Warwick: The Man Behind The Wars of the Roses

by Tony Riches

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1 - Autumn 1428

  Chapter 2 - Summer 1439

  Chapter 3 - Autumn 1442

  Chapter 4 - Spring 1445

  Chapter 5 - Winter 1448

  Chapter 6 - Spring 1451

  Chapter 7 - Summer 1453

  Chapter 8 - Spring 1454

  Chapter 9 - Spring 1455

  Chapter 10 - Spring 1456

  Chapter 11 - Summer 1457

  Chapter 12 - Summer 1458

  Chapter 13 - Summer 1459

  Chapter 14 - Summer 1460

  Chapter 15 - Winter 1460

  Chapter 16 - Spring 1461

  Chapter 17 - Autumn 1462

  Chapter 18 - Winter 1463

  Chapter 19 - Autumn 1464

  Chapter 20 - Summer 1465

  Chapter 21 - Spring 1466

  Chapter 22 - Spring 1467

  Chapter 23 - Autumn 1468

  Chapter 24 - Summer 1469

  Chapter 25 - Spring 1470

  Chapter 26 - Spring 1471

  Epilogue

  Author Notes

  Sources and Further reading

  WARWICK

  The Man behind the

  Wars of the Roses

  by

  Tony Riches

  Tony Riches is a full time writer and lives with his wife in Pembrokeshire, West Wales UK. For more information about Tony’s other published work please see:

  www.tonyriches.co.uk

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

  Cover © Can Stock Photo Inc.

  To my Mum,

  who taught me to read.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank my wife, Liz, for all her help and advice and support with the editing of this book.

  I also thank Calvin Hedley and all the historians and historical fiction authors who have guided and inspired my interest in fifteenth century England.

  A famous knight and excellent greatly spoken of through the most part of Christendom he had all England at his leading and was dread and dowhyted [feared] through many lands. And though forward fortune him deceived at his end yet his knightly acts had been so excellent that his noble and famous name could never be put out of laudable memory.

  John Rous, Chaplain to the Earls of Warwick, 1477

  Chapter 1 - Autumn 1428

  He held his breath and strained to listen in the long silence, knowing whatever happened would change his life. The piercing scream echoed again through the castle, then stopped. The silence worried him more than the screaming. It started again, louder and more anguished. It stopped when she called out his name.

  ‘Richard!’

  He made a fist and squeezed until his nails dug into his palm. The sharp pain helped take his mind off the negative thoughts that tortured him. Richard stood up from the chair that had been left for him and paced the candlelit passageway. The thump of his heavy boots echoed despite clean rushes on the hard stone floor. He could do nothing to help her.

  Another nerve tingling scream reverberated down the passageway. Richard stopped pacing and cursed the heavy oak door of the one room in his castle barred to him. A memory flooded into his mind. His wife had screamed like this before. Their first child, Joan, had a difficult birth five years ago. He sent for a priest when the bleeding after little Cecily, his favourite, nearly killed her two years later. It didn’t get any easier.

  She called for him again, begging this time. ‘Please. Richard?’ Her voice wavered and he feared she was weakening.

  The waiting would soon be over, one way or another. He forced the thought of what might happen from his mind. Women were supposed to have their mother or sisters to help them. Alice’s mother was dead. She was an only child. It would bring bad luck if a man were to enter the birthing-room, so he could only pace the long, dark hallway and wait. He thought of himself as a patient man, able to put up with most things. This waiting was the worst he could remember.

  He cast his mind back to the day he first saw her, eight years ago. Alice was an heiress, an attractive and spirited girl, barely fourteen years old when he married her. She looked beautiful on their wedding day, her long, dark hair under a shimmering veil of white gossamer silk. Her voice sounded clear and confident as she made her vows and pledged her life to him. As a younger son he would not inherit, so his marriage sealed his fortune.

  Alice’s father, Sir Thomas Montacute, was now dead. Her condition meant she couldn’t travel to the funeral, so Richard made the long journey south without her. That had been barely three weeks ago. Sir Thomas survived the battle of Agincourt, only to be killed by a shard of glass when a French cannonball smashed through his window during the siege of Orleans. Alice, his only legitimate heir, inherited her father’s title, his lands and his fortune, all now Richard’s by right of his wife.

  He was becoming a man of great importance, soon to be acknowledged as Earl of Salisbury and Baron Montacute. Their new wealth would bring new challenges from those who would dispute his rights to the vast estates. As well as others of the Neville line, there was the long-standing and bitter dispute with the Percy family, who would steal his northern lands, given the chance. They resented the expansion of the Neville estates in areas that had been theirs before they were disgraced by the ill-fated revolt of Sir Henry ‘Hotspur’ Percy, who sided with the Welsh against the king and paid for it with his life. Even as he pictured the rampant blue lion of the Percy flag he remembered they would have to find an amicable truce, a promise he’d made to his sister Eleanor, now the wife of Sir Henry Percy.

