To Anne’s relief there was no opportunity to pursue this subject, because the Queen bore down on her son and led him away. Anne had no wish to talk about her cousin, Richard of Gloucester. He was part of those things which had faded from her life as if they had never been. Probably he was in much the same predicament as herself, waiting in the cold winter weather to cross the sea to England.
Shrovetide passed, and the feast of St David. St Patrick’s Day came, and St Cuthbert of Durham. Sir John Langstrother packed his baggage. Then, on the eve of the feast of the Annunciation, when the seas were heavy enough to send up sheets of spray level with the roof tops, a battered and drenched vessel put into Honfleur from England. They had weathered the storms. So had Edward of March, calling himself King. He had landed in England — in the north — and had been there a week already.
The last information on Edward’s movements had been that he was held back in the roads off Vlissingen by gales and could not sail. Now, with her enemy already marching to meet Warwick in battle, Queen Margaret at last gave the order to embark.
The ships’ captains looked at the sea in the harbour and the sky over the Channel with pessimism. They obeyed orders and made ready, and in the morning saw their passengers come aboard under a lowering sky and in winds so strong they were nearly blown off the gangplank. The ships could not struggle out of the harbour mouth. Fortune, scowling from the storm, would not let them leave France.
10
Warwick est Mort
March – April 1471
Or a-il bien son temps perdu
Et son argent qui plus lui touche,
Car Warwic est mort et vaincu:
Ha! que Loys est fine mouche!
Entre nous, Franchoix,
Jettez pleurs et larmes:
Warwic vostre choix
Est vaincu par armes.
Burgundian Popular Ballad (1471)
10
Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, the King’s Lieutenant of the Realm, stood grinding his teeth, before the closed door of the chapel in the Bishop of London’s palace. The hour was eight in the morning, and King Henry was at his devotions. At such times he kept at bay his secular advisers by the simple means of bolting the door. It was the only time he showed determination.
Warwick prowled up and down like a grey, loping wolf. He was too tired with travelling and frustration and anxiety to bare his teeth in a wolfish grin. He merely cursed profanely and inwardly, knowing that nothing of importance, such as the news he carried, mattered to his sovereign. One might as well ask a monk of a secluded order to rule a kingdom. Warwick could have gone to his own house after the journey from Dover, bathed and breakfasted and refreshed himself before bothering to come to the King.
After about half an hour’s interminable wait, the door opened and priests swarmed out, bearing all the paraphernalia of Mass, and wafting clouds of incense up Warwick’s nose. When he finally got inside, King Henry was evidently nearer to Heaven than to earth.
‘What can I do for you, my lord?’ the King asked mildly, his attention elsewhere.
The reply — ‘Clearly, nothing!’ — nearly burst out of Warwick. The King had spoken as if to a humble petitioner who had managed to waylay him.
Warwick, if he had been less grey-faced and tired, would have gone red with spleen. Instead he controlled himself and said, ‘Your Grace, I have been on the road from Dover all night! I waited there for several days. Her Grace the Queen has not yet left France.’
‘Dear me,’ Henry murmured. ‘I should be very glad to see my dear wife the Queen. I hope this delay is only temporary.’
‘So do I!’ Warwick could not keep this in.
‘Why should this be so?’
Because your precious wife is reluctant to give you or me any assistance in keeping control of this realm, was the answer immediately springing to mind. Warwick said instead, ‘Edward of March is making ready a fleet in Zeeland. When — it is no longer a question of if — he invades this realm, we should meet him in a position of strength, that is, your Grace united with the Queen and the Prince and his wife my daughter.’
‘I shall scarcely know my son, now he is a grown man,’ King Henry said, sighing.
Considering that the Prince had gone into exile when he was ten and that even when he was born Henry had declared that he must be the son of the Holy Ghost, it probably was true to say that Henry knew little of his son.
To Warwick’s intense annoyance, King Henry picked up his book of devotions and began to move towards the door. It was his infuriating way of indicating that the interview was at an end. Never any curt, terminating words, merely a withdrawal into some other world. Each time brought Warwick nearer to apoplexy.
