the ride into Wales as an adventure. As one who had grown up in Kenilworth, he had not been overawed by Pembroke Castle. He’d spent the morning racing around at high speed and bothering the servants, who already seemed to dote on him.
Pembroke had been King Henry’s gift to Jasper Tudor, but he took a seat one place away from the head of the table, deferring to his father with cheerful good grace. Margaret could see the three Welshmen liked each other and she felt something unclench within her as she sipped her wine and eyed the steaming haunch of lamb brought in as a centrepiece of the table.
‘It does my heart good to see a family who are not at each other’s throats,’ she said. ‘If I had not been able to come here, I don’t know what I would have done.’
Owen Tudor looked over at her, his eyes crinkling in pleasure at having such a beauty in his presence. He could not resist smiling at the young queen, despite the disasters that had brought her into his son’s lands.
‘Your Highness …’ he began.
‘Margaret, please.’
‘Very well. Margaret. I am glad you remembered you have friends here. My family owes your husband a great debt. It cannot be repaid with wine and lamb – even Welsh lamb, which is the best in all creation.’
She smiled, and he signalled for another thick slice to be passed to her plate, dripping with juices.
‘When my wife passed, Margaret, news of our marriage and my lads
got out. I was captured, did you know that? Oh yes. I was taken to Newgate prison for a time, on the orders of Speaker William Tresham. It was only a few months, but I tell you I have never been happier to feel the sun on my skin as when they let me out.’
‘Why were you taken up?’ Margaret replied, interested despite her own worries.
Owen Tudor shrugged.
‘They were angry about my marrying King Harry’s bride. That was all it took to send soldiers after me. I could have disappeared into the hills, I suppose, but I could hardly see how they’d imprison me for marrying a queen, not after her first husband was in the ground. Yet I think I would still be there if your husband hadn’t signed an order for my release, God’s blessings be on him. He did right by me and held no grudge against one who loved his mother as much as he did himself.’ The old man shook his head in memory. ‘She was the finest part of my life. My Catherine gave me these scoundrels for my sons, and your husband made them earls. I have been blessed beyond anything I could have dreamed when I was young and foolish, though I miss her still.’
To her surprise, Margaret saw a line of tears brighten his eyes, quickly rubbed away. It was hard not to like the man.
‘I wish I had known her,’ she said.
Owen Tudor nodded.
‘And I wish your husband had kept his strength. I am more than sorry to hear of his illness. Every year brings worse reports. It is a cruel thing he has endured, hard for any man, but much worse for a king. I know, Margaret, how dogs will gather around a wounded deer. They can be cruel.’
It was Margaret’s turn to feel tears sting her eyes. She looked away, fiddling with a cup of wine rather than allow her grief to turn to sobbing at the pity she could see in him.
Wars of the Roses: Trinity (War of the Roses Book 2) Page 31