On July 11th a proclamation was cried throughout the city, and also outside the barbican where the Tower residents could hear, that the Earl of Warwick had won a victory at Northampton, and that the Duke of Buckingham, the Earl of Shrewsbury, Viscount Beaumont and Lord Egremont had been slain. King Henry – God save him – was safe and would soon return to his capital, but the Queen and Prince had fled, none knew where. The good citizens were exhorted to pray for the souls of the dead, which they may have done in the quiet of church and bedchamber, but out in the streets they lit bonfires and danced around them and got falling-down drunk.
That night in the great hall, as she devoured the meagre rations, Anne had the deep satisfaction of seeing Lord Scales weep tears of anguish at the news.
The need for food became of paramount importance after the news had been disseminated. There were too many not committed to the cause of defying the Yorkists to suffer hunger pangs for long. All it needed was a word to the outside – easily done, people were always sneaking in and out – a couple of guards knocked on the head, one of the posterns opened, and that would be that: the Tower would fall. Scales and Hungerford could not afford to take the chance. They had to get food.
A Spanish ship was sat out in the channel because no births were available at St. Katherine’s. Lighters started to unload her one afternoon. Whatever she had aboard came in barrels. She was still low in the water when the lighters finished their work for the day, and the hungry leaders in the Tower probably believed they could seize one, get it to the water gate and unloaded before Wenlock had any idea what was happening. It had to be done during the day of course because the lighters didn’t work at night.
Salisbury’s guns were no longer trained on the area of the water gate, so even if he saw what was happening, he would be powerless to stop it, as it would take some time and a few near misses for his guns to find the right position. Besides, the gunners never started firing until about mid morning when the mists on the river dissipated. Until then they couldn’t even see the Tower. Even without mist, Lord Cobham on the city side wouldn’t be able to see a thing, so the only danger came from Sir John Wenlock, on guard at St. Katherine’s Wharf.
Lord Hungerford, who undertook to lead the raid, took two of the Tower’s small boats and lay in wait for the lighter as it returned fully laden to St. Katherine’s. His efforts were both hampered and abetted by the mist that was particularly dense that morning, as he was unable to see the quarry until it was upon him, but on the other hand, John Wenlock could see nothing of his activities. As it was, he intercepted and boarded the lighter and towed it back to the Tower wharf where many hands set to helping to unload it.
The Earl of Kendal burst into Anne’s room to give her the news. He was doubled over with laughter, and it was several minutes before he could get out more than a couple of words without succumbing to helpless laughter again. Not until Anne threatened to douse him with water did he manage to relate the end of the tale.
“The barrels yielded eighteen tuns, a pipe and a hogshead of wine!” he cried, slapping his thighs. “Which is likely to result not in hunger pangs defrayed but, for some, a hangover they’ll never forget!” His mouth twitched, and he ended with a hoot of unrestrained laughter in which Anne and her ladies joined.
Four days after the battle of Northampton, Henry was conveyed to his capital with all the trappings of royalty and Warwick carrying the sword of state before him and accompanied by the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of London.
………..
The siege ended that very day. Scales and Hungerford opened negotiations to surrender the Tower. By agreement reached two days later, the two lords secured their own lives and freedom but left the rest of the occupants to the mercy of the law as applied by the Earl of Warwick.
“However, Lord Scales obviously didn’t trust our cousin’s word that he would be allowed to just ride away without penalty,” Edward told his sister when they dined together the day after her release from the Tower.
It had been five years since they had last seen each other, except for a glimpse Anne had caught of her brother when he entered London. She marvelled that it was five years and look how tall he was! So tall, so handsome, so much a stranger. She watched him avidly, head and shoulders above the rest, as the procession formed up and rode along Thames Street until it disappeared from view, leaving her feeling sadder and lonelier than she had felt since Exeter had dragged her from her father’s house on her wedding night.
So this was really very pleasant, she thought: being entertained by her handsome brother in the old castle from whence she had gone as a bride. She could easily imagine herself part of the family again although, in fact, she had had little contact with them since her marriage. They were dining not in the great hall, but in a small round tower chamber, a jewel box of a room painted with scenes from the crusade. If she looked out of the lancet windows on her right, she had a view of the roofs and steeples of London all the way to Knightrider Street, while the windows beyond her brother’s head showed an expanse of the river before it began its long bend toward Westminster.
“I’m not surprised after he had so mercilessly bombarded the city,” she murmured. “What did he do?”
“He tried to steal away from the Tower in the dead of night. He engaged a boat to carry him to the sanctuary at Westminster, but as it emerged from the water gate, a woman standing on the wharf recognised him and gave the alarm. Several boatmen in the vicinity gave chase. He just made it through the rapids to the other side of the bridge when he was overtaken and surrounded. The boatmen boarded and stabbed him to death right there. The body was stripped of everything and tossed on the south shore beside St. Mary Overy.”
“Good riddance,” said Anne with a shrug. “What he did was terrible. I feel no sympathy for him.”
“Did you know he was my godfather?”
