First of the Tudors

by Joanna Hickson

  The Earl of Warwick took three long paces into the hall and paused, allowing his family members to file in behind him. His Countess, Lady Anne, stepped swiftly up to her husband’s left shoulder, closely followed by her younger daughter and namesake and to his right hand came nineteen-year-old George, Duke of Clarence, advancing alone, his countess having yet fully to recover from the nightmare stillbirth of their first child during the storm in the Channel.

  None of the Warwick party displayed any outward sign of their close encounter with shipwreck but their apparel on this occasion gave a good idea of just how much treasure would have gone with them to the seabed, had their vessel sunk. All were extravagantly clad in rich silks and satins and bedecked with jewellery of blinding magnificence, in keeping I supposed with the extreme wealth that the vast Warwick estates afforded them – or had done until they had been forced to flee England’s shores. Despite having made an extraordinary effort to dress like the queen she was, Marguerite appeared dowdy by comparison.

  Perhaps annoyed by her sartorial disadvantage, when Warwick took his next step forward the queen immediately raised her right hand and uttered one word with sharp authority.

  ‘Stop!’

  Having brought him to an abrupt halt she added, ‘If you wish to acknowledge me as your queen, my lord of Warwick, you will do so on your knees.’

  Warwick’s countess gasped in disbelief and the earl’s brow creased into a deep scowl. He opened his mouth to protest then thought better of it and snapped it shut like a trapdoor. There was a pause and a collective holding of breath, then slowly and with athletic deliberation, despite the copious silver streaks that now featured in the earl’s long, dark hair and carefully barbered beard, he lowered his knees to the rush matting, never removing his narrowed gaze from Marguerite’s face.

  She nodded slowly. ‘Good. Now you may approach but …’ she continued hastily as he made to get to his feet, ‘you may not rise.’

  Warwick’s eyes scanned the thirty-foot distance between them; his frown deepened and his lips compressed but the queen’s expression was implacable. At her shoulder Prince Édouard licked his lips, relishing the prospect of seeing the man crawl to his mother’s feet who, five years ago, had led his royal father through the streets of London to imprisonment in the Tower, bareheaded on a spavined mule. I thought for a moment that the earl might baulk and spring indignantly to his feet, thus inevitably destroying all the hours of hard negotiation Louis and I had expended over the past week. I did not know what threats and promises the King of France had laid on Marguerite’s table but I crossed my fingers and hoped that the stubborn Warwick would remember the baits I had offered him, dangling the prospect of a regency while my brother lived and the vision of his daughter as Queen Consort of England, his descendants its kings.

  To my intense relief the earl forced his lips into a smile, waved acknowledgement of the order with a flourish worthy of my father Owen, and began his long and awkward progress along the coarse matting. Freshly laid and tightly woven though it was, within moments his dazzling white hose had become mired with brown dust and his knees must have felt the painful bite of sharp rush-stems. I had to admire his fortitude in nonetheless keeping his smile fixed and his eyes pinned to Queen Marguerite’s. Behind him with measured footsteps followed his countess, his daughter and his son-in-law, all stony-faced at this humiliation of the exalted head of the House of Warwick.

  Queen Marguerite’s throne had been placed on her father’s stepped dais covered in blue velvet and as Warwick drew near she thrust out her right foot in its red Cordovan leather shoe. The implication was obvious and, taking a deep, steadying breath, Warwick all but prostrated himself, bending to kiss the high vamp with its gleaming jewelled buckle. When he lifted his head I could almost feel his desire to wipe his mouth clean but instead he spoke loudly and clearly.

  ‘I am your grace’s most humble servant.’

  The queen withdrew her foot. ‘That is a violent change of tune from the traitor who dethroned his rightful king and set a lecherous Yorkist puppet in his place. What has happened to bring you crawling to my feet, my lord of Warwick? Has the puppet cut his strings? Does he no longer march to the rhythm of your drum? Has he disparaged your rank and set unworthy commoners above you?’ Her voice grew strident as she warmed to her tirade. ‘Let me hear you admit it. You have been betrayed and denigrated, just as you betrayed and humiliated King Henry, your true sovereign.’

