Henry was no more affected by Edward’s amusement than by Warwick’s sarcasm. He had wandered off into a world of his own, a gentler world, his eyes distant and unfocussed. He seemed to have forgotten the presence of his lords until York recalled him.
“Sire, will you accept our humble submission?”
The pale eyes blinked and came to focus on the other man’s face. “For the love of God and His son who died for our sins, let there be peace among us,” Henry said, and the lords clustered around him went down on their knees again and bent their heads.
……….
Leaving the others outside the abbot’s house, Edward went in search of his friends. The monks had broached a hogshead of ale in the middle of the cloisters and were passing out tankards indiscriminately. When he heard the noise, he turned his steps in that direction. As he approached the wide arch that led between the chapter house and the sacristy into the cloisters, a man very deliberately stepped out of the shadows into his path. Edward was more startled than afraid. Many of his father’s men were enjoying the monk’s largesse, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Will and Tom Herbert heading his way.
The man who stood before him had a spectacular bruise over his left eye. Though he was shorter than Edward by a hand span, he wore an air of menace like a cloak. One hand rested on the hilt of a sword thrust through his belt. His eyes were narrow slits as he stared at the boy like a snake trying to hypnotise its prey before striking. Then a low feral growl rose in his throat. “York’s cub.”
The boy who had fought a boar was not going to be intimidated by a mere man, no matter how malevolent, and inclined his head civilly. “Edward, Earl of March. And you are?”
“John Clifford, harbinger of death.”
Lord Clifford had been among the slain. Edward reasoned that this must be his son. “You appear to have a flair for the dramatic, John Clifford,” he said calmly, which only served to inflame the older man further.
“Listen, Whelp, this is my pledge to you: One day I shall serve your father as he served mine.” He stabbed a finger into Edward’s chest. “And I have marked you, too.”
“I’ve heard grief can do strange things to a man. You must be delusional if you think your threats mean any more to me than the warbling of a toad.”
Clifford’s eyes flared wide, reflecting the pinprick lights of torches. He moved a step closer, so their faces were only inches apart. “You had best take heed, Whelp,” he snarled.
It was all Edward could do to stand still, to resist the impulse to take a step back away from that brutish face. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Nothing he had experienced that day had unnerved him as much as Clifford’s bulging, blood-shot eyes boring into his. It was with relief that he became aware of the presence of his friends.
“Do you need assistance, my lord?”
The soft and musical accents of Wales were in Tom Herbert’s voice, but there was nothing soft about the stare he was directing at Clifford. His brother, William, built like a Welsh mountain, had taken up his station on Edward’s other side.
“It’s John Clifford here who appears to be in need of assistance. I think he’s lost his way. Why don’t you summon a guard, Tom, and have him escorted from the Abbey.”
Clifford’s eyes flashed to the newcomers, dismissed them with contempt and returned to Edward’s face. He bared his teeth in a snarl without words and then tried to brush past, deliberately going shoulder to shoulder with Will Herbert. Will didn’t budge an inch, and it was Clifford who was thrown off balance.
The three young men laughed as they turned to watch him stalk away in the midst of his guards.
Chapter 17
May 1455 – London
Under sunny skies, the citizens of London turned out to watch the procession that wound from Bishopsgate to St. Paul’s Cathedral to hear a mass of thanksgiving. York was popular in London, particularly with merchants and tradesmen, because he stood for good government and increased trade. Warwick was equally popular, for he set a princely table, regularly entertained prominent citizens in the kind of lavish style York would have disdained for any but royalty, distributed largesse liberally wherever he rode and fed many of the poor from his household’s leavings.
The horse he rode that day was a magnificent dappled grey, a large and powerful stallion that stepped daintily as a little mare in the procession. Its tail swept majestically to the ground. The reins and bridle were of red leather, rings and studs of silver and there was a little crown of feathers on its head with bells attached that tinkled at every step. One would expect the owner of such a horse to be magnificent and Warwick didn’t disappoint. Rings flashed on every finger. There were jewels in his cap, in the wide collar of golden discs that spanned his shoulders and from which a golden cross hung; jewels also in the hilt of his ceremonial sword and the buckle of his belt. His boots were of gleaming Spanish leather, without a speck of dust, and the silver spurs of knighthood flashed on his heels. From head to toe, the Earl of Warwick sparkled, and the Londoners roared their approval.
