But she couldn’t seem to heal Henry, though he had no physical wounds. When the fever passed he sank into an exhausted melancholy. Sometimes, while being fed or bathed, he would turn his face away and weep. His skin was still too painful for him to be held.
She stayed with him, hoping that when he recovered he would accompany her to find her son. Gradually he got better, but still he would say nothing about the battle itself, except that the wind had turned against them, blowing all their arrows back. ‘The wind,’ he said wonderingly. And the snow, through which they could hardly see.
Once he said he had been stumbling over dead bodies for what seemed like hours. The snow had filled their open mouths, covered their exposed eyeballs. Gradually it had covered the corpses themselves, and still he had gone on, slipping and stumbling over them, trampling on their faces and hands, without knowing which way to go.
That was what he dreamed about, when he cried out in his dreams.
The king and queen had escaped, he believed, but he had fallen behind and got lost. All he could think about was home. He had spent several days in hiding in woodland, or begging for bread from local farms, always doggedly returning home.
She rested her hand on his. ‘You are home now,’ she said, but she could see in his eyes that he was not home; he did not know what home was any more.
In May the king returned to London and received a hero’s welcome. He made a proclamation promising good and just government, an end to the oppression of the people, the manslaughter, extortion and robbery of the old regime. But it was said that there would be further executions, that all those who had fought against him would be attainted and dispossessed.
In June the queen led an army of Scotsmen into England and attacked Carlisle, but they were driven back by the Earl of Warwick’s brother, John Neville. Then King Henry rode south with an army to Durham, but they were driven back by Warwick himself.
King Edward promised pardons for all those who had fought with King Henry, who would now submit to him, and at last Margaret’s husband roused himself.
‘I should go,’ he said.
Margaret wanted to go with him, but he said it was too dangerous. Everywhere there were uprisings and rebellions. For all they knew it was a trap.
In the end she accompanied him as far as London, and then he set off alone, with the pink welts still fading on his face, and begged on his knees for pardon, while she waited fearfully in their lodgings – without telling him she had written in advance, expressing her hopes and good wishes for the new king’s future reign, that they could all live in peace now, as his loyal subjects, and that she would soon be reunited with her son.
When Henry returned he seemed surprised by the reception he’d had. The king had been most conciliatory, he said. They were invited to the celebrations following his coronation.
He sat down, still looking surprised.
‘We must go,’ she said.
‘I suppose we must.’
‘I want to speak to the king about my son.’
He looked at her.
‘I do not think we can ask for any more favours.’
‘I have to ask.’
The great hall was packed. Hundreds of burning torches were reflected in the golden ceiling, the polished floor. There were many ladies dancing for the king, in vivid colours, peacock blues, violets and saffron yellow. The king danced with some and watched several others from a long chair draped in velvet.
He looked magnificent, and at ease.
She did not dance, because Henry said, quite accurately, that he couldn’t, but she watched the king closely, waiting for a moment to approach. He spoke to one courtier after another. His attention was caught by two of the ladies in particular, she noticed, one of them very young and dressed in a modest, peach-coloured robe, the other older and married, wearing a low-cut gown.
She edged closer, ignoring her husband’s warnings. By the time she had pushed through the press of people, the king had moved, and was standing with a group of friends. She located him without difficulty – he was nearly a head taller than everyone else – and she manoeuvred herself towards him like a small, burrowing animal until she was standing quite close, but not in his line of vision. The king did not turn towards her. He continued to watch the dancing, making occasional comments to his companions, at which everyone laughed.
At last she stood by his side, feeling shorter than ever next to his great height, and waited for him to finish his conversation.
His hands, she thought, were very red.
Finally he looked at her, as a man looks and does not look at a woman who is not attractive to him, and she sank into a curtsy.
‘The Countess of Richmond,’ he said.
She made all the proper replies, and then rose. She had to angle herself backwards to look at him. If she looked downwards in proper humility he would not hear what she was saying because of all the noise. Conscious of this difficulty, she asked if he had received her letter.
‘I have received many letters,’ he said.
‘I was writing about my son.’
‘Your son …’ he said vaguely.
‘My little boy, Henry. I was hoping for your permission to see him again.’
‘The young Earl of Richmond,’ the king said, holding out his goblet to be filled.
‘I have not seen him for some time.’
‘He is with his uncle, is he not?’ said the king blandly.
‘I do not know where he is.’
‘Do you know where his uncle is?’
‘I have not heard, your majesty.’
‘If you did hear I am sure you would tell me. I am almost certain of it.’
‘I don’t know where his uncle is – that is the problem –’
‘It is a problem for me too. But I am hoping to remedy it soon.’
Before he could turn away again, she said, ‘I was hoping that my son could be returned to me.’
