Fortune's Wheel

by Rhoda Edwards

  ‘Mon fils — Edouard…’ she said yet again, faintly.

  ‘Merciful Mary Queen of Heaven!’ Morton groaned. ‘We do not know what has happened to him. Bear up, madame, until we do have news.’

  They waited at Payne’s house all the rest of the day and into the night. No one went to bed. Anne curled herself in a seat by the window and stared out of it, hour by hour. She tried to decide what news it was for which she was waiting, what news she wanted. Not to hear of the Prince’s death. Not to hear anything. After a while she became quite numb, without thought. As the sun began to sink a maid came out of the house and took in the sheets which were drying in the adjoining meadow. She shook them to get rid of the cherry petals which had blown in from the orchard. Once or twice the sound of galloping horses came close and then faded away. No one from King Edward’s army came to search the house. It seemed his victory was too complete for pursuits to be of immediate importance.

  The hours of darkness were the longest. The rooms were lit up with candles all the time, as if a vigil were being kept. Before it was over, someone came to the house. Anne heard Lady Katherine Vaux give a little cry.

  ‘Mon Dieu! Monsieur, how did you find us?’

  A Frenchman said, ‘A peasant, in the village. My horse swam over the river…’‘ His voice broke, and he groaned.

  ‘You are hurt?’

  ‘No — yes. I have dealt with it.’

  ‘Monsieur Robin, the Queen is distracted. Have you news?’

  It was Pierre Robin, the Prince’s physician. The mere fact of his having sought them out, and his being wounded, and alone, struck a chill.

  ‘Ah — non!’ Lady Katherine had seen his face clearly for the first time. It told all there was to tell.

  ‘Let me go to madame first…’ she said.

  The French doctor began to sob unashamedly.

  ‘How was it?’ Lady Katherine whispered. ‘In the battle? Or capture? Oh, not the beheading…’

  ‘The battle.’

  ‘You are certain?’

  ‘I saw.’ Dr Robin could say no more. His distress was painful to hear. Anne knew, without any more being said. The Prince had been killed. Lady Katherine came to her, put her arms round her, and saw her quite dry-eyed.

  ‘I must go to madame,’ Lady Katherine said.

  ‘Yes.’

  She went away with M. Robin to the Queen’s rooms. They were gone a long time. Anne expected to hear the shrieks of Margaret’s grief tear apart the walls. But there was nothing.

  Dr Morton came back when daylight flooded the room and found Anne still alone, and an appalling smell of candles burnt down to their ends. Soon after she had realized that her husband was dead, the thought struck her that in the morning, when he had ridden away to the battle, she had not bothered to wave her hand to him. She had not provided any passionate farewells the night before either. But the only thing she could think of was not how he died, or what was going to happen to herself, but that she had not troubled to wave goodbye to him.

  Dr Morton said, ‘Your Highness, the carriages are ready; we must set out immediately. It is necessary that you come with us. You do not perhaps quite understand your position. Edward of March will make every effort to seek you out. He has of course by now imprisoned our unfortunate sovereign lord King Henry again in the Tower. He will wish to make certain — quite certain — that no heir of Lancaster remains out of his hands. Your husband the Prince — may God have mercy on him — is dead. If by some miraculous chance you are found to be carrying his child, you are more important than you may ever have dreamed possible, to Edward as much as to our party.’ He did not say this ungently, but the fact was brutal enough in itself. He saw no sign of emotion, or even understanding, in the girl’s face.

  He went on, ‘If such an event proves the case, the Queen will do all in her power to get you safely to France. Now we must be ready to take the road to Wales. We are fugitives now, and the wildest places are the safest. God go with us.’

  12

  Death and Destruction

  May 1471

  And now sche ne rought, so that sche myght attayne,

  Though all Engeland were brought to confusyon;

  Sche and her wykked affynite certayne

  Entende uttyrly to destroye thys regioun;

  For with theym ys but Deth & destruccion,

  Robberye & vengeaunce with all Rygour.

  Therefore all that holde of that oppynioun,

  God sende hem a schort ende with mech langour.

