Warwick: The Man Behind The Wars of the Roses

by Tony Riches

  The Lancastrians seemed to have lost heart following news that their Queen was shipwrecked and her army lost. Reports had reached Richard that the North Sea storms had overwhelmed Margaret’s fleet of ships on passage from France to her new allies in Scotland. Some had sunk with all hands and others washed ashore and wrecked on nearby Holy Island. Richard learned that Queen Margaret had landed at Berwick in a small boat and almost drowned, saved by her loyal French follower Pierre de Breze.

  As soon as the weather allowed, he sent part of his army in search of them. He also sent a ship full of men-at-arms to Holy Island to make sure none of her men escaped. There was no sign of Queen Margaret and Richard guessed she had somehow made her way back across the Scottish border. Her men on Holy Island had nowhere to escape. They put up a brave fight but many were killed and the few survivors of the short battle surrendered and were taken prisoner.

  One of John’s men arrived one evening at Warkworth Castle with a message for Richard from his brother. He brought the news that the Duke of Somerset wanted to meet to discuss terms. After he had left Richard called for Luke Tully to prepare for the short trip to Banburgh.

  Tully was surprised. ‘You are going to negotiate with the Duke of Somerset, my lord?’

  Richard frowned. ‘I have mixed feelings about even meeting with the man who commanded the Lancastrians at Towton.’ He shook his head. ‘We both had a hand in the death of each other’s fathers.’

  Tully knew better than to comment and instead poured Richard a goblet of whiskey from a bottle he had brought with him. He watched as Richard tasted it appreciatively.

  ‘Good stuff, Tully. Where did it come from?’

  Tully handed him the bottle. ‘We found several barrels in the cellars, along with some good wine.’

  ‘See to it that the drink is shared out between the men. It’s the least I can do after keeping them here all winter.’ He handed the bottle back. ‘Just make sure they don’t turn up drunk on duty.’

  Tully looked pleased. ‘They will appreciate it, my lord.’

  ‘This winter has been hard on us all, Tully. The king has ordered us to take all the northern castles for York, yet I don’t know if we can cope with any more long sieges.’ He took another sip of the whiskey and could feel its warmth flowing through his body. ‘An extended siege in winter is as hard on the besiegers as the besieged.’

  Tully agreed. ‘I have heard the men complain of the cold. They would be glad to see an early end to this siege work.’

  ‘I try to do my best for them, although there have been too many times when they had to live off salt fish or go hungry. I know Edward well enough to be sure if I can do a deal with Somerset he will grant him a pardon.’

  John greeted him when he arrived at Banburgh. ‘Come and look, Richard, I have something to show you.’

  Richard followed his brother down the long corridors to the oak panelled state rooms, the best in the old castle. They had spectacular views of Lindisfarne Island out to sea. Richard stood at the window watching the dark grey rolling waves. He watched a sailing ship braving the white crests of rough seas further from the shore. The castle was the perfect place to guard against an invasion from across the water.

  ‘You’ve made me curious now, John.’

  His brother opened the silver catches on a finely crafted wooden casket, decorated with gold fleurs-de-lis, and gestured for him to look inside. He could see valuable jewellery, necklaces and diamond broaches that sparkled in the light, as well as some parchment letters and other documents. Richard picked up one of the letters. It had a broken wax seal he couldn’t recognise. He unfolded the letter and started to read. The flamboyant writing was in French, addressed to Queen Margaret from her father.

  ‘Good God.’ He recalled the proud figure of the Count of Anjou at Margaret’s coronation. He hadn’t liked him much then and liked him even less now. ‘Have you read all of these?’ Richard carefully re-folded the letter and replaced it in the casket, feeling strangely intrusive.

  ‘My French isn’t too good.’ John looked at the casket. ‘I know they belong to Queen Margaret. She left here in such a hurry I think she could only take what she could carry. We probably have all her personal effects!’