‘To you?’ said the king, as if surprised. ‘That is one possibility.’ He looked at her consideringly, then said, ‘How old is your son?’
‘He is just four years old.’
‘Just four. And heir to so many estates.’
‘I have not seen him for so long – I do not know who is looking after him, or where he is …’
‘He is in Wales, is he not?’
‘When I last saw him he was at Pembroke.’
‘We are having a little difficulty in Wales. Some dispute about the rightful lordship of the land. But I intend to resolve that as quickly as possible.’
‘He – it is just that – I do not know what has happened to him.’
‘We will find that out when we have reclaimed our castles there.’
She tried again. ‘Your majesty, I would dearly like to see him again. I pray for him daily – that he will be returned to me.’
‘Or to some suitable guardian.’
‘I think that I would be his most suitable guardian – while he is so young.’
The king did not answer immediately and she was afraid that she had said too much, but then he smiled at her, that charming smile that did not charm her.
‘You can be sure that I will give it my full consideration,’ he said. And she knew she had been dismissed, that there was nothing more to say.
10th August 1461: Commission to William Herbert, knight, to take into the king’s hands the country and lordship of Wales and all castles, lordships, manors and possessions late of Jasper, Earl of Pembroke, a rebel …
Calendar of Patent Rolls
4th October 1461: All the castles and strongholds in north Wales and south Wales are given and yielded up to the king’s hands. And the Duke of Exeter and the Earl of Pembroke are flown and taken to the mountains and several lords with great power after them.
Paston Letters
12th February [1462]: Grant to William Herbert, king’s knight, for £1,000 in hand, paid for the custody and marriage of Henry [Tudor], son and heir of Edmund Earl of Richmond, te
nant in chief of Henry VI, in the king’s hands by reason of his minority.
Calendar of Patent Rolls
She sat by the window of her room with her eyes closed as though she were praying, but she was not praying. She had used up every prayer she had. In her hands she held the book of hours given to her by Margaret of Anjou, so long ago. She remembered, even now, feeling disappointed by the gift.
When you write in it, think of me, the queen had said. But she had not written in it. And now she wanted to write, but she did not know what, or how. So much had happened, she did not know where to begin.
They had not been able to travel to Wales, because of the fighting there. Jasper had fought a battle near Caernarvon and lost, and not been heard of again. Then, in the king’s first parliament that November, her mother’s husband, Lord Welles, had been attainted posthumously and all his lands and possessions had reverted to the king. But Margaret’s own possessions had been protected.
The parliament had dragged on, and it was not until February that the blow fell. That ‘cruel man, prepared for any crime’ now had possession of her son.
When she closed her eyes she could see an image of a little boy wandering along the corridors of a great house, alone and frightened. He was about the same age as she had been when she had met the Duke of Suffolk. But she could not bear to think of him in that way. She of all people knew what it was to be alone, without a mother, at that tender age.
The hiss of rain at the windows reminded her of that earlier room that she could not quite remember. Where the duke had shown her his map of the world.
And now that world had changed. England had changed. So many of the ruling dynasties of the land had been wiped out, the relationship between the north and south of the country permanently altered – the border with Scotland had changed. And all the territories in France were lost.
She ran her fingers round the edges of the book. They were not quite steady, her fingers.
Her lips pressed together in an uneven line. She opened the book at the last page, which was blank, feeling the texture of the paper, which was not quite smooth. feeling the texture of the paper, which was not quite smooth. She picked up the quill and dipped it into the pot of ink. Because her hand was not steady, a small scatter of droplets flew across the page. She looked at them with a pang of self-reproof as they sank into the paper, then wiped her eyes and pressed the quill down a little harder than was necessary.
EXTRACT FROM THE SECRET
CHRONICLE OF MARGARET BEAUFORT
In this year, being the first year of the reign of King Edward IV, Henry Tudor, only son and heir of Edmund, late Earl of Richmond, and Margaret, Countess of Richmond, was taken from the custody of his uncle, Jasper Earl of Pembroke, and given to one who had caused the deaths of his father, Edmund, and grandfather, Owen, for the duration of his minority, he being at that time four years old, and the right of his marriage awarded to the same.
She paused to press the heel of her hand to her eyes.
Contrary to the will and expectation of his mother, who was wonderfully grieved by this judgement, cast down utterly and brought so low that she could not see how she might once again begin to rise.
About the Chronicles
chron-i-cle: A factual written account of important or historical events in the order of their occurrence.
England has a rich and varied tradition of chronicle writing. Most early chronicles were written by monks and associated with the great monastic houses, which often had a designated chronicler. The most famous example of this was the monastery of St Albans, a great Benedictine house one day’s journey from London, and thus well placed to receive important guests – monarchs and aristocrats, papal nuncios, etc. – and to record contemporary events in the capital and all over Europe. John Whethamsted, abbot of St Albans from 1420–40, and then from 1452–65, encouraged the compilation of Registers, recording local history (including the accounts of the two battles of St Albans), and may have written some of these himself.