  Although he would now have the income from the Montacute inheritance as well as from his lands and properties in the north, he wanted more for his family. He would see his daughters married well. He desperately needed a son. If this baby proved to be another daughter it would mean waiting at least another year, if not longer.

  He had been brought up to know they were watched over by a vengeful God, who punished men for their sins and could condemn their souls to eternal damnation. As he had grown older, Richard struggled with his faith, a secret he shared with no one, not even Alice. He liked things you could see with your own eyes, feel and touch. All the same, he wanted to believe. Richard dropped to his knees on the cold stone floor and put his hands together.

  ‘Please, Lord, let me have a strong, healthy son.’ Almost as an afterthought, he whispered, ‘Dear God, keep his mother safe to care for him.’

  If he had a son he would teach him more than simply how to wield a sword. He would need to understand the politics of the court and parliament. The king was eight years old and under the care of the Lord Protector, Duke Humphrey of Gloucester. Richard had respect for the duke, who had fought at Agincourt with King Henry.

  Richard had also seen how the real power at court and council was wielded by Cardinal Henry Beaufort. The cardinal grew fat like a leech in a bloodletting by lending money to those who could not afford to repay him, turning their minds against the Duke of Gloucester’s slender grip on authority. He put words in the mouth of the boy king, all in the name of the church.

  His son must understand how to outwit those who would deceive him. He must never trust the clergy. Richard would teach him caution in his choice of friends, to be careful where he placed his trust.

  Richard could bear the silence no longer. He held his breath and listened at the door to the birthing-room. Made of thick oak
, the heavy door was studded with black iron nails. He could hear nothing. In frustration he knocked on it, a loud rap that echoed in the empty corridor. He stood back. The door to the birthing-room opened and he braced himself for the news.

  The midwife opened the door and stepped out into the corridor. A shrewd, practical woman, she wore the robes of a nun. He stared into her surprisingly blue eyes, trying to see any clue to the truth of Alice’s condition. This woman held his future in her hands. He had chosen her well. The best he could afford, she had a reassuring confidence and knowledge of her trade.

  ‘How is my wife?’ He tried to hide the impatience he knew could be heard in his voice.

  ‘She will live, with God’s grace, my lord.’ The midwife moved back towards the door, concern on her kindly face.

  ‘The baby?’ His mind raced with the life and death decisions he knew she may have to ask him to make.

  ‘The baby will be here soon, my lord.’

  ‘Is there anything you can give her, so she will suffer less?’

  The midwife shook her head. ‘Nature will take its course. The worst will soon be over.’

  ‘I want you to tell my wife something for me. Tell her I love her.’

  The midwife smiled. ‘Of course, my lord.’

  She closed the door to the mysterious birthing-room behind her. Richard sat down heavily on the chair at the end of the passageway, his head in his hands, to wait. His mind raced with mixed emotions. To his shame, he knew this had been the first time he’d told Alice he loved her for many years. He hoped his words would comfort her and promised himself he would tell her more often.

  Although it had not been a love match Alice had always been a devoted wife to him. She had taught him much and helped make him the man he was now. She seemed to understand his bluff northern ways, his passion for the hunt and even his clumsy lovemaking. He had grown to love her now. Again he found himself wondering if he would lose her. It would be hard bringing up the girls without a mother. If they lost the baby there would still be hope, another chance for a son.

  A sharp, unmistakable cry of a newborn baby shook him from his sad reverie. The door opened wide, flooding the dimly lit corridor with light. The midwife carried a linen wrapped bundle and placed it in his arms. Richard looked down and saw bright eyes staring back at him. He loosened the tight swaddling and a tiny hand pulled free, with perfectly formed little fingers, already grasping for whatever was in reach.

  Alice called to him from the birthing-room. ‘A boy!’ He could hear the happiness in her voice.

  ‘Richard.’ He called back to her. ‘We will call him Richard!’ He held the baby as if he was the most precious thing in the world. ‘Richard Neville.’

  Chapter 2 - Summer 1439

  The rambling castle of Sheriff Hutton near York, built by John Neville, third Baron Neville de Raby, had been improved over the years as the family grew and Richard’s father prospered. One of the ground-floor rooms had become a library and many of the books were family heirlooms. Others belonged to Richard’s mother, who rarely returned from York or London without an addition to her collection and brought many of her father’s books to Sheriff Hutton. Some of the most ancient of these were in Latin, his booty from English victories in Normandy.

  His mother taught Richard to read. She read aloud to him in English and French, long into the dark evenings until the candle burned to a flickering stub. As he grew older his mother would sit with him while he learned the skill of making sense of each word. She would gently prompt him when he was stuck on a word, encouraging his questions and showing him how to translate each sentence and understand the deeper meaning.

  From all her precious collection of rare books and manuscripts, Richard’s favourite was the Livre de Chevalerie. The old book’s brown parchment pages, full of colourful images of jousting and lavish banquets, allowed him to enter a world of chivalry and knighthood. He read from it in the evenings at Sheriff Hutton and imagined himself as the great knight Sir Geoffroi de Charny, equally praised for skill at leading campaigns and honoured for his chivalry and courtly ways.

