Edward had agreed, but more disappointments were to come. The Duke of Brittany had given them to expect military support, but, so far, none had been forthcoming. The differences between Edward and Charles seemed to be deepening daily. Both were self-willed, accustomed to command but not to compromise; nor was the developing friction eased any by Charles’s refusal to give the English entry into his own cities.
And then had come this Friday’s debacle before the walls of St-Quentin. When the Count of St-Pol sent word to Charles that he was willing to open the city gates to the English, Edward had been dubious at first; St-Pol’s name had long been a byword for betrayal and double dealing. But Charles had been convinced that St-Pol was acting this time in good faith, and Edward had been willing to let himself be convinced, too.
But St-Pol had suffered an eleventh-hour change of heart, fired down upon the men he’d sworn to embrace as allies, and shortly afterward, Charles had ridden into the English camp at St-Christ-sur-Somme to casually inform Edward that he was departing the next day for Valenciennes to rejoin his own army. Edward spent the evening hours brooding over the events of the past few weeks and, shortly before midnight, came to a decision.
“The French prisoner taken at Noyon…. Bring him to me. Now.”
Minutes later, a terrified youngster was thrust into the tent, fell to his knees before Edward. Not daring to speak, he waited mutely for the English King to decree his doom.
“You needn’t look so greensick, lad,” Edward said softly. “I do mean to let you go.”
The French King was encamped at Compiègne, less than forty miles to the south. Knowing that, Edward was able to estimate how long it would take the freed prisoner to reach Compiègne and how long it would then take a French courier to get back through the lines. That Louis would put the correct interpretation upon his magnanimous gesture and respond accordingly, Edward never doubted. He knew the French King did not want war. Louis was a puppeteer, much preferred to pull strings backstage than to be forced center stage, sword in hand. He’d gladly paid out French gold to undermine the House of York, but he was not so willing to spill out French blood in the same cause. Edward was not at all surprised, therefore, to have his dinner interrupted two days later by the arrival of a French herald.
Ushered into Edward’s presence, the herald at once came persuasively to the point. The French King was eager, he said, to discuss their differences with his English cousin. Would the English King consent to a safe-conduct for a French embassy?
“I think,” Edward said coolly, “that it might be arranged.”
It had taken but two days, one to put forth Edward’s terms for peace and one for Louis to accept them all. Louis agreed to pay Edward seventy-five thousand crowns within the next fifteen days and to pay fifty thousand crowns a year thereafter. A seven-year truce was to be declared and the peace between England and France was to be solemnized by the betrothal of the five-year-old heir to the French throne and Edward’s nine-year-old daughter Bess.
Edward was well pleased with this pact that would one day make his favorite child Queen of France, and as he glanced about the tent at his companions, he thought it plain that they, too, were pleased. And why not? In his eagerness to buy peace, Louis had not quibbled at the price, had not stinted those who had the confidence or friendship of the English King.
Edward’s eyes moved lazily now from face to face, singling out those who’d been judged influential enough to placate. John Howard was to receive an annual payment of twelve hundred crowns from the royal treasury of France. Edward’s Chancellor, Thomas Rotherham, was to collect a thousand. Lesser amounts were to go to John Morton, his Master of the Rolls, to Thomas Grey, his stepson, and to Thomas St Leger, who’d wed his sister Anne as soon as she’d succeeded in divorcing Exeter. Lord Stanley, too, was to benefit from the largesse of the King of France. But to Will Hastings was to go the largest French grant of all, two thousand crowns a year for life.
Edward grinned, for Will alone had refused to sign any sort of receipt, saying, “If you wish, put the money in my sleeve, but no acquittance showing I was a pensioner of France will ever be found in the French treasury.” Yet so eager had Louis been to win the goodwill of Edward’s Chamberlain and closest friend that he’d not balked at Will’s terms, had given him, as well, silver plate worth another thousand marks.
They were all here now in Edward’s tent, celebrating this peace that promised to give them such unexpected profit at so little cost. All the men who stood closest to him. All save one.