  He opened a nearby wooden chest and showed Richard velvet and silk dresses. They were creased, as if hurriedly packed. Richard picked up a white linen chemise and held it to his face. The delicate scent of lavender immediately reminded him of Megan’s cottage and triggered a rush of images in his mind. The powerful connection when the young Queen Margaret looked directly into his eyes, all those years ago. He remembered how the humiliation of his defeat by her army at St. Albans was tinged with a grudging admiration for her leadership and courage.

  Richard realised he had a special bond with his enemy Queen. He completely understood her obsessive determination to see her son crowned King, despite all that had happened. He recalled the stories he had heard of how she bravely survived shipwrecks, attacks from robbers and numerous defeats, yet still persevered. There was an undeniable connection between them. He sensed that connection now, more powerfully than ever.

  John picked up one of the diamond necklaces. Obviously worth a great deal of money, the polished facets of the precious jewels sparkled in the light as he ran it through his fingers. ‘What do you think we should do with it all?’

  Richard spotted an unusual crucifix on a chain at the bottom of the casket and picked it up for a closer look. Made from solid silver and beautifully crafted, the fine detail was worn smooth from many years of handling. He guessed it had some sentimental value to Margaret and slipped it into the pocket of his tunic.

  He turned to his brother, who was securing the bronze clasp on the chest of clothes. ‘Let’s send the whole lot to Edward. It will amuse him.’

  ‘Good idea, I’ll do just that.’ John turned to Richard. ‘I almost forgot why you are here. Henry Beaufort is waiting in the great hall. He says he’s had enough of the north and is ready to discuss a deal.’ John looked concerned. ‘Do you think we can trust him?’

  Richard was uncertain. ‘Do we have any choice?’

  ‘Yes. I could have him locked away somewhere they’ll never find him.’ Anger flashed across John’s face. ‘I know what our father would say.’

  Richard put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. ‘We can’t be sure what part he had in our father’s death, John. If his men will follow him it would send an important message to all the people round here who think it’s a good idea to support the queen. Take me to him.’

  The duke was about eight years younger than Richard, although they looked about the same age. He was wearing an expensive black velvet brigandine with silver rivets fixing the protective steel plates in place. There was an empty scabbard on his hip belt. Richard could see from his bearing that the duke was rarely without his sword and felt deprived of the weight of it. He had an engaging smile and was well built and handsome despite his unshaven appearance and the old wound on his face. He saw Richard looking.

  ‘I got this at St. Albans.’ He smirked, touching the jagged scar and rubbed the stubble on his chin. ‘First battle, not the second.’

  Richard was in no mood to be reminded. ‘You told my brother you want to discuss terms?’

  ‘Yes.’ He looked directly at Richard. His eyes were a deep blue and had a confidence that seemed at odds with his situation. ‘I can’t follow the French Queen any more, none of us can.’

  ‘And?’ Richard forced himself to forget who the man in front of him was for a moment. There would be plenty of time for that later.

  ‘I’ll help you take Alnwick.’

  ‘What do you want in return?’

  The duke looked amused. ‘A full pardon. A place at court. My lands restored. An end to sleeping rough. The usual things.’

  Richard wondered what to make of him. Beaufort was a survivor. He had his share of bad luck, yet always seemed to recover. ‘We could use your help with Alnwick. As for the rest, that will
be up to King Edward.’

  Henry Beaufort held out his hand and Richard shook it, still wondering if he was doing the right thing.

  ‘Agreed.’

  Richard led the siege of the garrison at Alnwick Castle, barely two hours’ ride north of Warkworth. As he approached the well-positioned Percy stronghold on the coast he recalled his last visit there so many years ago, when he agreed a truce with Sir Henry Percy, who had died at the first battle of St. Albans. Against Richard’s better judgement Henry Beaufort had disappeared inside the castle to talk to the commander of the garrison, Baron Hungerford, his fellow survivor of Towton.

