York was waiting to greet him with a squadron of ships, and together they sailed into Waterford harbour where the Irish accorded Warwick a warm welcome.
“As you see, the Irish are overcome with admiration for you, my lord,” said York, which was generous of him because Warwick knew the adulation wasn’t entirely for him. Ireland was a notoriously troubled place; the Irish chiefs were constantly at odds with one another and with the English settlers and pursued feuds of such long-standing that the causes were obscured by the mists of the past. During his term as the lieutenant, York had made friends with the Irish chieftains, restored order, resolved quarrels at the council board and dispensed a brand of justice they had never known before from an English governor – thorough, fair and impartial – and as a consequence won the good will of all. His tenure was regarded by the Irish as a brief span of sanity in the bloody history of their strife-torn island.
He had done nothing apart from ensuring his own safety, while Warwick himself had become a man of legend. They spoke his name with admiration and even envy in the courts of Europe and with fear in the court of England. They spoke of his deeds in taverns and marketplaces all over England; they called him the ‘lodestar of chivalry’ and ‘the perfect knight’. It was because of his deeds that they were now in a position to plan their return home.
I have eclipsed him, but does he know it? Warwick wondered as he plodded through the narrow streets toward the castle. Yes, I think he is beginning to understand that. Will he step aside and let me have my rightful place? No, of course not. He will take all that I have accomplished and use it to his own benefit and squander it and fail.
“How is my son? He writes infrequently,” York asked once Warwick was settled, and they were alone in the Duke’s apartment.
“He is well. I keep him busy.” Which is true. But why can’t he appreciate the lad? Why must he harp on and magnify all his failings? If I had a son like Edward, he thought… before changing the subject abruptly.
“I think the wiser course would be for you to remain here, while I cross and make sure England is secure. There’s no sense in both of us being at risk.” This was crucial to his plans. He meant to eclipse York so absolutely that York would never see the light again – in a manner of speaking. By the time York arrived in England, he wanted to have the kingdom in the palm of his hand and to hand it over, saying, Here. This is for you. I have done this, and I’m not going to let you lose it this time.
“Agreed,” York said promptly. This caused Warwick to wonder. The risks would all be his – minuscule though they were against an enemy so inept – but so would the glory. Why had York assented so readily?
“How long before you’re ready?” the Duke asked.
“We could be ready about a month after I get back. A summer campaign. We have sufficient ships now and more than enough men. There’ll be more joining me when I land. In fact, I don’t want too many with me when I march on London. Enough for protection, certainly, but we don’t want to appear too threatening.” He paused before adding ruefully, “My only lack is money. Do you, by chance, have anything to spare?”
“I’m in the same case as you. The Irish are happy to pay the living expenses of myself and my household, and they’ve even given me a monthly allowance, so I have money in my purse whenever I need cash. But I have nothing like the funds you’re going to need. I did hear that the Staplers were supplying you with money.”
“True, but I don’t know how much farther I can presume on their generosity.”
“Oh, I think you can presume one more time,” York said, mouth turning up in a smile. “You’ve brought them a shipload of trouble, what with the wool embargo. Mark my words, they’ll pay right handsomely to get rid of you!”
“You’re probably right. In any case, I intend to be in England this summer, and I’m not going to let a little matter like a shortage of money stop me.”
“Where will you land?”
“Sandwich, of course. I think the place is lucky for me.” Warwick grinned. “I’ll have my Uncle Fauconberg hold it for us. Speaking of Sandwich, word reached me just before I sailed that our enemies may be readying another fleet there. It’s not certain yet, but if they are I may just send John Dyneham back to trounce them again.”
“Don’t overreach yourself, man!” York warned. “You couldn’t be so lucky twice. They’ll be ready for you next time.”
“Ha! You give them too much credit, Uncle. Did hear that Margaret made an effort to secure the Flanders Galleys.”
“Christ save us, I hope she didn’t succeed.” They were a Venetian trading fleet known as the fastest ships afloat. The oarsmen were highly paid and often well born.
