The Rose of York: Love & War

by Sandra Worth

  “What does it matter?” said Richard. “We’re still only two thousand strong against Warwick’s twelve. How can we fight him, even without Marguerite’s reinforcements?”

  Edward met his grey eyes with his own periwinkle blue. “This missive I received—it’s from George, Dickon. My plan has worked, brother. Our intermediary, a lady who shall remain nameless, has persuaded him to desert Warwick. He, and his five thousand men!” A broad grin split his face.

  “That only gives us seven thousand. Scarcely even odds.”

  “Aah… the voice of reason. Or doom,” laughed Edward. “Well, you can cease your worries for once, little brother. Remember Bolingbroke? Men fell behind him by the thousands as he marched against Richard II. And they didn’t even know Bolingbroke. I’m their king. The people love me.”

  But Richard found Edward sadly mistaken. While men had flocked to Bolingbroke’s banner seventy years earlier, few joined Edward’s against Warwick. Edward was in turns astonished, wounded, and angry.

  “It’s not that they don’t love you, my lord,” said the Friendly Lion, Sir John Howard, as they rode along. “But the realm, it’s weary o’ war. Weary o’ choosing between York and Lancaster.”

  Richard was puzzled by the tremulous quality of the Friendly Lion’s tone. Surely this seasoned warrior had no qualms about fighting? There was glory in war. But soon Richard realised with relief that not everyone felt as John Howard did, for Edward found better fortune as they hurried south. In Leicester twenty-five hundred men came to his side, and in Coventry George and his men pinned the White Rose to their lances and swept to Edward’s side with a thunderous roar, swelling Edward’s band of followers into an army of nine thousand men. Wasting no time, Edward boldly marched to the gates of Coventry.

  “Warwick!” he called. “I’m here to settle our little argument! Come out and do battle!”

  “I’ll do battle when I’m good and ready, Edward! Not a moment sooner!” shouted Warwick from the snow-dusted ramparts.

  “What are you waiting for?” called Edward. “The butterflies to hatch?”

  No answer.

  “Very well, Warwick!” Edward called out. “Let’s talk terms. I’m prepared to offer you pardon of life only—you and all your men. If you surrender now!”

  “You’ll have my answer by Tierce!”

  ~*~

  “Edward sends fair terms. End this feud, brother, this damned unholy alliance,” pleaded John.

  The Earl of Oxford turned glittering eyes on Warwick. “Surrender, and Louis will curse your name, Warwick. Next time Edward turns on Nevilles, there’ll be nowhere to flee. Accept Edward’s terms and—heed my words, fair brother-inlaw—you’ll pay for your double treason, and pay dearly.”

  Warwick led John aside to a window. A colourful sea of banners bobbed gaily through the falling snow. Above the clamour of voices and whinny of horses, men drank wine and ate heartily, laughed and made jest, as if it were a feast day. Some paused every so often to greet a long-lost Yorkist friend, now a Lancastrian enemy, and others to shout an insult, as if to incite battle. Warwick’s eyes rested on the Yorkists almost gently.

  “Oxford’s right, John. We’d have nowhere to turn. Otherwise, I might be of a mind to accept Edward’s offer.” A pause.

  “Desmond’s crime was a slight of words. I beheaded Bess’s father and brother. We could never rest easy with that vengeful Woodville witch panting for our blood, fair brother.”

  “And Marguerite,” John said quietly, “is she famed for compassion?”

  “There’s something I can tell you now, John. Louis and I have a secret pact. In return for my support against Burgundy, Louis will carve out a realm for me from Burgundian lands. Once he’s crushed Charles, I shall be Prince of Holland and Zeeland, brother. So we need only survive Marguerite for a short space.”

  “I don’t like it, Dick,” John said uneasily. “I don’t like what we’ve done, and I don’t like Louis. From all reports, he’s not to be trusted. Take Edward’s offer, my brother…”

  “You worry too much, John. Louis is my friend. All will be well. Trust me.”

  He sent back a refusal.