“I did, yes. But it had quite slipped my mind.” On her plate was a small quail, smothered in a pepper and coriander sauce, which she pulled apart with her fingers and began to suck the meat from the delicate bone. She glanced at her brother but could not tell from his expression how he felt about the death of his godfather.
“His body lay beside the church, naked and punctured with many wounds, and people went to look at it, then wandered off about their daily business. Dogs came along and sniffed it; crows hopped on it and began pecking. No one touched it for many hours until Warwick learned of it. He hates the idea of a dead nobleman being despoiled and gave orders that the body was to be carried into the church and given a decent burial.”
“Does it make you sad?” asked Anne, curious.
“That he’s dead you mean? Not really. He never discharged the responsibilities that are supposed to be incumbent on a godfather. In fact, I barely knew the man. But if he was chosen to be my godfather he and father must have been close friends once. The only thing that saddens me is the death of that friendship.”
I will never understand men, thought Anne as she took a long drink from her goblet and went back to dissecting the quail. She was quite famished. “What about the others?”
“The Earl of Kendal and Lords de la Warr and de Vescy have been persuaded to see the justice of our cause.”
“Good. I rather liked the Earl of Kendal. Did you know he has spent the last seven years as a prisoner in France and was only released in January under strict sureties so that he could assist in the raising of his ransom? And then to find himself a virtual prisoner in the Tower just six months later!”
“I like him too, but he isn’t going to be of much use to us. His earldom is very small and impoverished, which is why the French held him so long. They refused to believe an earl could have difficulty in raising a mere hundred marks. As for Hungerford and Lovel, they cleave to the Queen. Warwick is trying to arrange to have them smuggled out of the city. He dare not let them leave openly for fear they may suffer Lord Scales gruesome fate.”
Edward was watching his sister in some amus
ement. Her appetite dwarfed his, which was considerable, living testament that supplies had indeed run low at the Tower.
Anne frowned. “Why should he care if they do? They are his enemies.”
“True and he would be happy to fight them to death on the field of battle, but he has all the aversion of our class to seeing one of his own kind fall into the hands of the common rabble.”
“That is the kind of muddled thinking that has women shaking their heads in bewilderment at the esoteric logic of men!” Anne said emphatically. “What if they should meet in some future battle and Hungerford kills Warwick?”
“Then I imagine Warwick would regret not handing him over to the London mob,” said Edward, laughing merrily. “But, sister, it’s not so hard to understand. We live our lives in a state of dignity that puts us on an elevation above the common herd. It is taught to us from the cradle, and we go to great pains to maintain it because if we don’t we become the common herd and that is a fate to be avoided at all cost! The idea that in our last moments of life our dignity can suddenly be stripped from us is abhorrent and, frankly, frightening. To die by the axe or on the field of battle is honourable, and most men can face such a death with courage. But there is nothing honourable or dignified about being butchered by a mob, and left, despoiled and naked, an object of curiosity or pity or contempt in the eyes of the rabble. I wouldn’t wish that on any man.”
“Well, I must say, our cousin of Warwick is uncommonly magnanimous. I’m sure were the Queen in his shoes the surrender of the Tower would have been followed by a bloodbath.”
“Which is not to say no one will pay. But it won’t be noblemen. Warwick doesn’t have the authority to execute his peers and Henry would never consent to it. But, of course, he does have the right to execute any of the commons who trespass against him. And that’s just what he’ll do. We’ll be sitting at the Guildhall the day after tomorrow to hear the cases of six men, including those rabble-rousers, Brown and Barton. After which they will be taken to Tyburn and hanged, drawn and quartered.”
“Brown and Barton? Do you mean Sir Thomas Brown? But they didn’t even enter the Tower until the day before we heard about Northampton. Their defiance lasted all of five days.”
“True, but they and the other four men served your husband in his capacity as Constable of the Tower. If examples must be made, and of course they must, I can’t think of better candidates. By the way, that post has now gone to Lord Fitzwalter, since Exeter has been grossly derelict in his duty by allowing the Tower to fall into the hands of men who defied the King’s orders.” Edward’s mouth twitched in the trace of a smile. “But enough of death. Let’s speak of life. How is your little Anne? Does she look like you? I would like to meet her someday.”
“Hard to believe but she’s almost five years old. She’s a quiet, serious, child. I don’t think you’d like her.”
“What an odd thing to say,” said Edward, watching her face as she ate, blue eyes veiled, long lashes shading her cheeks. “Our Dickon is quiet and serious, and I like him well enough,” he said lightly and covered her hand with one of his own. “My poor Anne. It hasn’t been a happy marriage, has it?”
This unexpected sympathy, the warmth in his voice, brought Anne to the brink of tears. “He’s a monster. I loathe and detest everything about him.”
“Is it true he’s a miser on top of everything?”
“Only in private.”
“A pity he didn’t fall at Northampton instead of Buckingham.” Rather than summon a servant, he filled up both their goblets. “They say he delights in telling people tales about his tortured victims…”
“Embellished with descriptions of joints popping and ligaments tearing…” But, no, I won’t ruin this evening. Exeter must not be allowed to intrude here. She blinked back her tears and changed the subject. “Have you heard from Father? Will he be returning soon?”
“I expect he will. Warwick has written to him with the news of Northampton.”