  The weather had turned colder. A chill wind was increasing in strength and the persistent rain soaked them all to the skin. The light was also failing, making Richard regret his decision to trust the Lancastrian Duke. He could be plotting with the Baron right now. His suspicion seemed proved when one of his border lookouts returned with alarming news. An army of Scots and mercenaries had been sighted crossing the border. One of their banners was thought to be that of Richard’s adversary Marshal Pierre de Breze.

  Richard called to his men. ‘Fall back to the line of the trees. Take cover where you can!’

  The men looked at him in surprise then followed his order. They waited in the freezing rain. Richard decided he would have the duke and the Baron both publicly executed when he could. He looked across at the grim faces of his men. They would be hoping he would soon order the attack and end the siege. He was reluctant to leave their good defensive position now he knew the Scots were coming.

  His wounded leg ached in the cold and reminded him of the danger they faced. He wasn’t prepared to risk his life for a northern castle. They changed hands so often it simply wasn’t worth it. Richard put his hands inside his tunic to warm them and his fingers touched the polished edges of the queen’s silver crucifix. He held it tightly in his hand, taking some comfort from it.

  He thought again of the queen and how she must have feared for her life to run without taking any of her possessions with her. He wondered if she was riding towards him, having secured an alliance with the Scots. He had spent so many years with his father keeping the Scots from the border, yet now they rode freely into England without a challenge. Richard considered ordering a retreat rather than risking capture by the Scots.

  Richard’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of boots and horses’ hooves on cobble-stones. Muffled voices carried a long distance in the still night and he strained to hear. Men were moving on the road leading to the castle entrance yet they seemed to be in no hurry. He peered into the darkness and could make out the shape of a cart drawn by a team of heavy oxen.

  ‘They’re leaving the castle, my lord.’ One of his commanders pointed into the distance where lines of men could be seen disappearing into the fading light.

  Richard told no one that his eyesight was not as sharp as it used to be, particularly once darkness fell. The clank and rattle of weapons against armour suggested the men were armed, yet they carried no banners and the way they marched without looking back suggested they were not planning to fight. He couldn’t understand why they would leave if the Scots were on the way.

  They waited in the rain, watching the Lancastrian garrison depart. The wintry night sky was almost dark now, with only a thin sliver of new moon. The Scots had a reputation for not fighting fairly. Richard realised they could be surrounding his position in the near darkness.

  ‘A light, there on the battlements!’ Tully spotted it first. A swinging lantern, the secret sign from Henry Beaufort that he’d been successful.

  Richard still didn’t trust him. They were all freezing cold and hungry now. ‘Forward, men, and keep your wits about you.’

  The castle was completely unguarded. Richard didn’t know how the duke had done it and didn’t care. Another Lancastrian castle had fallen to their cause without a fight. He was wet and cold. He realised he was also hungry and couldn’t even remember when he had last eaten a hot meal. Now at last he could change into some dry clothes and celebrate the new Yorkist garrison in Alnwick Castle.

  Richard had decided he needed respite from the constant skirmishes in the north. The time had come to honour the memory of his father, who stated in his will that he wished to be buried at Bisham Priory. Close by the Thames near Marlow and once a mystical place of worship for the Knights Templar, the priory had become the mausoleum for the Earls of Salisbury through the ages.

  A team of masons were commissioned to carve two heavy stone coffins and the bodies of Richard’s father and brother were exhumed from their graves in the grounds of Pontefract Castle and brought to York Minster, where their heads were reverently restored. Richard and John had decided this was to be a military funeral, so Richard’s wife Anne and John’s wife Isabel travelled separately to the service.

  The funeral procession was the grandest the people of York had ever seen. Richard and his brother John rode behind the coffins of their father and brother Thomas, which were carried on a specially constructed, black- draped chariot, pulled by six fine black warhorses. Both were dressed in expensive armour with flowing black capes to guard against the chill wind. On each side of them rode eight knights, carrying their banners, followed by a dozen drummers, beating out a sombre rhythm on heavy bass drums as they marched.

