Hastings paused to wet his throat and John leant closer, lowering his voice. “So it should have been Roger Mortimer who succeeded Richard II? Did he have any sons? What happened to him?”
“Lived in obscurity and died in Ireland leaving a son, Edmund, and a daughter, Anne, who was the mother of my lord of York. Now there are those who deny the Mortimer claim by invoking the Salic law, which in fact only prohibits women from inheriting property in their own right, not from passing rights on to their male offspring. Edward III himself laid claim to the French crown in right of his mother, in defiance of that very law, thus beginning the French war. Lord Warwick came into his title in right of his wife. Such an argument is specious.”
“And what of the fourth son?” asked John, as Hastings turned to kiss his fingers at a passing serving wench.
“I included him only because his younger son was York’s father, the Earl of Cambridge, who was executed by Henry V for trying to put his brother-in-law, Edmund Mortimer, on the throne. Got it?”
John straightened to take a long draught of ale. “Clear as mud.”
“But to put things right, to uphold the Duke’s claim, is to declare the three Lancastrian kings usurpers. Can you imagine what a constitutional nightmare that would create? It would mean that all acts and statutes passed in their reigns would be rendered invalid.”
John couldn’t, but he was willing to take Hastings’ word for it. “So what did the Lords do?”
Hastings took a long swig of what he claimed to be the best ale in London, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, belched delicately and grinned. “You probably heard that George Neville, Warwick’s younger brother, has been made chancellor?”
“Isn’t he the one made bishop at twenty-two?”
“That’s right. If he has his way, he’ll be pope before he’s thirty. Anyway, his first job in office was to deal with this hot brick. The Lords debated the problem earnestly but could come up with no solution. The Duke was hounding my lord chancellor; no doubt Warwick was pushing in the opposite direction, and the Lords were trying to wriggle out of it. Eventually, they came to the conclusion that it was not a matter upon which they could judge without having the advice of the King. Off went George to see the King.”
John smacked the table with his palm and laughed. “So he went to the King to ask his opinion on whether he should remain King or step aside and let my lord of York take the crown. Oh, that’s brilliant! And let me guess – the King decided he rather liked his role in life and wanted to keep it!”
“I must admit I got a chuckle out of that, too! No doubt the Lords were hoping he would in his mild way step down and resolve their difficulties, but although the trappings of kingship mean little to Henry when put to the test, he showed himself unwilling to renounce them in favour of my lord of York.”
“Everyone says he’d be happier as a monk than as a king,” John observed, and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper to add, “In my opinion, it would be better all round if he did abdicate.”
“I couldn’t agree more. But perhaps even Henry can read the lessons of history: deposed kings meet woeful ends!”
“Really?”
Hastings threw him an exasperated glance. “Of course! Consider the fate of Richard II, deposed at the end of the last century. No man’s hand was raised in violence against him, so they say. He was thrown into a pit in Pontefract Castle and left to starve to death. And Edward II, also deposed at the beginning of the same century, killed when a red-hot poker invaded his bowels. When his body was put on display, it didn’t bear a mark. Inventive, eh?”
John winced, shifted on his seat.
“But back to my story. Any other king would have told them that of course, they must find in his favour if they wanted to keep their heads, but not Henry! He threw the burden back on the Lords by ordering them to search out any objections to the Duke’s claim they could find. To which they replied that the King should search his memory for such objections, as he was such a learned man.
“Having failed to shift the burden onto the King’s frail shoulders, the Lords then had a revelation. Since this was a matter of law as much as anything, it was within the purview of the justices, and so they sent for the justices, laid the Duke’s claim before them and ordered them to find arguments against it. Of course, the justices wanted nothing to do with such an explosive issue. After much anxious whispering amongst themselves, they announced that since it was a matter touching upon the King’s estate, it was above the law, beyond their learning and could only be resolved by the lords of the blood. Whereupon, the lords of the blood turned to the King’s attorneys, his legal advisors and in desperation begged and pleaded, pleaded and begged them to come up with a solution. But they refused the issue also, declaring that if it was beyond the abilities of the learned men of the law to resolve, it was certainly beyond theirs. And didn’t they have a good point?”
“I see now why you likened it to the children’s game ‘hot brick’,” Dyneham grinned.
“My lord of York would not let the matter lie and our chancellor didn’t give up his heroic efforts to find a solution. Being at the end of his considerable wits, he reminded the Lords that the King had appealed to them to defend his title and like it or not they were going to have to do so. It was agreed beforehand that all answers should be given in writing, anonymously, and every lord should state his opinion without fear of reprisals. So they set to work and managed to draw up five articles refuting York’s claim, which was then submitted to him. Naturally, he did not accept these objections and, summoning his own attorneys, drew up a document refuting the refutations. And that is where matters rested for a few days. It seemed an impasse had been reached.
“A compromise was needed and the chancellor produced one. Two weeks after the Duke entered London, the chancellor announced to the Lords in Parliament that the Duke's claim was valid, but the King could not be booted off his throne simply to put right an old wrong. Therefore, it was proposed that Henry should continue to wear the crown for the rest of his life, but upon his death, the Duke and his heirs should succeed him. There!” Hastings sat back looking insufferably smug. “What do you think of that, Master Dyneham?”