  A Political Retrospect (c. 1462)

  12

  ‘Open these doors!’

  King Edward grasped the iron handles of the doors of Tewkesbury Abbey church in his gauntleted fists and shook the massive oak structure. He got no answer, except for the thumping, rattling and creaking of the huge bolts on the inside.

  ‘This place is no sanctuary!’ he bawled. He knew that the king rats among his enemies were holed up inside.

  A crowd of his soldiers began to charge the doors, attacking the locks and hinges with leaden mauls. The hinges gave first, crunching and tearing out of the wood. The doors toppled inwards with a great booming crash.

  Men burst through, half carrying the King with them, and rushed down the nave and aisles, whooping and brandishing their swords.

  King Edward looked a satanic figure in the church. The fallen door behind him let the midday sun into the dim interior. He was hung about with weapons of several kinds, most of which he had made use of. His lower half was mud plastered, his chest and arms gory, and he was marked round the middle by the green waterweed from the dyke. Under the raised vizor he was red with sunburn, exertion and anger. When the Abbot himself approached, clearly aware of his own resemblance to St Thomas Becket, shielded by a monstrance held in shaking hands, the King’s face became a shade redder. Before the Body of Christ, he was shamed. He roared at his brawling men to leave the place at once, but it was too late. One of them had skewered an archer in the Prince of Lancaster’s livery against a pillar. Blood ran down it like dog’s piddle down a post.

  This sight met Richard as he caught up with his brother. He had to walk over the broken-down door, his mailed shoes making hollow thumps. He looked up at the King, who was standing facing the nervous Abbot, angry and sheepish and shocked out of the heat of the chase. God’s house had been defiled by a killing in His presence

  ‘My lord Abbot,’ King Edward said, ‘this is an unpardonable act. I shall endeavour to make what restitution I can. But as you well know, this place has no rights of sanctuary. I give you my word that these men will not be molested until they have been brought to trial for bearing arms against the rightful King.’ He paused, and went back to the door, slid his stained sword out of its retaining ring at his belt, and threw it outside. An axe and a mace went after it.

  ‘Leave your weapons. The church cannot harbour traitors even if it should prevent murder. Moreover, the church cannot prevent the course of the King’s justice, except in the legal sanctuaries.’

  Somerset charged out from behind a tomb, like a bull into the ring. ‘There is no king here!’ he roared. His words echoed thunderously in the church. ‘There is no justice! I am King Henry’s loyal subject!’

  ‘Of that I’m not in doubt,’ Edward said, unperturbed by this show of defiance. ‘You took a while to show yourself, Edmund Beaufort. Who else is in here? Come out. I’m an easy man — those of you who deserve them shall have pardons. How many of you are there? Where is your so-called Prince? Is he in here?’

  He walked, unarmed, round the tomb from which Beaufort had emerged. On the other side of it was Sir John Langstrother, squatting on the floor like a mangy old bear, weeping and moaning that he had failed in his duty to look after the young Prince. Blood dripped off the fingers of one hand; he had not even tried to bind up his wound.

  ‘My lord Prior,’ King Edward said, ‘where is the Prince?’

  Langstrother’s reply was so incoherent that it told Edward only that
they thought the Prince was dead.

  ‘Where’s Wenlock?’

  Another roar came from Somerset. ‘That gibbering treacherous old fool! He’s dead, and I hope he’s roasting in Purgatory. I made sure what brains there were in his skull were spattered all over the cow parsley in the meadow. He hindered the Grand Prior here — and gave me no help. If he had, your brains would be where his are!’

  ‘My brains are in good order. Help the Grand Prior up, and leave this place. If you cause another affray in here, you will be as guilty as I.’

  Somerset, though disposed to rant and rail against his fate, knew when he was cornered, and allowed himself to be escorted out with the others.

  Two of Clarence’s men came in carrying a body, its arms and legs swinging to and fro. They dumped it on the floor of the nave. ‘Edward calling himself Prince, your Grace.’ There would be no need to go searching for him.