  Edward could not linger for a siege. He turned his troops south to London. By a stroke of incredible good fortune, there was no resistance. The Duke of Somerset, hearing of Queen Marguerite’s imminent arrival on the south coast, had left London to greet her. And London, the city of merchants, gave their merchant-King a roaring welcome. Joyously Edward released Bess from Sanctuary, where she’d given birth to their fourth child. “Behold your son,” she cried. “I have named him Edward!”

  After recapturing Holy Harry, whom Edward found muttering to himself in a chamber at the Bishop’s Palace, he imprisoned him in the Tower.

  ~*~

  As soon as Edward abandoned Coventry, Warwick set out to join Marguerite. On the way he was deluged with bad news. While he had been disheartened at George’s desertion, the blow had not been unexpected. But he didn’t expect his brother George to seek Edward’s pardon with such speed, or his Lancastrian ally, Somerset, to leave London open to the Yorkists or his other Lancastrian ally, Jasper Tudor, to land in Wales and not seek to join forces with him—both so distrustful of him that they’d rather see Edward march through the heart of England to the gates of London, unopposed. Nor did he expect his brother by marriage, Lord Stanley—who rode into London at his side on his triumphant invasion of the kingdom the previous year— to hide out now, at the moment of his greatest need. And he didn’t expect the last shattering blow. The devastating, ultimate betrayal from the man he considered his dearest friend in the world.

  He didn’t expect King Louis, who had sworn friendship to him forever, and to whom he had remained steadfastly loyal these many years, to make peace with Burgundy behind his back. In one blow Louis had destroyed his fragile base of power and everything he had trusted in. Gone was his dream to be Lord of Holland and Zeeland. Gone, the dream that had prompted his struggles and sustained him through the darkest hours of his tossing, plunging fortunes: To be rid of the yoke of service to Edward. To be master of his destiny.

  “Leave me!” he barked to his men.

  “But, my lord—your decision?”

  “Later!”

  A clink of spurs, the thud of boots, then silence.

  In his tent at St. Albans, Warwick sank down on a campstool and dropped his head into his hands. Was it wrong to want to control one’s own life? So great was his desire that he’d failed to see past its glitter to the fatal truth: That there are only kings and fools, and he, who had thought himself the friend of kings, had been their pawn. The maker of kings had been undone by kings. His life had been a walk down a hall of masks and mirrors where nothing had been what it seemed—he’d seen only what he’d wanted to see, and never heard the mocking laughter.

  Anguished and alone, with only a flagon of wine for company, he pondered his dilemma: Marguerite or Edward? There was a sea of blood between him and Marguerite—St. Albans, Northampton, Towton. He had called her “Bitch of Anjou,” impugned her honour and cast doubts on the paternity of her son. They had set aside their hatred to achieve a common goal, but the hatred between them ran too deep to be suppressed. If Marguerite trusted him, or forgave him as she’d sworn to do, she would have departed France long before foul weather stranded her. United, they would have been invincible… But she had delayed. Now it was too late.

  He poured wine from the flagon and emptied the cup. He poured another, and emptied that. Wine made everything clear, he thought. He understood now with a lucidity that had eluded his other, sober self, all these years. Marguerite had never meant to keep her vow. She had merely used him. As Edward had used him. As Louis had used him. Once back on her throne, she would exact her vengeance.

  As for Edward…

  Warwick stared into his empty golden cup. He had come to the end of the long twisting road that began when Edward married Bess Woodville. There was only one decision left. Would it be Margue
rite’s revenge, or Edward’s sword?

  He poured more wine. Marguerite’s arrival was imminent. The Duke of Somerset and Jasper Tudor would join her with their forces. If he delayed battle even a matter of hours, they would combine. Three Lancastrian armies would converge on London. Edward would be caught in the visor grip of his enemies; crushed like an ant beneath the heel of a boot.

  And he, himself?

  He drained his flagon and rose. He thrust back the flap of his tent. The Lords Wenlock, Scrope of Bolton, Fitzhugh, and faithful Conyers swung around to face him.

  “We go south,” he said. “To Edward.”