John’s mouth fell open. His eyes widened. Still trying to gain his political sea legs he might be, but he had grasped the implications at once. He snapped his mouth shut, blinked twice and said in a voice of awe, “By all the saints in heaven, the only one likely to be pleased by that bargain is… is Edward!”
“Quite so,” said Hastings blandly. Oh, how he loved imparting news that brought to his listener’s face such a look of stunned surprise. “My lord of York is some ten years older than Henry, so it is unlikely that he’ll outlive the King, who is healthy enough despite his mental frailty. On the other hand, Edward is yet young. It is more than possible that the crown is in his future.”
Hastings refilled their two tankards. John had been so engrossed he had barely touched his. Of one accord, they lifted their cups and solemnly brought them together, their eyes meeting over the rims in a silent toast.
After taking a substantial swig, John said: “And they accepted? My lord of York? His Grace the King? They agreed?”
“With reluctance on both parts. But no one could come up with a better solution. They didn’t like it but they had to agree. Henry mumbled something about being persuaded after much sad deliberation and prayer and with the advice of his lords both spiritual and temporal, to agree to the accord for the sake of amity between himself and my lord of York and peace in the kingdom. As for the Duke, he was, in fact, harder to persuade than the King. He at least has the satisfaction of being named heir apparent and knowing that one day his heirs will rule.”
“A small victory, isn’t it?” said John, pensively.
“It is.”
“I just had a thought,” said Dyneham, sitting straighter. ”This means that Prince Edward is disinherited.”
“Oh, you are quick,” said Hastings with amiable sarcasm. �
�Yes, I wonder at what point it occurred to Henry, if in fact, it has, that with the stroke of a pen he has robbed the lad purported to be his son of his inheritance.”
“The Queen won’t take this lying down.”
“We live in uncertain times, John,” said Hastings ponderously, “but of one thing we can be sure. The Queen will fight with all the vigour and ferocity at her command for the rights of her disinherited cub.”
Chapter 49
December 1460 – Sandal Castle, Yorkshire
Edmund sat among a group of other young knights and squires at a trestle table, his teeth chattering, so far from the fire that he could feel nothing of it, although the icy blasts that came through the windows seemed to target him particularly. In front of him was a cup of mulled wine, spicy and heated with a poker. He wrapped his hands around it and carried it to his lips, then set it down and jammed his hands into his armpits.
They were almost caught unawares. Their enemies had accomplished the muster with such speed and secrecy that there was an army in the field before they knew of it. In response to this threat, it was decided his father should go north with all the men immediately available and occupy his castle of Sandal while he summoned his Yorkshire levies. Salisbury and Edmund would go with him. Edward would go west to raise the men of the marches and lead them to his father’s support. Warwick was to remain behind to hold London and the King.
The journey north had been slow and miserable. It had rained almost incessantly throughout the summer and autumn, resulting in washed out roads, bridges and mills destroyed by swollen rivers, streams that burst their banks. Wagons became bogged down; horses and men slogged through the gluey mud. At intervals, a horseman had to ride ahead to test the depth of pools that lay across the road before the rest could follow. Pastures and fields were under sheets of water, so the crops rotted, and vegetable patches were ruined. Even the harvest of fruit and berries was poor. It was a disaster England had not experienced in a hundred years and seemed to compound her miseries.
Then in the area of Worksop, there was an unexpected clash. No one had an inkling Somerset was nearby until their vanguard was ambushed by the rearguard of the men Somerset was taking to join the Queen’s army and given a good mauling. York, with a superior force, had an opportunity to wipe out Somerset’s contingent if he had only sent out scouts, but the opportunity had gone begging. Wouldn't a good commander have gathered proper intelligence?
Privately he worried that his father might resent Warwick and perhaps even Edward because of all they had accomplished while at Calais and afterwards; and more so because they had failed to support him when he had made his bid for the crown. He hadn’t expected that and Edmund knew he was still very bitter about it. It seemed to him that something had gone out of his father with that disappointment; nothing tangible, but some indefinable spark that suddenly made him look and act all of his forty-nine years.
In London, his father had bought him and Edward a destrier each, a grey for Edward, a black for him and they had spent all their spare time training them. They also had new armour, although it was not nearly as grand as the harness Edward had lost at Ludlow. It was all in preparation for the coming campaign. Edmund was supposed to be thrilled at that prospect, but he wasn’t at all sure it was anything to be thrilled about. None of it was thrilling. The weather had turned bitterly cold and heavy snow accompanied the last part of the journey.
Somerset had joined Exeter and the other lords who had marched from Kingston-upon-Hull and were now occupying Pontefract Castle, a place with an evil reputation, for it was there that the deposed Richard II had been imprisoned and died. Edmund had mentally prepared himself for a clash. First, he had to conquer and suppress all the nasty little worm-like things that were slithering around in his innards making him want to puke. It was also necessary to be vigilant about the bubble of something that rose in his chest from time to time. If he didn’t choke it down, he was afraid it would burst from his mouth in a long wail of terror. In the end, he had suffered an excruciating anticlimax when the two sides had agreed to a truce until the end of the Twelve Days of Christmas.