That last thought was an irksome one, and he tried not to dwell upon it, tried without success. It was a gnawing discontent that was not going to ease of its own accord, would have to be dealt with. He grimaced, came reluctantly to his feet.
Men materialized from the dark to bar the entrance to his brother’s tent, but backed away as soon as the light of torches flared upon Edward’s face. Within, he found a half-dozen or so men, recognized John Scrope of Bolton Castle and Francis Lovell of Minster Lovell among them. His unexpected and unheralded appearance brought them to their feet in some confusion, and he emptied the tent at once by saying curtly, “I would speak with my brother of Gloucester alone.”
Richard had been lying on his bed; he alone had not moved as Edward entered the tent. Nor did he move now, and Edward’s eyebrows rose at what was both discourtesy to a guest and disrespect to a sovereign. He chose to let it pass, however, sat down on a heavy oaken coffer.
“This isn’t like you, Dickon. You’ve never been one to nurse a grievance or sulk if thwarted. I’d have expected as much from George, but not from you.”
Richard said nothing, but the clenched jaw, the deliberately averted eyes alerted Edward to a still-smoldering anger. He’d expected as much, but he still found himself saying impatiently, “Well? Have you nothing to say to me?”
“What I do have to say to you, you’d not like to hear.”
Edward swore suddenly, sharply. “Why must you be so stubborn about this? You’re as far from a fool as any man could be. Surely you must see why I made the choice I did. Common sense dictated it; to do otherwise would have been folly.”
Richard stayed silent and Edward was goaded into doing what he’d sworn he’d not do, defend again the logistics of his decision.
“Christ, Dickon, look at the facts as they are, not as you would like them to be. What else could I do? Let’s start with the weather; it’s rained nigh on every day for a fortnight and it’ll get far worse once cold weather does set in. Do you think I want to be bogged down in a winter campaign, one that might drag on for months? Not with the allies I have, I can damned well assure you! What have we gotten from Brittany so far except excuses and evasions? As for Charles…he’s as unpredictable and dangerous as a loose cannon aboard ship and to put any trust in his word is like spitting into the wind. He’s all too likely to—”
“Trust? We were the ones to make a private peace, without even warning him beforehand that such was our intent! Jesus God, Ned, whatever Charles’s failings, we did owe him better than that! And if not him, then the people of England. You did bleed the country white for this war with France and now we are to straggle home surfeited with French wines and French food, stuffed with French bribes? England did pray for another Agincourt, not a sell-out!”
“I talk of realities and you give me back platitudes about honor and chivalry! I did expect better of you than that, Dickon!”
“And I you!”
Edward came abruptly to his feet. “It would seem, then,” he said coldly, “that we’ve nothing else to say to one another.” He lingered, however, for several moments more before moving away from the bed, as if half expecting Richard to relent. At the tent flap, he paused again, demanded roughly, “Just what would you have me do? You cannot deny the truth in what I said. Why in Christ’s Name should I take the field to win what I can have so freely given to me? Suppose you do tell me that!”
Richard sat up, said with no less heat, “I would rat
her you do tell me how it can bother you so little that the price you’ve paid for this peace be no less than our honor! You think they aren’t laughing at the French court? Or that Louis won’t disavow this treaty whenever it does suit him to do so? After all, why need he fear English retaliation? He knows now how cheaply we do sell ourselves, not for blood but for promises, pensions, and silver plate!”
“There is no talking to you on this; I see that now. Not as long as you do cling to the quaint belief that we live, not in England, but in Camelot,” Edward said in disgust, and jerked the tent flap back, ducking out into the rain-swept dark.
On August 25, the French King rode into the city of Amiens. The next day, the English army arrived, and while preparations went forward for the meeting of the two Kings on that coming Tuesday, Louis opened the city gates to the English. More than a hundred carts of wine were dispatched to the English camp and, to the delight of Edward’s soldiers, they soon discovered that the taverns of Amiens had been instructed to serve them whatever they wanted and charge them nothing.