  Behind that came his mother’s coffin, brought from the crypt at Middleham Castle in a gilded carriage draped in pure white silk. A bouquet of her favourite white roses lay on top of her casket. One hundred men-at-arms marched behind, all in the Warwick livery of red with the badge of the bear and ragged staff.

  The Earl had been a prominent figure in the area and almost the entire population of the city crowded onto the streets to pay their last respects, despite the cold. The procession made its way through the Micklegate Bar and began the long journey due south, through Nottingham, Leicester and Northampton, the heart of England. Richard looked back down the road. The long lines of marching men and horses seemed more like an invading army than a funeral cortege. He knew that was how his father would have wanted it.

  They were cold and tired by the time they finally reached Bisham Priory. John saw to the arrangements for the funeral the next morning. Richard had something else he had to do. He went to the crypt of the priory to inspect the newly made alabaster effigies he had commissioned. He stood in silence before them, overcome with emotion. The effigy of his father was dressed in his best mail and armour, wearing the surcoat bearing the brightly painted quartered arms of Neville and Montacute. The finely modelled face regarded Richard impassively, as his father often had. A good likeness. Richard ran his fingers over the carved mail coat and marvelled at the craftsmanship.

  Next to his father’s effigy was his mother, wearing her favourite dress and with a perfectly serene expression on her face. His mother’s head rested on a pillow supported by two perfectly carved angels and she looked at peace next to his father. Like his father’s, her hands had been carved in prayer. Richard reached out and clasped them in his own. At that moment he would have given all his wealth, every inch of land and every castle he had ever owned to have his parents back. He sank to his knees and wept.

  Chapter 19 - Autumn 1464

  Richard was on the most important mission of his life, to find a wife for the king. Edward had been a single man too long. The last straw was when he more than pardoned Henry Beaufort. The king also restored all his lands and titles and even invited him to his bed. Richard’s strongly worded warnings about Beaufort’s untrustworthy character had been ignored, causing a minor rift between Richard and Edward.

  Edward’s mood did not improve when Richard was proved right and Henry Beaufort returned to the side of Queen Margaret. After the unsurprising treachery of the Duke of Somerset, the Lancastrians soon retook the northern castles which were so hard won and so easily lost. This time Richard had no patience for long sieges and blasted the walls of Bamburgh Castle with great cannons until the garrison ran. His brother John captured t
he duke in a battle at Hexham and had him publicly executed for his treason. He was rewarded by being made the Earl of Northumberland and given the lands that once belonged to the Percy families.

  Delicate negotiations with King Louis of France had been going on for almost three years now, with emissaries and ambassadors crossing the Channel in both directions with gifts and letters. Not for nothing had they nicknamed King Louis l'araignee, ‘the spider’. His webs of intrigue were testing Richard’s powers of diplomacy, challenging work which could hold the key to lasting peace in England.

  If Richard could secure a marriage which tied Louis to Edward he could be sure France would never support Queen Margaret. There was at least one promising candidate for Edward to marry. The young Queen Charlotte of France had a sister, Princess Bona of Savoy, who was unmarried and, at fifteen, about the right age. The problem for Richard was that Louis was unpredictable. He was used to doing what he pleased, when he pleased and didn’t act like a king.

  Richard decided the time had come for him to meet the King of France in person. The meeting would be held in secret, a chance for the two of them to speak frankly, and the journey was not without danger. Although Richard carried a letter of safe conduct from the king, he was not allowed to bring his personal guard. The Loire Valley was known to harbour men who had fought the English and still had scores to settle. He travelled light, with Luke Tully and a few servants to avoid drawing attention to his presence.

  He arrived at the castle at Amboise not sure what to expect. More of a family home than a castle, the favourite residence of King Louis was positioned high over the River Loire, with views across the open countryside. It had taken much longer than Richard expected to ride from Calais, stopping for a day in Paris, then deep into the heart of rural France to Amboise.