Fortune's Wheel

by Rhoda Edwards

  ‘Tell me exactly what you know of this supposed treachery,’ the King said. He sounded very straightforward and level-headed, not in the least haughty or unapproachable, as a king might well be to a captain of archers. When the man had finished, the King sat down on a chair, pulling his fur gown round his bare knees.

  ‘I believe,’ he said, consideringly, ‘that you are giving a truthful account of the situation as you see it. However, there may be some misunderstanding. John Neville, my lord Montagu, has always sworn that he would never go against me. He is an honest man.’ He turned to look at his brother. ‘What do you think, Richard?’

  The young Duke was looking very unhappy, as if he knew the answer, but that it was a wrench to speak it. Looking at his feet, he said, ‘John Neville is honest. Too honest to pretend that his own conscience will let him march with us against his brother.’

  The King looked at him searchingly for a moment, his big, handsome face revealing both affection and respect. The boy did not see the look, for he still had his eyes fixed on his feet, and might have just been made to swallow verjuice.

  The King got to his feet, taking his decision quickly. ‘See that my lords Hastings, Rivers and Say are woken. We must confer on what is best to be done.’

  Other men from Neville’s force arrived in the next hour, and each one confirmed the bad news. Everyone seemed in favour of immediate flight from Doncaster southwards, as the imperative was to escape before Montagu could catch up with them.

  Pandemonium began. Richard pelted back down the corridors to his own rooms, clutching the doorjamb as he skidded round it with one slipper falling off. Three squires came running at his yell. One of them pulled on his hose, while another dragged his shirt over his head, and began frantically to tie the two together with points; the third fetched his boots, shoved them onto him, and then rummaged in his baggage for the warmest, most weatherproof and safest garment that he possessed. Luckily it could be found in time — a jacket of brigandines made of double layers of velvet and cloth, with metal plates sewn between. This he pulled on straight over his shirt, and was out of the door before anyone could do up the fastenings for him. The squires were left to collect whatever they might remember to grab — knives, a tinder box, a razor for the Duke, who only needed to shave every other day; they forgot the soap.

  Outside, the horses were being saddled, swerving about skittishly because they had been brought from their stable in the middle of the night into an atmosphere of haste and excitement, and into the dazzle of flaring lights. King Edward was already mounted. Richard heard his voice shouting, ‘Where’s my brother?’ and someone put the reins into his hand. He hurled himself aboard, and the animal leapt halfway across the yard, barging everyone else. Above the crash of its hooves, and his own curse, he heard a yelling laugh from the King, who had recognized this thunderbolt which had come in answer to his call.

  By the end of the following day, they had left Montagu far behind, and reached Newark. King Edward hesitated there considering going to Nottingham and trying to rally men. But all the news brought in was so bad — wherever Warwick went, he was raising troops with ease, and meeting no opposition — that the King decided he would not risk becoming Warwick’s prisoner again, and that the only course of action open to him was flight, not just from the immediate danger, but from England.

  Rivers suggested that they should ride at once to the port of Lynn, where he had much influence. Richard knew that Anthony Woodville held the town in his purse and controlled its elections, and for once did not grudge the Queen’s brother his patronage, if it helped them to escape safely overseas. Burgundy was the only possible refuge, King Edward hoping that his brother-in-law the Duke’s quarrels with the King of France and with Warwick would at least ensure that he would not be turned away.

  So the next day they rode south-east into Lincolnshire, and the following morning took the causewayed fen road which led along the shores of the Wash, and was the most direct route to Lynn. Richard, who had travelled in many desolate places, had seen few to equal the dreadful fenland. On either side was flatness, nothing to the south but endless waterlogged fen, nothing to the north but saltings and a distant grey ocean. The road drove straight on before them, dividing the miles of emptiness, the rain dancing frenziedly in the puddles and on the scummy fen dykes, the cloud glimmering like daytime moonlight on sheets of water. The passing of so many horsemen disturbed the marsh birds, who rose in flocks into the sky, but their squawking was blown away by the wind, as were the voices of the travellers. The wind was strong enough to blow the clothes off your back, and cold enough to freeze the bones of the dead in their graves in the churchyards of the fen parishes. That wind must be able to blow uninterrupted across the sea from the lands of ice and snow, and it gathered ferocity as it came. Even King Edward turned blue in the face, and the skin on his lips shrivelled and would have dried if it had not also been raining. Richard felt like a fishbone hung out to bleach in the wind.