“They were loath to become involved in someone else’s war and hurriedly sailed for home. After that the Venetian merchants in London were thrown in gaol, sparking an international outcry.”
“I heard nothing of this.”
“You’re more isolated here than I am. In fact, I’ve been corresponding with Philip of Burgundy and the Dauphin Louis. Both have offered to send men to our support if we should have need of them.”
“Good news,” said York, and smiled weakly.
Warwick remained in Ireland longer than he had anticipated. Not that hashing out the plans for their return took very much time; nor even the wording of a manifesto that was to be issued before the invasion, which expanded upon the one Warwick had put out on his march to Ludlow. In it they reworked the usual complaints about the King’s inept and corrupt ministers giving away the King’s livelihood and then robbing the people to pay his expenses; the lack of justice and the woeful state of the economy in general. Of course they didn’t fail to trot out the trusty old saw about the loss of English possessions in France, and the even older one about how they had been shut out of the presence of the King – who was noble and virtuous and in no way to blame for the miseries that oppressed the land – by such as the Earls of Wiltshire and Shrewsbury and Lord Beaumont, who controlled the King’s affairs. The script was the same; only the names had changed.
But now there were new grievances. They pointed out how the Irish had been enjoined to make war on the Duke of York and how certain foreign princes, who were enemies of England, had been invited to attack Warwick, which was an open invitation to seize Calais – that peerless jewel in the English crown. Certain lords had continually sought the destruction of the Duke of York and his issue, a crime made doubly heinous because they were of royal blood.
“Do you think that wise?” asked Warwick, frowning over the wording, which one of York’s clerks had added as an afterthought.
“And why not?” York said equably. “My blood is as royal as Henry’s. More so, in fact, as you know. Why hide it?”
True, but in the past, he had always been careful to make no reference to his royal blood because it might be taken as a reminder of his prior claim. The addition of that little phrase ‘of royal blood’ made Warwick uneasy. It was as if York had shed a mantle and now stood forth fully revealed as… royal?
But what really delayed his departure for about a month after they had concluded the main business of the visit was the news from England that his enemies were preparing to waylay him on the return voyage to Calais.
Chapter 37
June-July 1460, Sandwich to London
In late June Warwick packed his men and his horses into the fleet of ships so thoughtfully provided by his enemies and sailed off to Sandwich. The port was now fully recovered from the shame of Pierre de Breze’s attack thanks to the fame with which the Calais earls had invested it. Not only did he have the fleet John Dyneham had captured from Lord Rivers, but a second one had been assembled to take men and provisions to Somerset under the command of Osbert Mountford, a veteran soldier and former officer of the Calais garrison. This time they did not make the same mistakes as before, and the fleet was well guarded, but that didn’t stop that same parvenu, John Dyneham, from attempting another post-midnight raid. The fighting was fierce,
but in the end, the fleet was captured and Mountford, like Lord Rivers before him, was carried captive to Calais.
When Warwick sailed from Ireland, Exeter, on board the Grace Dieu, which had just undergone extensive repairs, spotted him off the Cornish coast. Although he had the larger fleet, Exeter made no attempt to engage, and Warwick sailed serenely past. It was later learned that his mariners mutinied for lack of wages and food – or so they said.
Warwick also spotted the smaller fleet of Sir Baldwin Fulford, but the doughty Devonshire man also declined to challenge and for the same reasons. Apparently, he went home – head intact.
Lord Fauconberg had already established a foothold in Sandwich, and the three earls sailed into a joyful reception. Supporters packed the port, and there was no opposition in sight. Watching his cousin greeting friends and adherents in the marketplace, Edward thought how no other could have accomplished so much in so little time. He was a very different man from the one who had fled six months earlier. That Warwick had been no more than York’s very able lieutenant. Now he had become a man of legend.
John Dyneham lay in the back of a wagon, his thigh so badly mangled in that last raid and still so painful that he could not attempt to walk even with the aid of crutches without danger of falling flat on his face in a swoon.
