They rode forward in silence. The others followed them, about a dozen in all. As soon as they did so, they saw Clarence copy them, coming forward himself, followed by a number exactly the same as the King’s. They met right in the middle of the Fosse Way, just the three brothers. Suddenly, everything was seen to be well; there was no trick.
George looked that day like his name saint, apparently having forgotten that a hair shirt and bare feet might have been more appropriate. Richard noticed with some envy that his brother was shiningly clean, his hair especially; it blew around his head like a nimbus. George was smiling as if all his resentment and sullenness had left him, never to return.
King Edward, quick to gauge his brother’s mood, grasped George’s hand and leaned over to kiss his cheek. ‘You are the most welcome sight I’ve seen in England,’ he said. ‘I’ve not felt myself to be home again until this moment.’
Close together and smiling at each other, the resemblance between King Edward and his brother Clarence was at its strongest. Edward was bigger and heavier and less angelically fair, but the greatest difference was that he looked a man, while George still had a boyish air, which was of course part of his charm. He might have been the youngest of the three brothers, especially now when Richard was scruffy, weather-stained and very tired, thin and insignificant looking.
Richard tried hard to bring to his face an expression of radiant delight to match that of his brothers. He found this difficult. He was genuinely glad that George had decided to join them, but he was mistrustful of George’s reasons. Not that King Edward had any illusions on this score either, but Richard was less able to dissemble by sharing in this show of brotherly love for the benefit of the onlookers.
Nevertheless, George made things easier by greeting Richard with more enthusiasm than had been usual during their previous life together. He had forgotten what an agreeable companion George could be — sometimes. After the performance between George and the King, Richard managed a fairly creditable show of hand squeezing, kissing and amiable chat. Yet in even George’s friendliest grin lurked a tinge of mockery, as if he knew Richard’s feelings and laughed up his sleeve at his younger brother’s inability to disguise them entirely. This was the old George whom, when he wore that particular expression, Richard had so often wanted to punch right between the eyes.
When the reunion was complete, and George had spoken a few words to the King’s army in his best manner, still all gracious smiles, they marched back to Warwick town. King Edward still wanted to bring the Earl out of Coventry to give battle, now that he had an army almost doubled in size since his last challenge, and was more confident of victory. George had begun to talk of terms, of a reconciliation with Warwick as joyous as between himself and the King. He asked if he might send messages to Coventry, to persuade the Earl. In some amazement at this ill-judged assessment of the situation, King Edward said, ‘If he surrenders and comes out of Coventry town, he shall have his life. More than that is impossible, surely you realize that, George? God knows, I cannot send him to the block, but… Do you think that he will accept? He’s a man of what — forty-two? Could he face the Tower for the rest of his life? George, he is in too far now, I think we’ll find he prefers the trial of battle.’
Richard, with a sinking heart, knew that what the King said was true. George was deluding himself by his desire to shine as a clever peacemaker. Indeed, he was inordinately stupid if he thought that Warwick would perjure himself with every party to whom he had given his word, and with himself.
They gave Warwick a day. His answer was chillingly brief. No surrender.
On Friday, King Edward advanced once more upon Coventry, again challenging Warwick to come out and fight. That he did not was almost a relief, because by this time Montagu, Exeter and Oxford had all arrived to join the Earl. That night, back in Warwick, King Edward said, ‘Tomorrow we march for London, as fast as we can move. Warwick can only lose by refusing to fight now, and I can gain much by taking London. It will put Henry of Lancaster in my hands, and enable my friends there to join me. The Archbishop of York will have no choice but to surrender — I can’t see George Neville fleeing in the night to join his brother’s army. In London even Mayor Stockton is a good friend of mine.’
Richard, knowing the situation of his own troops who had scavenged the countryside between Warwick and Coventry to the last loaf during their five days’ toing and froing, was relieved to head for London. He was also, though he only admitted it to himself, relieved that the fighting had been postponed for a little. The idea of battle, to destroy Warwick and Montagu, distressed him even now, when he knew that sooner or later it must occur.
On Saturday evening they came to Daventry and in the morning, because it was Palm Sunday and King Edward always commemorated his great victory at Towton on this day, they all went to the church of the Holy Cross for Mass. The King led the procession round the church himself, a sheaf of willow palms in his hand, and all the people of Daventry turned out to gaze at him. It was a sunny morning, the birds singing and busy building nests in the eaves of the church. There were more green buds on hedges and trees here than in the bleak north. These signs of spring seemed a good omen.
Richard and Clarence followed their brother into the dim, chill interior of the church, and when the King came to the rood screen before the chancel he knelt, as he should, to honour the Cross while the anthem Ave was sung three times. Richard and George knelt behind him, side by side, as if they were little boys again. While they were murmuring their prayers and just as the chanting ended, there was a sudden, clearly audible little click. It came from just above their heads in front. George nudged Richard’s arm, and he looked up. Fixed to a pillar in front of them was a small box of painted wood with doors, containing an image of a saint. The doors hung apart, swinging slightly, as if they had just opened. Inside was a little painted alabaster of St Anne. The odd thing was that the box doors had been closed because all images had to be hidden as a sign of mourning during Lent. It seemed that some other people had begun to notice what had happened and, even as they watched, the doors swung gently to again, hiding St Anne from the curious stares.