  Warwick bowed his head, concealing his expression. ‘Indeed, your grace, we suffer the same pain.’

  ‘We do no such thing!’ she snapped. ‘I suffer a queen’s agony at the crimes committed against her lord and king. You suffer a villain’s bruised ego at the failure of his own heinous schemes. We have nothing in common.’

  He spread his hands in supplication. ‘We have the interests of our children, Madame. Surely that is enough to bring us – and them – together.’

  Her laugh rang harshly into the rafters. ‘Ha! My son is the true-blooded Lancastrian heir to the English throne.’ She reached out to grasp Prince Édouard’s hand in a fierce grip. ‘Your daughter’s ancestry is tainted with bastardy. We need no upstart Neville blood to boost our royal claim.’

  The young prince flushed with pride and moved closer to his mother’s side, breaking his silence with his shrill tenor. ‘Let combat demonstrate whose cause is Heaven-blessed! False Edward is a cowardly pretender who consorts with commoners and criminals and will flee before the divine right when I confront him in the field. God will restore my father to his rightful throne.’

  The earl nodded enthusiastic approval of this bellicose rant. ‘I am certain the Almighty will favour your cause, Prince, but you will need men to stand beside you on this field of combat and any Englishman will tell you that the Warwick bear commands the greatest number of loyal followers in the kingdom. Together we will bring Edward of York to his knees.’ He gave an ingratiating laugh. ‘And perhaps you will graciously advise your royal mother to allow me to rise from mine.’

  ‘No!’ Marguerite’s strident denial made her son jump. ‘Not until I have heard Lord Warwick plead for forgiveness – until we have all heard him do so.’ She lifted her chin and cast her gaze over the other occupants of the hall, letting it linger on each face until one after another they allowed their lids to drop before the challenge. Only fourteen-year-old Anne, arrayed in sumptuous white brocade embellished with gold lace, her dark hair flowing down her back like the bridal offering she was, locked eyes with her potential mother-in-law and refused to avert her gaze. I saw the queen’s eyes narrow with pique and her head tip to one side, as if she was on the verge of pointing out this evidence of defiance to her son, only to find that he too was studying Anne’s small, heart-shaped face, his downy upper lip lifted in a sneer.

  Anxious to deflect attention back to him, Warwick hastened to pursue his persuasion. ‘I fully understand your grace’s hesitation. I myself have cursed men who broke the vow of fealty. When Sir Anthony Trollope crossed the line at Ludford Bridge, it felt like a dagger in my heart. It goes against the very principle of the code of chivalry.’

  ‘I am surprised you can recall chivalry’s strictures, my lord,’ remarked the queen acidly. ‘And should I conclude that you consider loyalty a male prerogative, pertaining only to warfare?’

  ‘Far from it, Madame, let ladies embrace it too, as I am sure you do. But when faithful service is ignored and society’s rubrics violated, as they have been under Edward of York, then we are bound to consider ourselves released from fidelity’s bond, are we not? After much searching of my soul I have come to this conclusion and so has his grace of Clarence.’

  Marguerite made a derisive noise and shot a dismissive glance at the young duke. ‘Having been forgiven once for rebelling against the crown, your son-in-law has now deserted his brother for a second time, a sad example of the deplorable perfidy of our times.’ Heated blood rushed to Clarence’s cheeks but before he could protest she ploughed relentlessly on
. ‘I do not wish to be twice betrayed as Edward has been and have yet to be convinced of the wisdom of forgiving you even once, my lord of Warwick. Because of your treachery King Henry has suffered extended periods of exile and imprisonment. For nigh on ten years the rightful King of England has been denied his throne, his realm has descended into violence and anarchy and Prince Édouard and I have been deprived of a husband and father’s loving company. Blame for much of that can be laid directly at your feet, for had you not supported Richard of York’s arrogant lust for power and his unworthy son’s vainglorious ambition, England would have been spared a decade of ungodly misrule. It goes without saying that my son and I wish to restore King Henry to his rightful place as England’s sovereign lord, but the burning question before us is whether to put our trust in a proven traitor in order to do so?’