Then came the King and the crowd went strangely quiet before once again raising a cheer. He was preceded by a groom on foot, leading his horse, a chestnut gelding, a handsome enough animal but with all the spirit and character wise out of it with the flick of a knife. On its back the King sat like a woolsack, his shoulders bowed and his head hanging forward as if in anticipation of a blow. In one hand he clutched a missal; with the other, he clung to the pommel. He did not acknowledge the cheers.
A prosperous vintner remarked to his neighbour: “My lord of Warwick rides like a King, while the King rides like a poor and shoddy clerk befuddled by too much wine.”
“And on a leading rein, by the Cross!” whispered his neighbour, a mercer. “The shame! Can’t be trusted to control his own nag and a gelding at that.”
……….
That same day the Duke of Exeter returned to the city without fanfare and rode straight to Coldwater House. Anne was in the chapel, praying for the souls of the dead when word came that her husband had entered the city. The news had come the night before, and her first reaction was overwhelming relief that her father and brother had survived, followed almost at once by an unacknowledged twinge of regret that her husband also had. Rising quickly, she sent for the steward and gave him instructions: ale to the hall – no wine; they would be thirsty, with a tendency to guzzle – whatever food, hot or cold, that could be prepared quickly; water to be heated for baths. It was early evening but still light out. As was common in England, a beautiful spring day had been followed by one of relentless rain. She assumed they would have been riding all day through bad weather and would be wet, exhausted and utterly disconsolate. Defeat had not been a consideration when they set out.
After checking her appearance, she hurried down to the great hall and was stood on the dais when her husband entered, flanked by his bastard brothers, still wearing fouled armour and with his head wrapped in a bloody bandage. His household took one look at his face and fled to shadowed corners. He glanced around as if looking for someone upon whom to vent his rage, but the servants had their heads bowed, hiding their faces, and a monumental silence filled the hall. Anne went to stand before him, curtsied and offered a cup of ale, which he downed in one long draught. She lowered her eyes, but not before she saw the expression in his. Never before had she seen such a colossal rage and it chilled her to the bone.
“Have you no greeting for me, wife?” he said unpleasantly, thrusting the empty cup at her.
“Welcome, my lord,” she said tonelessly, and backed away, seeing something glittering darkly in his eyes that filled her with fear. She was four months pregnant. Once before she had quickened, only to have the thing slide from her body in pain and blood. This time, it seemed likely she would succeed in reaching full term.
“You stupid lout!” he raged at his squire. “What ails you? You’re about as useless as a monk in a whorehouse! Get me out of this damned thing, for the love
of Christ!” At Anne, he barked: “Don’t just stand there! Get me some wine, not this sour piss that’s fit only for peasants.”
The steward gave her a triumphant look, for he had warned her that the Lord would want wine, and sent two of the servants off to fill pitchers with the cheap Rhenish that was spoiled before it was delivered and good for nothing but to make a man drunk.
The boy tugged at the padded doublet that cushioned a body from the metal plates of armour, and when his master’s tousled head reappeared, he tossed it onto the table with the blood-spattered cuirass and managed to knock William Bastard’s ale cup over just as he was reaching for it. William swore, tried to cuff the culprit, but Exeter was quicker, backhanding the boy across the mouth with a blow that sent him sprawling in the rushes, spitting blood.
“Go to the kitchen and get your lord something to eat, Gilbert,” Anne said quietly as the boy got unsteadily to his feet.
Exeter slumped in a chair. “You take it upon yourself to order my squire, Madam?” he said in a voice of menace. “Am I no longer master in my own hall?”
“He’s probably too tired to be of further use to you,” Anne replied, surprising both herself and her husband with her courage. It was the pregnancy; she believed he wouldn’t dare hurt her.