Had Edward felt that way before St. Albans? He doubted it. Edward had always seemed fearless to him, although he had confessed to all and sundry that he had almost pissed himself before the battle and almost puked afterwards. To Edmund, there was something courageous about even being able to admit such things. He never managed to convince himself that Edward had ever felt the kind of stomach-knotting fear that he was experiencing now. Look at the way he had fought that boar; his idea of course. Edmund had gone along hoping against hope to dissuade him. Was it normal to feel this way? Or was he just an arrant coward? And how much of his fear was concerned with being shown up as a coward on the field? He glanced around at the other young knights. He would have liked to ask them how they were feeling, but couldn’t. He was a man now and men didn’t ask each other such questions.
He missed his brother, as usual. Sandal would be a much warmer place if Edward were here. In fact, the whole business would be thrilling if he were part of it, Edmund reflected, as he peered up at one of the arrow slits that served to let in thin shafts of light along with blasts of frigid air, and wondered if the snow was still falling. It was the last day but one of the year 1460 and the air in the great hall at Sandal Castle was so chilly that most of the occupants were cloaked and gloved and emitting clouds of vapour whenever they spoke. At one end of the room, a roaring fire warmed a space of a few feet around it, where York sat with Salisbury toasting their hands and faces, and others kicked the dogs out of the way to get closer to the flames.
It was still snowing, Edmund realised, as the door opened and Tom Neville blew in with a blast of cold air and a flurry of snowflakes. Tom and his brother John had been ransomed after their father and brother had returned from Calais. John was now with Warwick in London, while Tom had elected to accompany their father.
“The foraging party is returning,” he announced to the hall at large. “With luck, we’ll have something better than a gamy old cow for supper.”
Within minutes of that announcement, the tocsin sounded, an alarm that could be heard in all parts of the castle. The Duke launched himself from his chair as if sprung from a catapult and strode to the door. Out he went into the snow and bitter cold, bare-headed and without cloak or gloves, with others rushing behind him.
Edmund hurried after them, out into the swirling snow, following in the wake of the crowd across the bailey to the nearest stair that led up to the curtain wall. Cries of shock and horror greeted him as he emerged onto the parapet. Shouldering his way to a space near his father, he looked toward the north-west where a clearing in the trees led to a loop of the River Calder, gleaming like dull metal in the distance. In the snow-blanketed clearing, not far from the castle walls, a skirmish was taking place.
At first, Edmund didn’t understand what was going on. It was all surreal: the dull gleam of armour and arms, the bright splashes of crimson on snow; the cries and screams and shouts; the clang and clash; the neighs and knickers of horses. A battle? But who was fighting and what about the truce?
Then, so suddenly he could hardly grasp it, he realised what was happening. It wasn’t a battle but a massacre. The foraging party had been returning to the castle when it was ambushed and cut off, unable to reach the main gate, which was to the south. It was being cut to pieces before their eyes.
“Damn those whoresons to hell! They’ve broken the truce!” his father shouted, snowflakes settling on his iron-gray hair. “To arms, men!”
“Wait! Where are the rest?” Salisbury said, but he was speaking to himself, for York was already gone and his men were pouring down the stairs after him.
“The rest?” asked Edmund, joining him to peer out into the snow.
“We were told they have upward of fifteen thousand men. There’s nowhere near that number out there. I’d feel a lot better if I knew where the rest were.”
“Is it a trap?”<
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Salisbury didn’t answer, his eyes taking in the scene below. Suddenly he hurried away, went down the icy stairs too fast for a man of his years, tumbled to the bottom, got up, ignoring Edmund’s aid, and limped across the bailey as fast as he could go. In the hall, he went directly to York and said quietly, “It’s a trap.”
York, who was being helped into his armour by his squires, turned to frown at him. “What makes you say so?”
“There are too few. The rest are in hiding, waiting to ambush us.”
“You are mistaken,” York said positively, not pausing in his arming. “The reason they are so few is that they too are a foraging party and will draw off when we appear. The rest are still at Pontefract.”
“They are too many to be a foraging party. I tell you it’s a trap. I know it. Something in my gut tells me so. Don’t send the men out there.”
“And what of the men who are already out there? Are we to leave them to be slaughtered when we have the opportunity to save the survivors and to inflict a little damage on our enemies at the same time?”
“Yes! Better that than that the rest should be slaughtered, too, which is what will happen if you lead them out. By the time we arm and get out there, it will be over anyway. There is nothing we can do to save those men. I beg you to stop and think! We are in enemy territory, heavily outnumbered, but we are safe as long as we remain here in the castle. When Edward comes, we still won’t have numerical superiority but we’ll be much stronger. Don’t you think our enemies know he’s coming with reinforcements? How else can they hope to winkle us out than by a trick like this?”
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