  If the ride along the fen road was miserable, the crossing of the outfall of the river Nene was a nightmare. While the ferrymen’s service was adequate for the usual traffic, it was a long and difficult job for them to cope with the great number of men and horses suddenly demanding a crossing. There were only a few small boats, and only a limited number of crossings could be made on one tide. The weather grew worse. The waters of the wide river mouth could be as dangerous as the open sea during storms. One boatload was caught in a fierce squall, and flipped over as quickly as an egg in a pan. Only two passengers were rescued, but the boat was saved. Richard, who had begun his life beside the river Nene on its more kindly reaches, and had several times escaped drowning in it, did not want this fate to catch up with him now. He watched his brother the King being ferried across with more fear than he felt himself on climbing into the boat. But they both landed safe, sodden and daubed with fishscales, on the other side. The priests said Mass that Sunday morning in a lean-to smelling of tar.

  By the evening they had managed to reach West Lynn, where the ferry over to the town was easier than the one at Long Sutton, as the river was much narrower and enough boats were available to carry everyone. The Mayor of Lynn, forewarned by servants of Lord Rivers, came out to welcome his unwelcome visitors. It was already ten o’clock, and everyone in the town was going to bed. The torches lit up a king who looked what he was, a fugitive. Mayor Westhorpe put the town under a curfew and a watch on the gates. He did not know if the Earl of Warwick was going to chase King Edward to Lynn. He reckoned that he had about two days in which to see the King’s party on their way to Burgundy. He also hoped that if and when Lord Rivers returned with the royal brother-in-law, the town of Lynn would gather its rewards.

  Early on Tuesday morning, Richard walked up the gangplank from the Common Staithe of Lynn onto a ship bound for Middleburg in Zeeland. He had just left his brother the King, who had embarked upon a separate ship. Edward had enveloped him in an enormous hug, nearly lifting him off his feet, kissed him several times and said that he would have preferred that they sailed together, but that it was more prudent not to, and that their mother would never forgive him if they were to drown together. Richard was not only terrified of drowning, after his experiences in crossing the Nene, but feared even more that Edward’s ship might be lost, and he himself be left to fight their cause alone. Without Edward, he thought, there would be no cause to fight. He could not envisage being the only male member of his family left. This made him think with some resentment of George, who was probably by now enjoying himself in luxury on his own property.

  King Edward had settled himself on board the Lynn merchant ship as if he did that kind of thing every day of his life. Richard’s last sight of him was of his enormous length lying back comfortably among canvas-covered bales of cloth, as if lounging in a soft bed, his feet propped up and his arms behind his head, a cheerful grin on his face. The crew had cast him admiring glances for his coolness already.

  Richard stood at the side of
the ship and watched the water creep up the weed-hung timbers of the Staithe. When it was near the top of the green tide mark, they would sail. High tide was at eight o’clock. He was hungry; he had eaten his breakfast at five. However, he dreaded the result if he were to start eating now. He had not been on a sea-going ship since he had been packed off into exile at the age of seven to the same destination. Then, his brother had not been King. Ten years later, crown and kingdom were lost, and life itself was uncertain. Before, Richard would have fought anyone who had suggested that such events were possible. Now he had to admit his brother’s fallibility. He thought that the King had been ill-served.