Everyone began talking, regardless of the fact that they were in the middle of divine service. Word of a miraculous revealing of St Anne buzzed about the church.
George whispered in Richard’s ear, ‘It must have been the kneeling of all these mighty armoured knees, and the weight of the royal person — setting up a wobbling in the pillar that made the door open. What a piece of luck — we can go on our way blessed by a miracle! Blessed be God,’ he finished, aloud.
Richard, who had always found his brother alarmingly irreverent, ignored this frivolity and stared at the little crudely painted wooden doors. When King Edward had been in exile, he had made a vow to St Anne — of course, George could not know this — that if she would help him in his time of trouble, he would always make offering to her, wherever he found her image set up. Maybe this was her way of reminding him. On the other hand, George might possibly be right. Richard did not put trust in miracles unless he was sure that they were truly so. This one, well, he was not sure, and it had to be George who put doubt in his mind. King Edward said nothing, but gave thanks to God and St Anne, and allowed the talk and rumour to rush upon its way out of the church, around the town and into the ears of his army. Such a prognostication of good fortune would hearten them, convince them that God would take their part. So they marched later that day to Northampton in good spirits, and the church of Daventry was enriched by the King’s doubled offering in gratitude for the favours shown by St Anne.
From that time everything happened as King Edward had hoped. Northampton was friendly to him, and he marched down Wading Street at good speed without any hindrance. By Wednesday night, when he lodged at the Abbey of St Albans, news began to come to him that London was ready to capitulate. The Archbishop of York had no intention of trying to hold out until his brothers arrived, and sent a message to King Edward to th
at effect. London dropped into Edward’s lap like a ripe and bursting plum.
The next day the aldermen of the City of London and the Recorder — the Mayor had retired to bed at the end of February, pleading sickness in order to avoid any political involvement — sent the guards at Aldersgate off duty to dinner and opened up the gates themselves to their returning King. This time the people had the heartening sight of the three York brothers united at last. They rode straight to St Paul’s, to make a thank-offering at the Rood at the north door, as was customary, then they turned to the Bishop of London’s palace.
At the gate to meet them was the Archbishop of York. George Neville was as magnificent as ever but somewhat pale; even he was not clever enough to wriggle out of this situation.
He said, for once without his dazzling smile, ‘I am your Grace’s humble servant from this day forward.’
‘My lord, it is unbecoming to a pillar of Holy Church to utter untruths. I have already received your submission. I will not stand here and bandy words with you — that can be done later — I’ve work to do. You know where you will spend tonight, and a while to come — the Tower. You had better make yourself ready. I have quite a little bevy of bishops to send along there with you. Your brother Warwick will be deprived of your co-operation.
‘Now, you can do me the service of taking me to Henry of Lancaster, whom I must relieve of his burden once more and take into custody.’
Neville had no arguments that he dared put forward. He tried to find Clarence in the grimly determined-looking throng of lords around the King, but George Plantagenet had uncharacteristically removed himself from the forefront.
Richard followed his brother as of habit, and together with Rivers and Hastings they were escorted by Neville to King Henry. Richard had not set eyes on Henry of Lancaster for nearly a year, and wondered if the return to the royal dignity had changed him.
Henry was sitting in the Bishop of London’s chamber of presence, with his shoes off, warming his feet alarmingly close to the fire. He was settled into his big chair like a grandfather, reading a book held at arm’s length. A pile of more books was on the floor beside him, reaching as high as his knees. Arranged on a cupboard near to the hearth were his various devotional objects, from which he had never been separated.
King Edward and his friends halted at the door, in an acutely embarrassing silence. Richard began to feel himself inwardly squirm. Henry of Lancaster continued his reading, while the Archbishop of York coughed and nerved himself to address the King he had helped to unmake, had patched together, and now knocked down once more.
‘Your Grace. King Edward is here.’ For once George Neville could find no words of suitable artistry for this moment.
Henry did not look up immediately and appeared to read on to the end of the sentence. Then he closed the book with a snap, almost irritably, and laid it down on the top of the pile. He looked up, and saw clearly the faces of the men who had come to usurp his kingdom and imprison his body for the second time. Young Neville, the clever one, with whom he had been having some interesting discussions, was approaching, looking not so young, and ready to deliver a Judas kiss. Today, Thursday, was the day Our Lord was betrayed. Henry shut his eyes and sighed deeply. When he opened them, Edward of York was standing over him like Goliath, and looking like a schoolboy who had been chastised for a sin he would not admit to himself. It was an awkward moment. Edward continued to stand, as if to deny that he was in the presence of seated royalty. Richard averted his eyes, unable to bring himself to watch.
It was Henry who made the first move, which to some onlookers seemed the gesture of the simple-minded, but in fact did retrieve a few shreds of dignity for himself and his captor. He got up from the chair, and though he was getting on for six feet tall, he appeared like a withered leaf beside Edward of York, ready to blow away. He did not remove his hat, clinging to his royal estate, but he held out his hand. Edward held out his hand, too, and clasped it.