  ~*~

  In his tent near the village of Barnet, where Warwick had decided to await Edward, John sat at his makeshift desk, his pup Roland asleep at his feet. He arranged the candle and spread out a piece of paper before him, rubbed his weary eyes and picked up his pen. He dipped it carefully into the ink. In his thoughtful, even script, markedly devoid of flourish, he wrote to Isobel.

  My Beloved Lady,

  Tomorrow we give battle. Lest I be unable to write you again, I send you this missive so you may know my thoughts when I am no more.

  Isobel, you have been the deepest love of my heart. Memories of the joys I have known with you crowd me tonight, and I feel so grateful to you, and to God, that I have been allowed such happiness. But how fleeting, and how few, those precious times now seem—like a handful of gold dust scattered into the darkness, visible one moment, gone the next. If only our hourglass had not emptied so soon, and we could live on together to see our George grown to honourable knighthood!

  Alas, Isobel, I have the sense that the last night’s candle has been lit. If tomorrow should prove me right, tell the girls how much I loved them. And never forget how much I have loved you, and know that when my last breath escapes me on the battlefields, it will whisper your name.

  Forgive my many faults and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and how foolish I have sometimes been! But, O Isobel, if the dead can return and visit those they love, I shall always be with you, on the brightest day and the darkest night; always, always! And when the soft breeze caresses your cheek, it shall be my breath, or the cool air your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by.

  Isobel, my angel, do not mourn my death. Think I am gone and wait for me.

  For we shall meet again.

  John stared straight ahead, seeing a vision of Isobel as she read his missive. He shook himself, drew his attention back to the letter and carefully affixed his signature. He added Barnet, Easter Saturday, 1471, and put down the pen. Wearily he reached for the sand cup and scattered a few grains across the paper. He rubbed his eyes, pushed away from the desk and went to the entry of his tent. He lifted the flap.

  The day was almost ended, and fog was rolling in.

  ~ * * * ~

  Chapter 32

  “Now must I hence.

  Thro’ the thick night I hear the trumpet blow.”

  On Easter Eve, as dusk fell on the little village of Barnet ten miles north of London, Richard sat with Hastings and George in the tavern that Edward had appropriated as his headquarters.

  “’Tis a foolish thing that Warwick has done, to come to me, when all he had to do was wait,” Edward reflected in a distant voice, toying with his wine cup. Abruptly, he shed his dismal spirits and smiled. “Well, he’s played into my hand.” He glanced out a window, to the north.

  Richard followed his gaze. Through the dim blossoms of a pear tree, a small church was visible on the crest of a distant hill. Somewhere near that church, a mile north of the village on a high plateau, Warwick had encamped his forces across the main road to London.

  Edward drew an imaginary horizontal line across the greasy table. “We must place our three battalions opposite his, east-west across St. Alban’s road. Will, you’ll command my left wing. Dickon, you’ll command my right.”

  Richard cast a shocked, uncomfortable glance at Will Hastings. The veteran soldier had to be offended by Edward’s decision to give command of his vanguard to a novice. “I— Edward—I have no experience…”

  “You have courage. It’ll be enough, Dickon.”

  “What about me?” demanded George, his face flushed, his eyes glinting. “What do I command?”

  Edward gave him a smile that never reached his eyes. “You, George, shall be at my side.” It was obvious what he meant. He didn’t trust him. Under his watchful eye, there would be no opportunity for George to defect to Warwick in mid-battle if things went badly for York.

  George’s colour deepened at the implied insult. “I brought you four thousand troops. I should command the vanguard, not Dickon.”

  “Then you might be killed, George.”

  George opened his mouth to object, changed his mind and shut it again, rendered mute by what he saw in his brother’s eyes.

  “We’ll wait till dark,” Edward resumed, “and crawl into position so close to Warwick that he can’t escape battle on the morrow.”

  “How close?” demanded Hastings.

  “Five hundred feet.”

  “But—isn’t that dangerous?” demanded Richard. Such proximity was a daring, unorthodox move and went against everything he’d been taught. If they were discovered, they’d be butchered by Warwick’s superior numbers.