  King Edward went over to look. Richard followed him. The body appeared to be uninjured. The armour was little bloodied and scarcely dirtied at all, as they were, by hard fighting over mucky ground.

  Richard looked down at the face of the Prince of Lancaster; he had been handsome. Someone shifted the body sideways. The Prince had been killed by a blow on the head — perhaps by the pick on the back of an axe. He must have scarcely had time for any fighting before being put to flight and cut down. No chance to try his strength in battle — even death came unrecognized from the rear.

  Clarence himself strode in. King Edward turned towards him. ‘Did your men do this?’

  ‘Some mine, some yours, some Tom, Dick and Harry’s. They caught him and tipped him off his horse and clouted his head before you could blink. I couldn’t have called them off if I’d wanted to. Should I have wanted to?’

  ‘No matter, one way or the other. George, you’re whole yourself?’

  ‘Yes. Is he wounded again?’ He indicated Richard.

  ‘No. We’ll leave the Abbot to deal with this. George, it’s time we saw more of what’s happening outside.’

  The King was not one to gloat over his triumphs, though the Prince’s death was perhaps the biggest single piece of good fortune which had ever come his way. The Prince had been very young. He looked at the lifeless form on the paving stones, then at his brother Richard, who was staring down somewhat glassy-eyed, as if he had seen too many corpses.

  ‘Richard,’ the King said, ‘come with me.’ It was better not to dwell on these events.

  ‘Let him lie here two days,’ he said to the Abbot. ‘Then see to his burial.’

  Richard went out with his brother into the sunshine. He did not want to dwell on the dead Prince, either. Somerset had been right, only chance and their enemies’ bungling had prevented the same fate befalling Edward and himself. For the second time they had won a great victory, and this one must surely mark the end of their troubles.

  ‘How many of them will go to the block?’

  ‘Only as many as it would be dangerous to allow to live. You’ve seen Somerset’s attitude for yourself — there’s only one way to ensure that we are not plagued by this and that rebellion for the rest of our lives. Those who have shown themselves to be utterly set against me and my House cannot expect mercy from me. I’ve been poked in the eye too many times by men I’ve pardoned and trusted to work to our mutual advantage.

  ‘Henry of Lancaster’s son — if that’s what he was — is dead. Henry is in the Tower. That removes the causes of rebellions. Remove the recalcitrants who live only to gain revenge, and we should be able to live in peace. Richard, I’ve seen enough of war in the last dozen years to last me till the day I die. And I fully intend to die in my bed, God willing.

  ‘I saw you after Barnet, Dick, and saw you sicken — and I know why. Well, you go and take a look at the work being done in the meadows here, and you’ll know why you’ve got to sit down on Monday morning and condemn perhaps a score of men for treason. You are my Constable, and you know the forms, and you know the reasons for the verdict.

  ‘I’ll draw up a list of those who must be condemned. After that the only remaining problem will be Henry of Lancaster, and that’s one on which I shall have to take a decision.’ For the moment he said no more; there were too many immediate matters demanding his attention.

  On Monday morning, Richard entered the courthouse in Tewkesbury town, the Constable’s mace borne before him, and the Earl Marshal the Duke of Norfolk following him. The whole procedure of the trial was over in a remarkably short time, the charges of treason rattled out like an alphabet lesson, and the prisoners refusing to plead, knowing the uselessness of words.

  Richard watched the fifteen men whose lives he was to proclaim extinguished. Perhaps they were the last who would die for the miserable, expired cause of Henry of Lancaster, which had claimed thousands. The prisoners for the most part held themselves with the utmost dignity. Richard wondered, if he had been in their place, whether he would have acquitted himself as well — would his other companions? He looked at the other chief officer of the tribunal. John Mowbray of Norfolk was an odious fellow, stupid and bumptious. His face was unprepossessing, with an inadequate chin and an Adam’s apple which moved up and down as if he had a tennis ball stuck in there, even when he was silent. He was twenty-five and looked younger, being light-haired, light-eyed, pink and pimply, like a youth. The ancient customs of the governance of England allowed many fools to hold high military and judicial office.