  The master had made it quite clear that the Duke of Gloucester and his servants were surplus and unwanted cargo, and that the safe arrival of his grain and cloth in Zeeland in time for carriage to the November Barms Mart was his priority. The goods were the property of a merchant of Norwich, and a jurat of Lynn, who would not want to be mixed up in the affairs of dukes. Not that the master would have minded so much had the Duke been going overseas in the ordinary course of events, though of course he would never have gone on such a humble ship, in such discomfort, but this was a one-way passage, without much hope of collecting the fare. The rings the boy had taken off his hands, and collected from his companions, would fetch a good enough price in Middleburg, but, he thought gloomily, it would not compensate for all these lordly landlubbers cluttering up his ship, who’d probably all be sick as dogs before they’d left the mouth of the Ouse.

  When Richard saw the gap between the side of the ship and the Staithe widen suddenly, he knew that they had weighed anchor and were beginning to swing out into mid-stream. King Edward’s ship went first. It took some time for them to sail out of the Ouse into the open sea. The North Sea was a limitless grey waste. The sailors said the wind was good and the sea fair, but to Richard it looked hideously rough, the waves like banks and ditches. He was sure it must be the coldest place on earth — he had thought that of the shores of the Wash, on the fen road, but the open sea was worse. Also, it moved. He did not like to think too much about it moving, or to watch it too fixedly.

  He looked back towards England, and suddenly remembered that the day was Tuesday, and that it must be the second day of October. It was his birthday, and he had not thought of it till now. He was eighteen. This fact seemed to have very little significance. Three months ago it had been something to look forward to.

  When he could not see the land any more, he fished a set of beads out of his purse and began to pray, as he had not had time earlier, for his brother’s safety, and his own.

  *

  William Wayneflete, Bishop of Winchester and lifelong friend of King Henry VI, hurried across the lawns of the Tower gardens and through dark corridors towards the apartments where his King — who had not been King for nine years — was living out the last day of his life as a prisoner. Wayneflete was extremely agitated. Another day, he thought, and the wild Kentish rebels would have stormed the Tower, and then, well, the kingdom would have fallen in ruins. He glanced at his companions, the Mayor of London, Richard Lee, grocer, and a gaggle of harassed-looking aldermen worrying about the money they were losing in the atmosphere of uncertainty and near panic. They had been alarmed at the news which reached London two days previously that King Edward had fled from Doncaster, trying to escape from England. The prospect of a realm without a king was dreadful to contemplate. The Kentish men looting the Dutch-owned breweries in Southwark, and battering London Bridge itself showed how easily mob violence could break out. King Henry was better than no king, and the City dignitaries hastened to restore to him the kingdom over which he had reigned for forty years.

  Wayneflete sighed when he thought of the burden he was about to place again upon the inadequate shoulders of Henry of Lancaster. Firmly as he believed in Henry’s right to rule, the Bishop was too experienced a politician to pretend that the Lancastrian King had ever possessed much capacity for the task. Too often he had tried to steer the ship of state clear of the shoals on which Henry had landed himself. The trouble was, Henry had such implicit faith in his non-existent abilities; King from his cradle, he believed that if he pursued a moral life, he could be guilty of no wrong. His piety and moral purity were, of course, an example to all Christendom. When he was only twenty-four Pope Eugenius had awarded him the Golden Rose for his signal services to Holy Church. But Wayneflete knew, better than most, that in his youth Henry had been both autocratic and unnecessarily sententious; as a churchman and a minister of state, the Bishop had often been torn between respect and irritation. He had seen Henry in his sickness become pathetic and rudderless, and fervently hoped that the present news would not bring on further attacks.

  Now, with the realm near riot, the best that might be hoped for was that the old reverence the people had always had for Henry would prevail. The Earl of Warwick was on his way from Coventry to London. This fact, supposedly reassuring, only increased the Bishop’s agitation. For twenty years Warwick had been one of the most outspoken leaders of the opposition to King Henry’s policies, and Wayneflete was aware that, as Henry’s Chancellor, he had been too prominent an instrument of them. The world had turned so suddenly topsy turvy. At least Warwick was bringing with him someone dependable in Jasper Tudor — the King had great trust in his half-brother — though many of the other Lancastrian lords were still in exile or, the Bishop thought regretfully, in their graves.