  “A gamble, admittedly, but take heart, Dickon,” replied Edward, reaching for his gauntlets. “For all his talents, Warwick never expects the unexpected… Besides, we have no choice. In surprise lies our only chance of victory.”

  The bells of the little church on the hill chimed for Vespers.

  ~*~

  Under cover of darkness, following Edward’s urgent instructions to avoid making noise or showing light, the royal army climbed

  up the St. Alban’s Road. At the top of the hill, they crept silently into position on the treeless, heathery plateau of Gladmore Heath. Not until they were close enough to hear the voices of Warwick’s men did they halt. No campfires were lit. The night was cold, the moon shrouded by dense clouds. The sudden boom of cannons shattered the darkness.

  “Should we respond, Edward?” demanded Hastings.

  Edward stared in the direction of Warwick’s troops and his eyes blazed open with joy. “My plan worked. Warwick thinks we’re further back than we are—his cannons are going over our heads! Hold your fire! Christ, what a surprise he’ll have in the morning!” He gave Richard a hearty slap on the back. “Now get some sleep, little brother.” He turned to Hastings. “Fog rolling in, Will, and it’s cold.” He rubbed his hands. “But we’ve fought in worse and won, haven’t we?”

  Hastings drew an audible breath. “We have indeed.”

  Richard had heard the stories. Howling ice-winds; driving, blinding snow; dead men so frozen to their horses they had to be buried on them; blood that had melted with the ice. Towton had been fought on Palm Sunday in ’61, in a fierce snowstorm. Ten years later, almost exactly to the day, this battle at Barnet would be fought in fog. He could hope it was an omen. Edward had always been lucky in battle—at Towton he’d been outnumbered, all odds against him, yet he’d won the day.

  Not only did they face a superior force this time, but Edward had entrusted the command of the precious right wing of his army to Richard. He was only eighteen years old, without experience of warfare, not even powerfully built. He had little to offer his brother besides his life, and his will to succeed or to die in the attempt. That, and what he had forged at Middleham under the loving guidance of the two brothers he must fight come dawn. His misery closed in on him like a steel weight. He crunched his way across the hard earth to the right wing under his command.

  ~*~

  Richard stretched out on his pallet in the mist. They were so close to the enemy he could hear all the sounds of their camp: the neighing of their horses, the tramping of their feet, the banging of their pewter mugs, even their oaths. As Edward had said, in this proximity lay safety and their only hope of victory. Warwick’s cannon fire w
as passing over their heads because he thought them further back than they were, and by attacking before first light, they would catch him unprepared.

  But victory and safety came at the cost of comfort and warmth. As they were so close, they couldn’t pitch tent. There would be no time to dress in the morning, so they had to sleep in their battle gear. Richard’s suit of white armour, a gift from Edward in happier days, was wrought in Milan and represented the finest that could be bought. But steel was steel, and nothing could make it less than cold and clammy. He lay awake all night, listening to the booming cannons, thinking of those on the other side who had once shared his dreams. He wondered what John’s thoughts were, whether he slept or wept. He wondered whether they would meet in battle, and prayed they would not.

  He thought of Warwick, who had been a father to him, whom he had hoped to have as a father-in-law. He thought of Anne, and drove her away by force of will, for she brought more pain than he could bear. Instead, he conjured up an image of Edouard of Lancaster and clenched his hand around his sword. If only Edouard were here and he could engage him in battle! But Edouard was safe at sea with his mother.

  At four o’clock in the morning the camp stirred. It was April 14th, 1471. Easter Sunday.

  Richard sat up with stiff joints and looked around him. An eerie fog blanketed the night. He peered into the floating whiteness. Men were rubbing their bleary eyes, or taking out from their bags the dried meat they had brought with them and munching grimly.

  Richard prayed for strength and lined up his men for battle. He took a westerly position on Edward’s right wing. Edward’s order came through the mist: No quarter for the commons! Richard was stunned; he hadn’t realised the depth of Edward’s bitterness. The cry before had always been to slay the lords and spare the commons. But then, the common man had always loved Warwick.