While the English drank and feasted at the expense of the King of France, a wooden bridge was being erected at Picquigny, nine miles downriver from Amiens. On August 29, Edward and Louis were to meet on this bridge, where they would swear upon the Holy and True Cross to uphold the truce and all the covenants of the Peace of Picquigny.
“Be it true, Ned, that a wooden lattice has been erected on the bridge, and you and the French King will speak together through the lattice?”
Edward laughed, nodded. “So I understand, Will. Some fifty years past, Louis’ father did meet with the Duke of Burgundy on a bridge to reconcile their differences. It did end their differences, in truth, ended with the Duke of Burgundy stabbed to death there on the bridge! I suppose Louis wants to make sure that neither he nor I might be tempted to resolve our problems in a like manner!”
“What of Marguerite d’Anjou, Ned? Is Louis willing to ransom her?”
“Yes. Once he does put up fifty thousand crowns, she’ll be returned to France, where Louis will see that she does relinquish to him all inheritance rights she has in Anjou. I saw no reason not to set her free, would rather have the fifty thousand crowns in my coffers than have her in Wallingford Castle. God knows, she poses no threat. She’s been ailing for years, has never gotten over the death of her son—”
He never finished the sentence, looked up as Richard came into the tent. Richard wasted no time on greetings of any sort, ignored the others, and demanded of Edward, “Do you know what’s going on in Amiens?”
Edward cared neither for the tone nor the abruptness of the question. “What precisely should I know?” he asked coolly.
“That every alehouse, tavern, and bordello in the town is jammed with our men! That fully three-quarters of the English army is in Amiens, brawling, roistering, falling down blind-drunk in the streets!”
Richard was almost incoherent with rage. He had yet even to glance toward Will, Anthony Woodville, or Thomas Grey, kept his eyes on his brother, saying bitterly, “Most of them are so wine-sodden that they couldn’t tell a sword from a plowshare if their lives did depend upon it! And what make you think they don’t? Do you truly trust the French as much as that? And if so, Name of God, why?”
Edward had stiffened with Richard’s first words. Now he said sharply, “Be you sure of this, Dickon?”
“All too sure.”
Edward shoved his plate from him, with such force that it skidded across the table, overturned on the floor of the tent. He paid it no heed, seemed not even to notice. Coming to his feet, he moved around the table, toward Richard.
“Will, get word to Louis. Tell him I do want Amiens closed to my army. Dickon, you come with me. First, we must make sure that no more do enter the town. What think you of posting our own men at the city gates? Then I want the order given to get them out of there, as soon as they do sober up enough to walk….”
Thomas Grey had a face that served as a faithful mirror of his soul, betrayed every rage, every joy. He was jealous of Richard, had been jealous of Richard as far back as he could remember. It showed nakedly on his face now as he watched his stepfather and Richard depart the tent. He gulped the last of his wine and, turning to his uncle, said in an acid undertone, “I should’ve known Gloucester’d be one to begrudge our soldiers a bit of sport, but I can tell you, Uncle, that all this righteous concern be sour grapes and damned little else. Nothing could please him more than to have this truce fall through, to be able to gloat that he was right and the rest of us wrong!”
He’d miscalculated, though, should have held his tongue a moment or two longer. Richard had already gone out into the August rain, but Edward had paused to take up a cloak. The words meant only for Anthony came to him, too.
He turned to stare at his stepson, saw Thomas redden as he realized he’d been overheard.
“You’d do well,” he snapped, “to bear in mind that I do not suffer fools gladly. I do not suffer them at all.”
Thomas swallowed, said nothing. But a moment later, he swung to glare at Will Hastings. So did Anthony. Will was laughing. Rising without haste, he collected his own cloak, and, still laughing, exited the tent.
It was shortly before Vespers on Monday eve. The next morning Edward was to meet with the French King on the bridge at Picquigny. His council was scheduled to gather in his tent within the hour for a final briefing. The men sitting across the table from him now, however, were intimates as well as advisers. His brothers, his Woodville relations, Will Hastings. John Howard had just entered the tent; before long, they’d be joined by the others, by Suffolk, Northumberland, Stanley, Morton, his Chancellor. But for the moment, the mood was relaxed, the talk idle.