  As the eldest son he could look forward to an easy life as a noble baron. There would always be servants to tend to his every need. Richard had been brought up to know that one day he would inherit the northern estates of Sheriff Hutton and Middleham Castle. Now he had been told he would also one day inherit the vast estates in the south.

  The library also served as a scriptorium and study and was where the boys would be found each morning, improving their writing, French and Latin. Richard’s father placed great importance on their learning and took a close interest in their progress. He had made a strict rule that they were only allowed out in the sunshine once they had completed the work set for them, to the satisfaction of their tutor.

  Richard took his sharp knife and trimmed the nib of his new quill as he had been shown. He was writing a letter to his father, who had been absent most of the summer with his duties as Warden of the West March. He knew the Warden was an important position, responsible for safeguarding the country from invasion by the Scots, with pay of a thousand pounds a year. Although Richard’s father made light of it, he overheard his mother once saying that securing the wide expanse of the northern border was dangerous and often thankless work.

  Dipping the quill into the pot of thick black ox-gall ink, Richard carefully formed a swirling letter R then spelled out the rest of his name at the end of the letter. He sat back, pleased with the result and allowed it to dry before showing it to the old priest who had the task of teaching them. The priest wore the traditional cappa clausa, a grey, hooded cape over a long woollen tunic with a heavy leather belt. A hard man to please, he studied Richard’s parchment with an appraising eye.

  ‘How old are you, Richard?’ His deep voice carried the hint of a northern accent.

  ‘I will be eleven at the end of November.’

  ‘Well, Richard, if you keep up your studies I believe we can make a scholar of you.’

  He felt a frisson of pride at the priest’s words, although the confusion about his future plans was troubling.

  ‘I am to become a knight. It is my brother George who will be a scholar.’ Richard frowned at the misunderstanding, then realised the priest had made a jest at his expense. He was learning more than skill with a pen and languages from the old man.

  He looked across to where George was diligently copying a Latin text in his already neat hand. George had his mother’s serene nature and, although not eight years old, had been destined for the church ever since Richard could remember. Richard could hardly think of anything worse than to turn your back on the glory of knighthood, to never marry or have sons and live a life of devotion to the church.

  His other brother John was looking out of the window at something which had caught his interest. John was a gifted student and was able to read without apparent effort, although he rarely read a book unless he had to. Tall for his nine years, he already had their father’s heavy build, as well as his bluff manner. Sometimes he would argue with Richard. The two years between them always put John at a disadvantage, which only served to make him even more resentful and competitive.

  Not present in the library was their third brother Thomas, still treated as the baby although he was now two years old, or their six sisters, who were schooled with Anne by nuns from the convent near York. Anne was Richard’s wife, chosen by his father. At the same time, his father arranged a generous dowry to secure a second marriage. Richard’s older sister Cecily had married Anne’s brother Henry, heir to the earldom of Warwick, binding together the names of de Beauchamp and Neville.

  Richard’s first memory of Anne was hazy. Her father was the Lord of Abergavenny and for some reason that was where they were married. It seemed a long time ago, although he clearly remembered the excitement of that day. The people of the bustling Welsh town came out of their houses like a swarm of bees, cheering as his grand procession rode through their narrow streets with twenty mo
unted guardsmen front and back. For the first time Richard had realised he was someone of importance, different from the people who called out his name.

  His mother had explained the ceremony to him and helped him rehearse his words. He dressed in the finest velvet with a flowing cape over his shoulders and a gold chain around his neck. He remembered Anne wore a long dress of white silk that rustled as she walked. She carried a bouquet of white roses and their wedding was blessed by a red-faced bishop wearing a tall mitre. The speeches and feasting seemed to go on forever. It all had no meaning for him, as he had only been seven years old.

  There had been talk of Richard following the tradition of going to live at Warwick Castle with Anne’s family. Her father, the Earl of Warwick, was a renowned soldier knight who personally taught the king to use a sword and would have been the ideal tutor for Richard. Anne’s father’s untimely death at Rouen earlier that year was soon followed by that of her mother, so young Henry was now the new Earl of Warwick. His sister became a duchess and Anne was sent to live with them at Sheriff Hutton.

  Richard would never admit he sometimes felt intimidated by Anne, who at two year’s older than him seemed so worldly wise. At least his father had chosen him an attractive girl from a noble family. She could play the lute and sing tunefully, embroidered his initials on his shirts and often came to watch him practice sword fighting. They were more like brother and sister than husband and wife. It seemed strange to Richard they would one day be required to produce an heir to the Neville fortune.

  The discordant clang of the noon bell in the high tower shook Richard from his reverie. The boys were excused by the priest and raced each other down long, echoing corridors to the refectory, John easily winning with his powerful stride. Family meals were formal affairs in the great hall, presided over by his father at the head of the long oak table. Today was a simpler fare, freshly baked bread and slices of cold salted pork, washed down with weak small ale that tasted of bitter hops.