  By this time the Duke of Clarence had turned away and was pacing the floor behind the countess and her daughter, apparently fighting the urge to intervene in this war of words but, by fair means or foul, Warwick must have extracted a vow of silence from his young ally as his lips remained angrily compressed. With his clasped hands now extended in entreaty and his gaze deferentially fixed on the floor, when Marguerite asked her question and fell silent, the earl put his case in a speech that indicated careful rehearsal.

  ‘Honoured lady, it is inscribed in Holy Writ that our Lord Jesu urged a man to forgive his brother not merely seven times but seventy times seven. So I pray that forgiveness once, or even twice over, is not an impossible favour for a pious and God-fearing queen to grant a humble subject, who comes to her in true contrition and on bended knee. In return for your gracious clemency I would become your loyal liegeman in life and limb and pledge my sword and strength to you and the Lancastrian cause. I am, Madame, a man who earnestly recognizes the error of his ways and begs to be readmitted to your good offices and to the service of King Henry.’

  For the length of an Ave, Queen Marguerite studied the top of the earl’s head in silence, her mouth working in such agitation that it seemed she might bite her lip clean through. At length Warwick lifted his head and raised his eyebrows in mute enquiry, while the rest of us began to shift about, swapping anxious glances and nervously clearing our throats but no one spoke. I watched Prince Édouard catch Sir John Fortescue’s eye, but the old knight laid his finger on his lips, making the youth scowl and let whatever it was he had thought of saying remain unvoiced. Finally his mother spoke again.

  ‘You have much English blood on your hands, my lord of Warwick. Thousands of loyal Lancastrians have died under the onslaught of your traitorous armies at St Albans, Northampton, Ferrybridge, Towton – so many battlefields. How should we manage to work together with the bodies of all these men lying between us in bloody reproach? What can you do to atone for so many widows, so many orphaned children?’

  Warwick lifted his shoulders and made a hapless gesture. ‘Every battle has its casualties, your grace, and it is true that I have seen many victories and some defeats while honing my skills of generalship. And now all this experience – this expertise – is at your command, if you will accept it. Together, if God wills it, we can restore your husband to his throne and secure a glorious future for your son.’ He paused, before adding as if on an afterthought, ‘And my daughter.’

  Marguerite leapt on this final comment. ‘Oh yes! We are none of us unaware of what truly drives this about-turn of yours, Lord Warwick. Not content with catching a royal duke for your elder daughter, you now demand a prince for the younger.’ Her eyes roved over the figure of Anne Neville still at her mother’s shoulder, her face as pale as her gown. ‘Have you asked for her consent, I wonder? Although I hardly think she would refuse!’

  Warwick turned around as best he could while still kneeling, and beckoned Anne forward. ‘Of course she consents. She is an obedient and dutiful daughter, are you not, Anne?’

  The girl made a deep curtsy before the queen, keeping her eyes downcast and her expression veiled, but there was no great enthusiasm in her answer. ‘Yes, my lord father,’ she whispered.

  I had a sudden thought of my own daughters; I hardly knew them any more. Would either of them have been as self-contained and compliant as this child gave the impression of being? And how did she really feel about the prospect of being used as a bargaining tool for this unholy political alliance?

  Irritated by what he perceived to be Anne’s indifference to his charms, Prince Édouard could restrain himself no longer. ‘I am no keener on the marriage than you, my lady, believe me! I would much prefer to share a battlefield with a renowned knight such as your father without being obliged to share a bed with his milk-sop daughter.’