The monastery of Crowland provided a chronicle with continuations that conclude in 1486, and seem not to have been written by a monk, but by a bishop or lawyer who was staying in the monastery.
By the fifteenth century the monastic tradition of chronicle writing was in decline. The Lancastrian kings, however, from Henry IV onwards, were great patrons of literature. Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, fourth son of Henry IV, effectively created the university library at Oxford by his great gifts of books. In the reign of Henry VI, various colleges at both Oxford and Cambridge were founded, including King’s College, Cambridge, and Eton College, Windsor, and in the reign of Edward IV, William Caxton brought his printing press to England.
As a result there was a greater variety of chronicle writing than ever before. The Brut – a French history of England which begins in legendary pre-history and concludes (in continuation) in 1461 – was widely popular in the fifteenth century and printed by Caxton in 1480. A further continuation, usually ascribed to John Warkworth, Master of Peterhouse, Cambridge, covers the first thirteen years of the reign of Edward IV.
Latin was still widely used as the language of chronicle writing. The chronicle attributed to John Benet, vicar of Harlington, was written in Latin. John Rous, an antiquary from Warwick, wrote his histories in both English and Latin, and John Blacman wrote his memoir of Henry VI after the death of the monarch also in Latin. The Chronicon Angliae, sometimes known as Giles’ Chronicle after its nineteenth-century editor, is an anonymous Latin chronicle written by a cleric at the end of the 1450s containing an account of the reign of Henry VI, and the Annales Rerum Anglicarum is a Latin compilation of short, disconnected narratives. However, in this period the English language finally replaced Norman French and Latin as the language of literature. This seems to have opened the field to popular readership and a number of freelance writers of chronicles in English. John Hardyng, a north country squire who fought at Agincourt, presented a verse chronicle to Henry VI in 1437, which was critical of the lawlessness of the reign. William Gregory, a London skinner, sheriff and mayor, wrote his Historical Collections of a Citizen of London in English, though since the chronicle finishes three years after his death in 1467 it is assumed that there is an anonymous continuator.
A new group of chronicles came from the towns. These civic narratives were all written in the vernacular, and most were centred on London – The Great Chronicle of London, Chronicles of London and The Short English Chronicle were all written at this time. The author of The English Chronicle is unknown, but it seems to have been written soon after Edward IV came to the throne in 1461, and like the Brut is strongly Yorkist in sympathies. These chronicles were described by their editor C. L. Kingsford as ‘rude and artless’ but they are a great source of information about English history in the fifteenth century.
Other accounts of the period are written by foreign emissaries. These include Jean de Waurin, a soldier who fought for the French at Agincourt, and Philippe de Commynes, who wrote his memoirs at the court of Louis XI of France. Domenic Mancini, an Italian poet, was sent from the court of Louis XI to report on English affairs. He provides a particularly valuable account of the usurpation of Richard III.
Polydore Vergil, Italian cleric and Renaissance humanist historian, came to England in 1502 and was encouraged by Henry VII to write a comprehensive history of England, an Anglica Historia, which was not finished until 1531. He has sometimes been called the ‘father of English history’, and his epic work marks a shift in historical writing towards the ‘authorized version’ that could be printed and widely distributed throughout the known world.
None of these chronicles, however, can be said to be definitive. They are partisan, contradictory, unreliable in certain respects, but also vivid and readable accounts of a tumultuous period of English history. Their approach to writing and to history is very different from that of the contemporary historical novel; they convey the spirit of the age without resorting to interior perspective or re
flection. It seemed to me that the different approaches were complementary, and might usefully be brought together.
Acknowledgements
The author is especially indebted to the Royal Literary Fund, for financial support and employment throughout this project.
Several people were helpful to me while I was writing this novel. Especial thanks are due to Fergus Wilde and Josie Christou for help with the Latin translations; to the librarians of the Chetham’s and John Rylands libraries; to Liz and Tom McIlroy for taking me to Pembroke Castle, and to Dave and Jackie Lamb for their hospitality while I was there. Ian Pople supplied me with books and Ian Hunton helped me through several computing crises. Ben Pople and Alan Parry also rendered a similar service with patience and goodwill. I owe a big thank you to my readers, Anna Pollard, Anthony Taylor and Paul Andrews, for supportive and discerning comments. I am especially grateful to Anna for her unstinting support, optimism and help with the family tree. And last (but not least) thank you to my agent and editor for more helpful comments, and for taking me on!
THE BEGINNING
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