“Go home. Marry your Alice if she’ll still have you now that you’ve made such an infamous name for yourself,” Edward said, gripping him by the wrist.
“I’ll miss everything,” John mourned, his eyes tearing in a face leached of all colour due to massive blood loss.
“Yes, I expect you will, but there’s no help for it. The important thing is to get yourself well,” Edward said firmly, and then smiled his engaging smile. “I’ll miss you, John. But I don’t want to see your face again until you can walk unaided. Is that understood?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Give my deepest respects and thanks to your dear mother.”
Under threatening skies, the army set out for London. The exile had been a relatively short one, but not even the most hardened of men failed to appreciate the beauty of the Kentish countryside. Kent was called the garden of England for a good reason. Fields rolled out to the clear horizon in a glorious patchwork of green and gold, intersected with crumbling stone walls or hedges from which birds sang, and with sparkling streams or small rivers hugging their boundaries. The fruit was already swelling in the orchards, and the air was nectar-sweet. The roadside ditches were a palette of colours: the purple of violet, the scarlet of pimpernel, the blue of speedwell and forget-me-not, the yellow of buttercup and cowslip the white of ox-eyed daisy and the pinks of wild roses.
Edward cocked an ear to the song of the thrush or the sound of church bells chiming in the distance. English church bells. The grass upon which he sprawled to take his ease was sweet and moist, and the trees were lush and glistening. When the summer sun peeped shyly between the clouds, it was a familiar, comforting hand on the back of his neck. When it began to rain no one minded, for it was English rain and there was none like it. It was good to be home.
More friends and supporters joined them on the march, including Lord Cobham, leading the Kentishmen, swelling their numbers and bringing news. Farmers tending their fields paused to watch; villagers came out of their houses, and other travellers stood aside, waving, doffing their caps, smiling. Small boys followed them down the road. Milkmaids and goose-girls flashed their eyes at the young knights and squires. Margaret would have been chagrined to know that the invasion had the look of a leisurely progress through the friendly countryside. They couldn’t have asked for a warmer reception.
The tower of Canterbury’s famous cathedral, Bell Harry, came into view before the rest of the town. The three knights left in charge there were sensible men and realised they could hardly hold it in the face of the townsfolk’s opposition. They agreed to a parley, and such was Warwick’s persuasiveness – not to mention the impressive size of his army – that they suffered a complete change of heart and accompanied the earls when they resumed the march after paying homage to the shrine of Thomas Becket.
Nothing now stood between the invaders and London. But the news from the capital wasn’t good. At Blackheath, they were informed by a deputation of citizens that Lords Scales and Hungerford were holding the city for the King, and, with the approval of the prelates, the magistrates had given orders that the earls were to be repulsed if they attempted to enter the city. London was apprehensive after the special commission, headed by the Duke of Exeter and the Earl of Wiltshire to look into cases of treason and rebellion. So successful were the commissioners in the execution of their duty that heads and quartered remains decorated all the city gates. This included the gate on the drawbridge, which was closed, with men-at-arms in the tower above to lower the portcullis if necessary.
Unconcerned, Warwick said to Edward, “She’ll make a show of resistance to save face, but she’s as eager as an old bawd to have us inside her.”
Chapter 38
July 1460 – London
London was so overcrowded that vendors’ stalls or small businesses such as cobblers or basket weavers were stuffed into any spare bit of ground between buildings. Businesses were piled on top of one another and houses were cantilevered to establish more living space on the upper floors, creating a tunnel-like effect and casting the street below in perpetual gloom. The oddest result of overcrowding was where aspects of very different buildings occupied the same piece of real estate. One example of this, as Anne knew, was the church of Allhallows of the Cellars, so called because it was built over crypts. At any time of day, the worshippers might find their prayers interrupted by the clip-clop of horses’ hooves or the rumble of carriage wheels echoing throughout the church because the steeple and choir were built over an arched gate that served as the entrance to Coldharbour House.