Dinner later that morning with his son-in-law Clarence did nothing to improve Warwick’s temper. The behaviour of George when he did appear at Warwick’s table had begun to follow a predictable pattern. He would be surly until he had taken enough wine to loosen his tongue, as if he resented his father-in-law’s hospitality. Then he would swerve like a careering horse between truculence and gaiety, depending upon whether Isabel was present or not. This led with more wine to colossal indiscretion in increasing volume and if the wine level was sufficient, back to surliness again.
This time, contrary to expectation, George began to ask questions.
‘When are the Queen and the Prince likely to leave France?’
‘When the lord God, who orders the elements, allows.’
‘What is the King doing?’
‘Nothing!’
George carefully bunched his fingers, leaving the first two extended. His fist cast a shadow on the wall like a rabbit’s head, and when George moved his fingers, its ears waggled dejectedly. ‘That is King Henry,’ he said, ‘a shadow on the wall.’ Then, as he made the nose twitch absurdly, he giggled.
‘You sail very close to the wind sometimes, my son,’ Warwick said viciously. George was at the amusingly provocative stage, and Warwick found this unamusing.
‘But we are not shadows,’ he said sourly. ‘If your brother sets foot on English soil, we will have to make a stand. No terms. You had better make yourself ready to go to your estates in the west and collect every man you can muster.’
‘My lord father,’ George said smiling, ‘I am ready to set out tomorrow if need be.’
It was as well that Warwick did not know just how many balls Clarence was juggling with, and had been for months. He had known from the beginning that Warwick had gone out of his depth, and he saw no reason to go under with his father-in-law. He even thought that it might be just possible to bring Warwick and Edward to terms. The idea of acting as a family mediator, who had never wanted a quarrel in the first place, appealed to him. The ground was prepared, all he had to do was wait for Edward to come back to England.
Warwick, left staring into an inhospitable future, was nearer to drowning than even Clarence guessed. A terrible sense of the futility of his actions began to enclose him like a case of lead, like a coffin. He had never been a man who had gone back on his word lightly, yet now he had broken the promises given to the man who had done most for him, King Louis of France. Not that he had done so willingly, but the opinion of Englishmen, and their Parliament, was that they would never ally with France to make war on Burgundy. That war had already begun. Warwick’s promises of aid for Louis, of conquest, were impossible to keep. This, and dread of what Louis might do when he realized it, the absence of Queen and Prince, the uselessness of King Henry, the hostility of those who were supposed to be his new allies and the obviously imminent defection of Clarence, brought him to a state near despair.
*
The desolation of the dunes and marsh lands of Holderness, still dotted with lakes after winter flooding, was nearly equal to the fens round the Wash. Richard had somehow exerted some semblance of authority over his frozen, frightened, saltwater-sodden two hundred and got them on the move in a southerly direction. He endeavoured not to give away the fact that he had not
the faintest idea where he was going, whether King Edward was alive or drowned, or whether the miserable land would sooner or later produce an ambush. He merely set them in the direction of Ravenspur, the place where Edward had intended to go ashore, and clenched his chattering teeth, pretending that the King would be certain to meet him there. If his brother was not there, well, the chances were that he might die in the Humber marshes, and that would be that. He vowed that if God did allow him to survive this and any successive dangers, he would never forget to give thanks.
He had not ridden his shivering, salt-sticky horse more than a few miles when a sizeable body of men became visible, clustered around a few fishermen’s huts behind the sea banks. He halted his men and rode forward alone — it would avoid any instant fighting. If they were Henry Percy of Northumberland’s men there might be a chance of a parley. His relief at the sight of the familiar murrey and blue jackets, darkened with seawater, of his own party nearly undid him, and he fell out of the saddle into his brother’s arms, clutching him wordlessly while they both shivered like reeds in the March wind.