  Mowbray in turn watched his Constable with curiosity and some circumspection. The Duke of Gloucester stared into space, unblinking and expressionless as an image. The thin, straight-mouthed face might have been whittled from wood and stained with walnut juice. Even at eighteen, his skin had begun to line; the fine creases were paler, where he had screwed up his eyes against the sun. The remains of a huge bruise was dwindling patchily on one cheekbone. The hand resting clench-fisted upon the table was tanned darker still, another bruise discolouring on it, and a scab peeling off white. Nails pared down level with the skin of his fingertips, one of them blackened, which would later fall off. The white edge of a bandage showed at his left wrist. He had been knocked about in the fighting a good deal more than Mowbray himself.

  The prisoners were marched straight out of the courthouse to the scaffold in the market place, where all fifteen of them were beheaded. Somerset was the first, defiant and brave and scornful, unchanged when faced by death. Prior Langstrother went like a martyr to the fire. The axe fell with a heavy thunk! more than a score of times — even a good executioner did not make a clean chop every time. It was, compared to previous aftermaths of battles, a moderate lopping of heads.

  The Constable of England walked from the bloody scene hardened of feeling, to an extent which surprised himself. There was room in his mind only for relief that he had not met the same fate.

  *

  ‘In a May morning on Malvern Hills

  A strange thing befell me, a fairy vision methought

  I was weary of wandering and went me to rest

  Under a broad bank beside a stream…’

  Dr Morton broke off from his reading aloud, holding the book open on his knees.

  ‘Tomorrow we must cross the Malvern Hills,’ he said. ‘Then Wales will be in sight.’ He was trying to keep the women — in particular the Queen — from brooding on their plight and falling sick and taking to their beds. It was not an easy task.

  They huddled in a tiny room in the most broken-down, ill-ruled monastery that Anne had ever seen. They had been there three days and should have moved on, but the Queen seemed unfit to travel. Little Malvern Priory did not own a guest house, because it very seldom received guests other than those who could be lodged in the stable. The room offered to the Queen, who was once again no queen, was the only one whose roof did not leak. The place was hidden deep in the thick woodlands of Malvern Chase, and one of those tiny, unprofitable houses which the mother Priory of Worcester would sooner forget. Of the half dozen brothers seen, furtively gogglin
g at these disturbing visitors, two were too old to do any work. Their chief worldly occupation seemed to be the keeping of pigs, to judge from the pervasive smell and the gruntings heard under the window. The pigs were the most prosperous inhabitants, fat and lumbering freely about the place.

  ‘Master Langland dreamed his dream when sleeping on a hillside near here,’ Dr Morton said. Anne, who wanted to sleep, could not remember if Piers the Plowman had been a swineherd also. It seemed unlikely that a swineherd should write poetry. The one here, lurking under the window with his pigs, was an idiot. Anne had seen him peering in, and he had been picking his nose and rolling his eyes and chattering to himself.

  Dr Morton would have made a good schoolmaster, with his acid tongue and sharp, transfixing eye. He had a bony, watchful face. But at least he was a man, energetic and managing. If their safety had been left in the hands of Queen Margaret, she would not have moved from the battlefield at Tewkesbury, waiting like a broken-winged bird for the hunter to pick her up. Not that Anne could imagine King Edward being a vengeful person, or likely to put women in the Tower in irons, but the Queen had always been a terrible enemy.

  Anne wondered why she had been dumbfounded by Morton’s words to her as they left Payne’s house. Thankfully, she had lived through the tense time after Christmas, when she had counted off the days on the calendar, and by the time they had left France, she had known herself to be safe. Now she would have to go through the whole thing again. She did not want to be pregnant; the sufferings of her sister had frightened her too much, and she did not want to bring into the world a homeless fugitive or a prisoner from birth. She did not know if the Queen had heard of her son’s escapade on the night before he died. Lady Katherine knew, and if the Prince had lived she might have been expected not to mention it. But his death made it so much more important.