  Wayneflete had visited Henry many times during his five years’ imprisonment. His rooms in the Tower were better than most noble prisoners might occupy. Henry had a private oratory laid out with jewelled crosses, reliquaries, and a large painting of St Edmund the Martyr, which a less generous enemy than King Edward would not have allowed him to retain for his use. He still had many books brought in by friends; some were even gifts from Edward himself. He was allowed visitors, for Edward realized that any political plots woven round him would probably be abortive due to his lack of interest or comprehension. His guard and servants had been chosen for their discretion and humanity. Edward of York was the least vindictive of men, and if Henry were careless of his domestic arrangements, shabbily clothed and did not bother to shave every day, that was his own choice.

  The Bishop found Henry at his one modest meal of the day. In front of the King was propped a picture of the Five Wounds of Christ, which he always set before him at meals, to remind himself of God’s sacrifice while he indulged his human needs. His servant was reading a passage which the Bishop recognized as from The Abbey of the Holy Ghost. As he fell silent, Wayneflete knelt at King Henry’s feet and kissed his hand. The lap in front of him was full of crumbs.

  ‘My very dear lord, your Grace, I have the greatest news that I might bring you.’ He chose the right words instinctively. ‘God has, out of his bounteous mercy, in the course of his natural justice, restored you, my liege lord, to your rightful inheritance. Edward of York has abandoned his stolen kingdom and fled from England.’

  ‘Mm-m?’ King Henry’s eyes swivelled from Wayneflete, elderly and creaking on his knees, to the Mayor and back without immediate signs of understanding. His eyes were large and brown, and doggily enquiring; lately they seemed to have a purplish bloom in them, as in those of the aged or poor-sighted. He continued chewing, thoughtfully. Wayneflete thought that he might be kneeling too close and tried to edge back, but his seventy-year-old knees were not equal to it. He watched a sliver of onion drop from Henry’s lap onto one of his shoes. He knew that since all pressure of affairs had been removed from him, Henry had done everything slowly. The longsighted eyes gradually focused with recognition upon the Bishop, and upon the City notables, standing at a respectful distance.

  ‘Mm-m?’ King Henry said again. ‘My dear Bishop, William, I am glad as always to see you. I trust you are in better health than I am. What brings you here?’

  Wayneflete swallowed and repeated his news. Most men would have been overcome by powerful emotion, but Henry seemed to accept his deliverance
as an expected, destined event, awaited with faith all the years of his deposition. Then, the thought process overtaking him, his brow puckered, the grey eyebrows contracted, and the prim mouth and long, blurred likeness of his famous father’s aggressive chin began to quiver.

  ‘Edward of March,’ he said querulously, using Edward’s youthful title, ‘is sure to come back.’

  Wayneflete felt a twinge of exasperation that Henry should so typically look on the gloomy side. Henry, though still utterly sure, as he always had been, that God would one day restore him, had become more vague and slow, due to his secluded life and lack of exercise. He was always complaining of sluggish bowels; the costiveness had afflicted his mind also. Yet, poor soul, for one who had suffered so much, it was a wonder he had kept any wits at all. The hardships of his fugitive years had aged him. At forty-nine he looked nearer sixty, and behaved at times as if he were older than Wayneflete himself. But since he had been in the Tower, free of his wife, who in the Bishop’s opinion had been the greatest disaster ever to befall him, unmolested and communing with God, he had not once retreated into that cataleptic state which most men regarded as madness. The sickness of the mind took many strange forms, Wayneflete thought. His conversations with Henry during the imprisonment had been entirely sensible, and the King’s memory on theological matters was remarkably good, indeed, he could dispute with scholars of the Church on their own ground. He was able to live a life like a monk, according to a Rule, and he did not really wish to be disturbed in it. He said that he endured his imprisonment and loss of his earthly kingdom by looking forward to the heavenly one in store for him. This return to the cares of an earthly King would take away from him his pleasurable days of contemplation.