‘Thank God,’ King Edward said, ‘you had the sense to head in this direction. Thank God you’re safe, Dickon. I don’t want to be finished before I’ve begun.’ As they retreated into the shelter of one of the huts, he said, ‘We must wait for Anthony, and trust that his judgement is the same as yours.’
Later in the morning, Anthony Woodville caught up with them. He had been driven ashore a little further north than Richard, in the same plight, and had followed the track south almost by instinct. That between them they had only lost half a dozen men through drowning was a miracle of God.
Together they decided that they must move on, as boldly as possible, towards York. It was damnably dangerous, but at least there was a chance of winning over Percy, whose rule extended over all east Yorkshire. Yet as they marched, there was no sign of Percy, and every sign of a hostile country.
*
‘What will you do?’ Isabel of Clarence’s voice held a shrill note, and her husband did not respond well to nagging. She was frightened.
‘I’ve not made up my mind — yet!’
‘But, when…?’
‘When I’m ready. When the time is right.’ Clarence turned his back on his wife and pulled the bedclothes up to his ears. She could just see his hair sticking out. She laid her hand on his back, feeling the smooth skin. She prodded his shoulder blade.
‘How will you know that it is not too late?’
‘Leave me alone!’
Isabel gave a little yelp, as if he had kicked her, and began to sniff.
George of Clarence rolled over to face her, exasperated, thick of head from the evening’s wine and wanting his sleep. On the whole he quarrelled less with his wife than with other people, and now even he did not want to begin wrangling. He wanted to sleep.
‘Isabel,’ he said angrily, ‘I’ve told you already, we must wait. When I’ve heard that Edward has landed safely in England — all we know is that he was seen off the coast of Norfolk and sailing towards the Humber — and when I’ve heard who has supported him and who hasn’t. When I know whether the Queen and the Prince have left France. When I know what Pembroke, Somerset and Devonshire are likely to do if they have not.’
‘Then you will desert my father and…’
‘Isabel, we’ve said all these things before, several times. I thought you agreed with my plans. If I stay with your father, bring in every man I can, and we manage to destroy Edward, where shall we stand then? Your father will be left among the wolves. And I? Well, I’d be the first piece of prey they’d seize on, and I don’t want to be eaten. Do you want me to be sent to the block by the Lancaster Queen and her party? You’ve seen how I’ve been treated by Pembroke, by Oxford, by Exeter and the others, they’re only waiting their chance to get rid of me.
‘Not that I’m going to put my head into a different noose by joining my brother before I know if he has any chance of success. So I wait. Henry Vernon will let me know how things are going in the north…it won’t be long to wait. And now I’m going to sleep.’
Isabel lay still, crying quietly. The Bishop of Bath’s palace at Wells, where they were staying, was so silent at night. In the day it was quiet and secluded in its gardens, where primroses grew and thrushes sang and banged snails against stones. The thought of the helpless snails made her cry even more, thinking of her own plight. The promise of her much desired marriage to King Edward’s heir had been in no way fulfilled. She was now in the position of the wife of a traitor and rebel, whichever side prevailed. George meant to betray her father. He seemed to think it was possible that King Edward and Warwick might yet come to some motley patching up of their quarrel. Isabel thought this would be very unlikely; she feared things had gone too far. When she had seen her father in London, he had been grim and remote, and she scarcely spoke to him. One thing was clear, he despised and disapproved of George, and she had wanted a husband of whom she could be proud, in whose splendour she could bask, and feel cherished, and safe. She had none of these things, and though Clarence was handsome, twenty-one, a prince, and sometimes a lively companion, she felt that he was more of a stranger now than when they had been planning the excitement of their forbidden marriage.
Also, he was no longer Edward’s heir: there was now a baby Prince, though locked away in Westminster sanctuary. George’s long sleeping form in the bed beside her was infinitely mysterious, but it had become a mystery without pleasure or excitement. To those who were far away from her, like her mother and her sister Anne, she gave very little thought.