Henry said, in his thin, rather emasculated voice, ‘My cousin of York, you have returned to England, I must welcome you. It appears that I must give myself into your safe keeping.’
Richard wanted desperately to turn from this disguising and blunder out, but he was prevented by the fact that Hastings was just behind him, looking over his head.
King Edward, who had long ago forgotten how to blush, was fiercely red in the face. He looked still like a boy, who had extended an arm to a blind beggar in face of the derision of his friends.
Addressing Henry as if he still acknowledged him as Duke of Lancaster, he said stiffly, ‘Your Grace’s person will not be molested in any way while in my care.’
‘Yes, yes, I accept your word,’ Henry replied mildly, and everyone sighed gently, as if a long and involved task had just been completed.
King Edward turned to go as quickly as he could, to leave the collecting into armed custody of Henry and the ecclesiastics. As Richard followed him thankfully out of the Bishop of London’s house, his skin felt as if spiders had crawled over it. Even now, one could not call Henry half-witted; he was simply not adequately witted to cope with the world. Edward had managed to preserve some dignity in his actions, but it was damnably difficult to recognize it.
Richard tried to put it out of his mind as he rode on through London and out to Westminster, to another scene he found distasteful, though many others found it touching. At the Abbey the Cardinal Archbishop of Canterbury was waiting, triumphant, to receive his nephews by marriage at St Edward’s shrine and to set the crown once more upon the rightful King.
Then they walked through the Abbey precincts and into the sanctuary. King Edward’s reunion with his Queen was unaffectedly joyous, but Richard wished himself absent from it, as he always did from ceremonies in which Elizabeth Woodville shone. He knew himself to be churlish this time, and when inspecting the new baby Prince, tried his hardest to smile and to show some warmth towards his sister-in-law. He did better than his brother Clarence who, judging from the expression on his face, was eating very sour grapes indeed. The baby looked much the same as all others — he was now nearly six months old and less frog-like than the very tiny ones. He had a little lardy face, which probably meant he was fair like his mother, though his hair was hidden under a frilly bonnet. King Edward was beaming, baby in one arm, his Queen in the other. Richard watched as his brother’s arm tightened upon her waist, edging upwards towards her breast. From the look upon the King’s face, it would not be long before another royal infant was on the way. The three small girls were skipping up and down, defying all efforts to make them look on demurely at the return of their father. King Edward scooped up the two littlest ones, Mary and Cecily, and Elizabeth, who was five and tall, clutched one of his legs and shrieked with glee. Edward adored children, allowed them to swarm over him like puppies, would even endure wet laps and sudden pukings unruffled. Richard forgot about the Queen, standing there in her pride, and watched his brother, until little Elizabeth seized his hand and led him off, chattering a long and garbled tale of their stay in the sanctuary. He infinitely preferred her company to that of her mother. Elizabeth Woodville was undeserving of such delightful children. Yet Richard was glad that the King now had an heir; the boy was undoubtedly an advantage to their cause, even if his mother were not.
That night they all were rowed down river to Baynards Castle, an enormous, noisily celebrating family group, more in accord than they had ever been before, or probably ever would be again. Clarence had drunk about a pint of Rhenish wine to begin with, and thrown off his pique. He sat in the barge and grinned at his brother Richard like a young Bacchus and mimicked various persons they had met that day; Archbishop Neville, certain aldermen of London, even poor Henry of Lancaster. It was impossible not to laugh, because George was a clever mimic.
Their mother greeted them as they stepped ashore from the quay within the castle walls, and their sisters swelled the numbers. The Duchess of York was smiling, in her relief at the reconciliation of her two
elder sons. Richard realized that his mother was still beautiful. She kissed him and held him close. Although she did not wear perfume, she was faintly sweet smelling, like incense.
‘Dear Richard,’ she said, ‘you have been as loyal as any brother, any King, could deserve. It has been hard for you. God will reward you.’
‘The hardest part is to come.’
‘I will pray for your safety, for the safety of all three of you, my sons. Now you are all three together, you will overcome your enemies.’
Soon they left their mother’s house. Richard’s first concern that night was to secure himself some sleep, because in the morning, the sad Good Friday morning, the mustering of the King’s army would begin, to make ready for the march to meet Warwick.
*
The day of lamentation had come, in more ways than one. Warwick sat opposite his brother John in a room in the Abbey of St Albans, and chewed his pen. He had been writing letters — fruitlessly — it was too late now; if his followers were not with him then, they never would be. It was Good Friday and at an hour when all the brothers slept, after their day of mourning; that quiet, blank, waiting day, The Eve of Easter, was almost upon them.
Warwick looked at his brother. Montagu was thirty-eight, and in this light looked like fifty-eight. To tell the truth, he looked on the verge of the grave. He had gone more bald recently.
‘Will you fight?’ John said, as if he’d asked the price of eggs at market.
‘Yes.’
‘This is the end.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re finished. Look at you.
Warwick had not looked in a mirror recently. ‘What if we win?’ he said.
‘Then the wolves are waiting for us.’
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