“I did hear it said that the French King would not transact any business this day, that he does believe it unlucky to make any decisions on the twenty-eighth of each month, it being that Holy Innocents’ Day does fall on that date.”
Will’s comment drew a flicker of interest from George, who looked up and grinned. “That’s a common enough belief in England, too. Yet you did hold your coronation on that very date, Ned! Tempting fate, were you not?”
“To tell you true, George, I didn’t much think on it, one way or the other.” Edward took an apple from the bowl before him, tossed one to Richard, who was taken by surprise and almost fumbled the catch.
“How many men can you take with you tomorrow, Ned?”
“Eight hundred men-at-arms and twelve men with me on the bridge, Will. I thought I’d take you, Dickon, George, Jack, Northumberland—”
Richard’s head had come up sharply at mention of his own name. Now he cut in abruptly, “You’d best choose another in my stead. The last place I do intend to be tomorrow is on the bridge at Picquigny.”
There was a sudden silence.
“Indeed?” Edward said softly, and leaned back in his seat to regard his youngest brother with hard, appraising eyes. Some of his anger, though, he did reserve for himself. Fool that he was, why hadn’t he seen this coming? Had he only given it a moment’s thought, he could have seen Dickon alone, made sure that Dickon understood what was expected of him. Or could he? Four years ago, he’d done just that, made Dickon an unwilling accomplice to murder. But eighteen was a more malleable age than twenty-two, and Dickon was taking this whole matter with the French too much to heart. No, it was likely that nothing less than a direct command could get Dickon to take part in the morrow’s ceremony. But would Dickon ever forgive him for giving such a command? To have his way in this, was it worth the price he might have to pay?
He happened to glance toward the others, noted the markedly similar expressions upon the faces of George and Thomas Grey, expectant, eager. His mouth curved down; like cats at a mousehole, they were! Making up his mind, he smiled easily at Richard, said as if they were discussing nothing more than a matter of personal preference, “As you like, Dickon.” And was somewhat mollified by the look of relief that fleetingly yet unmistakably flitted acro
ss Richard’s face.
Philippe de Commynes had entered into the service of the Duke of Burgundy as a youth of seventeen and had risen rapidly in Charles’s favor. By 1467, he was Charles’s Chamberlain and most trusted councilor. But he was by temperament as alien to Charles as ice to fire. Philippe’s brain was meant for subtleties and stratagems, while there was bred into the very bones of his mercurial lord a love for war. Three years ago, Philippe had fled Burgundy for the French court; he’d been secretly in the pay of the French King for fully a year before that. In so doing, he’d made a mortal enemy of Charles, and Charles’s enmity was not to be taken lightly, but Philippe had no regrets. In Louis, he’d found a man who, like himself, preferred statecraft to the sword, a man who understood, as Charles had not, that diplomacy is much like chess, must be played with a light hand and a calculating eye. Philippe had no regrets at all.
He was alone now with his King. It was very late, and Louis was showing the strain of recent weeks. In the uncertain light, his face had taken on a grey tinge, and the full, mobile mouth was strangely pinched, puffy lids drooping heavily over the deep-set dark eyes. As usual, he was dressed with a casualness that bordered on the careless; never would Philippe have believed there could be a Prince so indifferent to appearance and the accouterments of power. Even today, he’d worn his customary costume: a plain grey gown, broad-brimmed hat, and hunting boots caked with mud.
There were no servants in the chamber. Philippe himself went to the sideboard, nearly tripping over a small dark spaniel camouflaged all too well by the deepening shadows. He glared at the offending animal, but it never occurred to him to thrust it out of his way, for his sovereign’s passion for his dogs was in the nature of an obsession, and the royal pets were sacrosanct. Returning with a wine cup, he said coaxingly, “Will you not drink, Your Grace?”
The Sunne In Splendour: A Novel of Richard III Page 73