She leant closer to study his face and her nostrils quivered, her stomach contracted at the smell emanating from him: sweat mingled with horseflesh and above all the sickening stench of old blood. His eyes were red-rimmed, inflamed with dust and fatigue; a mixture of blood, sweat and dust clogged the creases beside them.
“Is it very painful?” she asked.
“Christ, woman, of course, it’s painful!” he snarled. “What a stupid question! Do you suppose I’m such a big strong fellow that I can suffer a blow like that and not feel the effects?” He thrust his helm in her face, and she saw that the visor hung by one hinge, the other having been utterly demolished by the blow, which had left a gash in the iron above where his eye would have been. “An axe, maybe. Christ knows. I never saw it coming.”
“Shall I order you a bath? You’ll feel better once you’re cleaned up.”
“Will I, indeed?” he said with icy malevolence. “Aye, I do stink of blood, don’t I? The pity is it’s not York’s blood. If it were, I’d never bathe again. I’d wear his blood smell till dogs shrank from my stench.”
His hand suddenly clamped on her arm, pinching the skin white on either side of his fingers and, with a savage jerk, brought her to her knees beside his chair. A sudden hush surrounded them as everyone turned to watch.
“Let go! You’re hurting me.”
“I’ve been kind so far. For your sake, I’ve suspended judgment. But no more! From now on you have no father, no mother, no brothers or sisters. I forbid you to write to them! I forbid you to speak to them, or speak of them! They are the enemy!”
“But that’s not fair…” Anne began, and let the words trail away as the look in his eyes warned her that to proceed was to risk another blow, pregnancy notwithstanding.
“Not fair! Not fair!” he mimicked. “Talk to Somerset’s kin about what’s not fair. Caught and killed in cold blood. Had his skull bashed in by Warwick’s henchmen while he stood with his sword tip on the ground!” Releasing her suddenly, he roared: “God damn you scurvy whoresons, will someone get me wine or must I serve myself?”
The talk turned to the battle, for the benefit of those left behind. What fools men are, Anne thought contemptuously. They had ridden out so proudly, the fire of battle in their eyes, so eager to come to grips with the enemy, and now look at them: bitter, outraged at their losses, nothing left in their arsenal but hollow words because things had not gone as they had expected. What had they expected then? A bloodless victory? A tourney, subject to rules where Warwick would have been disqualified for doing something underhanded?
It had been an overwhelming victory for York, and God had answered her prayers. None of her close kin was among the dead. Tomorrow she would pay for masses to be said for the fallen and make thanks offering to the Blessed Mother to whom she had directed her prayers.
Exeter and his brothers were soon drunk. They sat at the table and guzzled the sour wine as if it was nectar, swore vengeance, made threats, pecked at the food when they remembered it was there and became by turns vicious and maudlin. There were even a few tears shed when Somerset’s name came up. They ignored the offer of baths. Anne went to bed as soon as it was quite dark, accompanied by Jane and Eleanor who helped her get ready, looking as apprehensive as she felt. He would want her tonight, she was sure. She hated his onslaughts on her body but never more so than when he was drunk. It seemed to take an age for him to achieve climax and all she could do was endure.
It came as a surprise, therefore, when she awoke in the morning without having had her sleep broken by the arrival of her husband. So he had taken his pleasure with one of the serving wenches, she thought, feeling sorry for the anonymous girl and at the same time an overwhelming relief at having escaped his odious attentions.
Jane and Eleanor were curiously subdued when they came to attend her. Jane was taciturn by nature, but Eleanor was normally bubbly and talkative. Anne wondered if they had had unhappy reunions with their husbands. She had observed that in both couples relations appeared to be strained, as in a tentative truce, although they were polite enough in her presence. The matter of her attendants’ moods was supplanted by a more immediate concern when Exeter arrived, looking even worse than he had the day before, due, she supposed, to a monumental hangover.