Coldharbour was a venerable building. During his ‘debauched’ years, when he had been Prince of Wales, Henry V had occupied it, and a portrait of him still hung above the fireplace in the lord’s bedchamber. But he had never owned it. It had belonged to the Hollands, and now it was the property of the Duke of Exeter.
Apart from the odd and unsatisfactory entrance, Anne rather liked Coldharbour, particularly when her husband was absent and the Queen wasn’t in residence at Westminster. The King and Queen had returned to Coventry, where they had spent most of the last four years, and of course, Exeter was with them. She had been left behind like a piece of forgotten baggage, but no matter; that suited her perfectly. Her daughter was at Thorpe Waterfield, which was more or less her permanent home. Anne had neither duties nor responsibilities and was free to roam at will through London, visit anyone she fancied (a pity there was no one of interest presently) and roll around in her gloriously solitary bed at night, indulging in lascivious daydreams.
‘You can stay here if you like,’ Exeter had told her when news of Warwick’s landing reached the city. ‘But I warn you, there’s going to be trouble. If I were you, I’d get back to Thorpe Waterfield as soon as possible.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ she replied indolently. But what she thought was how ironic it was that trouble in the kingdom meant Exeter’s absence and a time of peace for her. Not that she was tempted to return to Thorpe Waterfield. Knowing that Thomas was so close and that she could not, must not, dare not, see him was unendurable.
Before Exeter left, of course, he must have one last thrust at her, and when he finished he said petulantly:, ‘Oh, why won’t you quicken with my son, woman? Are you doing something to prevent it?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Then why? Our daughter is four. It must be because you’re so damned cold. My seed freezes in you.’
‘Yes, something like that,’ she said placidly. ‘Because I dislike you my body rejects your children.’
Given his character, Anne wondered why his face wasn’t furrowed with the deep etchings of a troubled spirit. But it was as innocent of care as any child’s.
It was her own, as her mirror testified, that was showing the ravages of constant anxiety.
‘You certainly reject the one we already have,’ he sneered. ‘I never heard of such an indifferent mother. Your neglect of her is unnatural.’
‘I don’t neglect her. She has everything she needs, including a very competent nurse. She certainly doesn’t need me dancing attendance on her constantly, the way the Queen does with Prince Edward. My mother didn't raise me that way, and I don’t intend to raise my daughter that way.’
‘The Queen may be a hard woman in many respects, but where her child is concerned, she’s soft as lamb’s wool. She dotes on him. I find that natural in a mother. You’re the unnatural one.”
“Oh, do go away, my lord!’
Away he went to Coventry in the train of the King and Queen who had to escape to the Midlands because they dared not trust the temper of the capital when danger loomed. They left Lords Scales and Hungerford to hold the Tower and make sure the capital remembered that it owed its loyalty to the King and not to the Earl of Warwick. But when Lord Scales proposed to have himself made Captain of London the magistrates baulked and told him in no uncertain terms that they were perfectly capable of seeing to the defence of their city. When Warwick’s approach was known, the gates were closed and so carefully guarded that no one was let in or out without close questioning of his business. The watch was doubled in all the wards, and a delegation sent to the earl warning him that if he attempted to enter the city, London would resist him with all her might.
Now he was here, practically at the gates, that pirate or naval hero, depending on which side of the fence you grazed, whose name was praised to the skies by the common masses and struck terror in the hearts of his enemies, who corresponded with princes and himself lived like a prince. Here he was and, according to her servants, the only ones who wanted him kept out were Scales and Hungerford and a few other minor lords left in the city. The Archbishop of Canterbury, the Bishop of Exeter, Chancellor Waynflete and other prelates had agreed to the measures taken by the common council, but generally, the prelates were Yorkist in sympathy. The common council itself was merely obeying the dictates of its King but with reluctance, for it too was Yorkist in sympathy; and the vast majority of the citizens were very vocal about it: they wanted their hero let in, for they, too, were Yorkist in sympathy.
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