“Please give my love to our parents when you see them. I doubt I will be allowed to remain in London much longer. Though I loathe him, still I must obey him. What about you? What will you do now?”
“After the trials, we’re off to Canterbury with the King to enable him to render thanks at Becket’s tomb for our victory.”
Anne couldn’t help herself. “Poor Henry!” she said.
“Oh, don’t ‘poor Henry’ me,” Edward said, surprising her with the depth of his irritation. “Every man has his role in life. There is a good reason why goldsmiths will not allow haberdashers to work gold, and why fishmongers won’t allow grocers to sell fish; and a good reason why a peasant is likely to remain a peasant all his life and would never dream of aspiring to be a knight. We all have roles for which our birth and training have prepared us. Henry’s is to be King. He should leave religious matters to those who have made a career in the church and focus – if he’s capable of focusing – on the job that God ordained him to do, which is to govern the kingdom. If he falls short as a ruler, it is because he aspires to be something for which his birth and training have not prepared him. No, worse than that: He shrinks from the tasks that his birth and training have prepared him.”
Still, Anne couldn’t help feeling sorry for the King who had always been kind to her: being trotted out intermittently to reinforce the illusion that he was among his friends, and now being forced to participate in ceremonies giving thanks for the victory that delivered him into the hands of those ‘friends’.
“Tell me all about the family. I haven’t seen them in such a long time.”
The dishes came and went, brought by unobtrusive servitors and cleared quietly away. There were six courses in all, each with three dishes: slices of roast beef and chicken breast in sauces, quail and woodcock, eel pasty, baked trout, a ragout of leeks, turnips and early apples, a tangy brie and a mellow cheddar and crusty fresh bread made from the best flour. It was a sumptuous feast in which the two young people indulged themselves without stint, Edward because his body hadn’t yet realised it had stopped growing and Anne because such gustatory delights were not found at Exeter’s board. Besides which, she had gone for a week in the Tower with little food. While a lutenist played innocuous little melodies in a niche outside the door, Edward regaled his sister with tales of Elizabeth’s marriage, (only two years wed and poor Suffolk so cowed that sometimes his mother had to intervene to protect him from her scolding) the latest additions to ‘Meg’s menagerie’, George’s tyranny, and Dickon’s less frequent struggles with his health. Anne laughed a lot, and occasionally there was a suspicion of moisture in her eyes.
Beyond the lancet windows, the sun was sinking, reflecting its flagrant colours on the surface of the river and cloaking the narrow streets in the gloom of premature dusk. Which meant it was getting quite late. Anne’s household had not wanted her to come. Brother or no, she was associating with the enemy, and if the Duke should find out… Well, let the Duke find out. She no longer cared. She was glad she had come. She couldn’t remember when she had last enjoyed herself so much. Her brother’s charm, wit and engaging manner easily made her forget that it had been six years since they had played together as children. Since then they had both undergone experiences that the other would never know or be able to appreciate, and that had influenced, affected and perhaps even warped the maturation process. And yet they were not strangers to each other.
She didn’t want to go. She wanted to stay here with Edward in the bosom of the house of York where she had always been happy, never known cruelty or fear or want, hadn’t even known those things existed for those of her class. What would he say, her dear brother, if she threw herself at his feet and begged him to keep and protect her from Exeter? She thought she knew: He might sympathise but, like Father, he wouldn’t be prepared to do anything. But she wouldn’t put him to the test.
It was time to go. She was a little drunk. Edward took both her hands in his and kissed her on the mouth in parting. “It has been a mo
st pleasant evening, my dear sister,” he said. “I am so glad you decided to accept my invitation. We’ll see each other again soon, I hope, and perhaps then your circumstances will be changed for the better.”
“I too had a lovely evening,” Anne said, as her attendant draped her cloak about her shoulders. Drawing on her gloves, she preceded him through the door.
Her carriage was waiting in the courtyard, her liveried escort mounted before and behind. It was no great distance between Baynard’s Castle and Coldharbour House, but the dignity that Edward had alluded to earlier prevented her from walking or even riding through the streets of London, lest she be outraged by some hideous sight not fit for the sensibilities of so great a lady. The carriage was equipped with blinds, which could be drawn to shield her from any offensive sight. Edward handed her in and, closing the door, stood back and waved.
The carriage lurched forward, the iron-shod wheels grating on the cobbles as it rolled toward the gatehouse. Anne had the blinds on her side open so she could wave to her brother. As she sank back in her seat, a horseman went by. She had only a glimpse as he doffed his cap and inclined his head in respect, but it was enough. She would have known him anywhere. It was Thomas.
Perhaps it was the wine she had drunk, or perhaps the time she had spent in the Tower, that made her throw caution to the wind. “Stop!” she called, banging on the roof. The driver brought the vehicle to a lurching halt in the very centre of the gatehouse. Flinging the door open, she jumped down without waiting for the hand of a postilion.
“Thomas!” she cried, and he turned in the saddle, saw her and sprang down to the ground. I still love you, she thought as she moved toward him. I tried to make myself forget you but it has been three years – three long, empty, years – and I still love you.
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