“I must go to Westminster,” he said after another two cups of wine had somewhat revived him. “Her Grace lost so much at St. Albans. Not only Somerset – may God assoil him – who was her rock, but other faithful lords. And the King’s a captive in the hands of his enemies. She will need the comfort of her friends.” He gave Anne a hard look. “You stay here. I doubt she’d be pleased to see you.”
Chapter 18
June 1455 – London
In his bedchamber, Edward of March lay awake for two full hours, thinking and watching the flame of the night candle burn down the hour marks. It seemed to him that on occasion time fled by with hardly any awareness of its passing and at other times it crawled by on leaden feet. And a contrary thing it was, too. The more impatient one was for it to pass, the more slowly it crept by. Sometimes it speeded up, bringing on a dreaded event all the sooner, and if ever time had stopped it was tonight. He decided not to watch the candle. If he didn’t look at it so often, he felt sure time would pass more quickly.
Mostly what he thought about was girls. Edmund wasn’t very interested in them. But in the last year or so Edward’s interest had soared to the point where he thought about them so often that he was prone to suffering the embarrassment of an engorged penis at the most inconvenient times: in church, for instance, or when being reprimanded by the odious Croft. Thinking about girls when he was in bed, he had discovered to his acute distress, inevitably kept him awake. The only girls he knew were those of Ludlow, daughters of the shopkeepers and tradesmen, some of whom had been his playmates for as long as he could remember. Only the nature of their play had changed as they grew older. He soon learned what each of them would let him do. Some encouraged him to take liberties while others allowed him the same liberties but coyly pretended reluctance, and yet others required some effort at persuasion on his part. He liked the unabashed, uninhibited ones best. There were a variety of fascinating girls, but there was one in particular that attracted him. She was two years older than him and the prettiest girl in Ludlow, with cornflower blue eyes and a smattering of golden freckles across her nose. She let him kiss her whenever he got her alone, which was as often as he could manage. After one long kiss, when they were both breathing heavily, she had shown him her breasts, exquisite things, smooth and white as alabaster but not hard; soft and yielding as he had discovered when she let him touch them – which did nothing to ease his breathing.
He glanced at the candle again. A
nother little slice of time gone, the flame creeping toward the next mark. Once she had let him put his hand on that moist, hot place between her legs. Then she had panicked and ran away, leaving him in the grip of a rampant adolescent lust. Just as well she did, though. He knew what came next, what the natural progression of all that delicious touching was, but he dared go no further. He hardly needed Edmund’s warnings about the consequences should he impregnate one of his partners. Father’s rage would be terrible, Mother’s outrage worse. But tonight would be different. Tonight there would be no need for restraint.
The time was almost up. Should he get up now, take his time in dressing? Yes, he could wait no longer. He was impatient, eager and with a huge and excruciating arousal, brought on simply by anticipation. Flinging back the covers, he retrieved the clothes he had set aside earlier: the shirt he had worn that day, an unadorned doublet of brown velvet that he often wore for hunting or other rough activities, tawny hose, old but still serviceable boots. Since his only cloak was miniver-lined, an indication of his high rank as well as being worth a small fortune, he had borrowed one from Tom Herbert. While he was tugging on the old boots, his body servant woke, sat up on the truckle bed and looked at him reproachfully. When he opened his mouth, Edward forestalled the utterance by saying, “Not a word.” With one of the long suffering sighs to which he was much given, the man lay back down and pulled the covers over his head.
While the good folk of Baynard’s Castle were fast asleep, Edward crept out of his chamber, down the darkened stairs and into the hall, where many of the servants, and often low-ranking guests, made their beds on the floor. No torches burned and the fire that was almost always necessary even in summer to warm the great chill cavern of a room had been banked for the night. But he could just make out the humps of recumbent bodies, like islands in a starlit sea, as he picked his way carefully along one wall toward the door to the kitchen. An old hound lumbered to its feet and padded over to him, and he paused to scratch its head. His ears were assaulted by a cacophony of snores as well as the rustling of dry rushes as a few of those humps rose up and transformed themselves into the shapes of men. One must have tripped over another because there was a muttered curse, followed by a snarl, then a choked laugh and a Sssh!
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