Clarence did not leave Wells until a week later. During this time, he busied himself with much letter writing, the despatch and receiving of messengers — or spies. Isabel watched him, absorbed and apparently happy in his intrigues, and felt herself helpless. On the feast of the Annunciation, a curt message had come from her father, asking that Clarence should join him at Coventry, and saying, as they knew already, that Edward was approaching Nottingham.
That day, George announced that he was going to meet his brother. He seemed excited, as if he looked forward to his abasement and forgiveness. There would not be too much abasement.
‘I shall weigh the balance,’ he said, ‘Edward cannot do without me. He has got as far as Nottingham unscathed, which means some of my friends have lost their wagers. Henry Percy of Northumberland, and Lord Stanley, and the Earl of Shrewsbury have all, well, stood still. Prudent men.
‘I’ll meet Edward somewhere south of Coventry. Then I can try to bring about some sort of terms with Warwick. Isabel, I won’t forget he is my father-in-law.’
Isabel, her eyes round and pitiful — which he did not notice — said, ‘Will there be fighting?’
‘I hope not,’ her husband said optimistically, as if by his actions he might direct the outcome one way or another.
*
King Edward also hoped that there would not be fighting — at least not yet. York had provided a very uncomfortable experience; he and fifteen others had spent one night in the city trying to convince the city council that he intended only to claim his father’s dukedom of York. He knew they were not convinced; they were hard men who were not going to be made fools of. He had come out of York alive, and knew himself lucky, and that his luck was by then worn very thin.
After that, King Edward’s fortune changed. Henry Percy of Northumberland made no move against him, and, as Jesus Christ said, he who is not against me is with me. Better than Percy was the reluctance of Warwick’s brother Montagu to challenge him. With less than five miles between them, as Edward marched towards his father’s castle of Sandal, Montagu waited at Pontefract with an army, which he did not use.
Richard tried to send word to John Neville, to find out if he would join them, but received no reply. Neville would not desert his brother Warwick, but neither would he try to destroy King Edward. Yet by his inaction he partly betrayed his brother.
After this, when he had come safely t
hrough both Nottingham and Leicester, and messages had begun to arrive from Clarence, King Edward knew that he could now seek out Warwick and challenge him.
*
Richard’s horse was fidgety with waiting, as he was himself. It chewed on the jingling bit, then tried to nose at Lord Hastings’ mount, and its hooves made little sucking sounds in the mud as it shifted uneasily. Richard flexed cold fingers in wet gloves and was thankful that the rain in which they had set out from Warwick town had now stopped. The wind lifted the hair on his neck, drying it. He, King Edward, Hastings and Rivers, all sat waiting in a little silent group. Behind them, their army waited also, drawn up as if in battle order. Their banners, which were beginning to look worn and rain stained, flapped damply over their heads. No need now to dissemble and wave Lancastrian ostrich-feather badges about, the sun-in-splendour gleaming in the bright watery light.
King Edward, who had been sitting half turned in his saddle into the wind, his head on one side, listening, said suddenly, ‘I can hear them.’
When he had said it, Richard could also hear, a faint murmur, a whispered grumble of sound, like the beat of thousands of feet and hooves on the ground.
‘How many men does Clarence have?’ said Lord Hastings casually.
King Edward shrugged. ‘Four thousand? More than is healthy for us.’
‘I hope,’ Anthony Woodville said, ‘this is not another trick.’
‘No, I’m certain enough.’ King Edward shrugged again. ‘If it is, we have more men.’ He paused and grinned, without humour. ‘I hope.’
Richard kept quiet, his eyes moving between his brother and the ground ahead, where the great width of the Fosse Way crossed the Banbury road. Clarence was coming up from Banbury with his army. The crossroads was wide, an expanse of mud and strewn gravel and verges poached up by traffic.
Soon the approaching army was in sight. At its head was the black bull banner of Clarence. As Warwick had asked, George had made every effort to raise all the men he could. There were nearly as many of them as the King had. King Edward reached out and touched Richard’s arm. ‘We two go first,’ he said.
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