  ‘Silence!’ Queen Marguerite erupted into anger at her son. ‘No gentleman ever slights a lady in public, Édouard. I banished the Duke of Exeter from my court for just such a display of bad manners. When Lord Warwick and I have concluded our business I order you to apologize personally to the Lady Anne. Meanwhile hold your tongue and keep your insults for the battlefield.’

  Warwick leapt on the implication of this outburst like a cat on a mouse. ‘Then you do intend to treat with me, Madame? Indeed, how else will you gain the support of King Louis and the men and ships required for your army?’

  As Édouard dropped back, glowering, his mother turned her accusative gaze on the earl. ‘Do not make too many assumptions, my lord Warwick,’ she snapped. ‘I invite you to rise now and I agree to a military alliance on the basis of a legal treaty but that does not mean that forgiveness is granted. That will only occur when King Henry is back on the throne and I will expect you to achieve that before my son and I set foot back in England.’

  Wincing, Warwick rose to his feet, the knees of his hose soiled and bloody – then my attention was drawn back to the prince, who had made a loud exclamation of protest. ‘No! I wish to accompany Lord Warwick, to fight for the throne. It is my right!’

  Marguerite’s response was surprisingly conciliating, revealing her deep and protective love for her only son. ‘It will be your right when you are of age, Édouard. But we need proof of the earl’s commitment before I am prepared to allow you to risk your life in your father’s cause. Let my lord of Warwick demonstrate his worth by winning back our throne and then he will have earned the forgiveness he seeks for robbing us of it.’

  Pouncing on this challenge, it was Warwick’s turn to remonstrate. ‘If I am to put my life on the line for King Henry, I will need a guarantee of your good faith in return, Madame. Before I leave Angers, let our alliance be confirmed by the marriage of the prince and Lady Anne.’

  Prince Édouard expressed his opinion of this demand by sniffing loudly and turning his back on the earl. The queen laid a calming hand on his sleeve and slyly proposed a compromise. ‘By all means let us celebrate with an alliance between our families, Lord Warwick, but there will be no harm in allowing our children to get to know each other before marriage. I suggest that a betrothal should take place in the cathedral tomorrow and I will take Lady Anne into my household and treat her as a daughter, while you and his grace of Clarence fulfil your side of the bargain. When I hear word that King Henry is restored to his throne, we will joyfully celebrate the marriage and I and the happy couple will embark on our journey to England.’

  It was almost as if King Louis had spoken the words himself, so clear was his involvement in this scheme. It bore all the hallmarks of his spider-mind. Effectively Lady Anne was to be held as a hostage against the success or failure of her father’s insurgency and I could see from the way the blood rushed to her cheeks that, young though she was, the girl was instantly aware of the invidious position she would be in.

  Warwick, too, was hesitant to accept the queen’s proposal. Perhaps he also detected a French conspiracy but could not instantly find a way to oppose it. Prince Édouard however detected the possibility of ultimately avoiding this unpalatable marriage and permitted himself a smug smile. The earl turned to look at his family and his glance passed from his count
ess’s face, grim in the frame of her jewelled veiling, to the cornered-coney expression on his daughter’s countenance. His reluctance was obvious but eventually, bowing to the inevitable, he offered the queen another of his expansive flourishes.

  ‘It shall be as your grace stipulates,’ he said, unsheathing his sword with characteristic bravado and laying it ceremoniously on the velvet-clad step at her feet. ‘My sword is at your command, Madame. If King Louis’s ships are waiting in the harbour with their coffers full and his promised army on standby, we shall have King Henry crowned again at Westminster before the autumn winds begin to blow.’

  Why was it, I wondered, that the vision of Warwick storming Castle England put me in mind of the panel of the Apocalypse Tapestry hanging behind Marguerite’s throne, in which the army of Unbelievers was shown attacking the gates of the Heavenly City, led by the seven-headed Beast of Satan, only to be vanquished by holy fire descending from the sky. When I returned my gaze to the group around the throne I noticed that the young Duke of Clarence’s eyes were riveted on that very same scene and narrowed in intense thought, as if he was now pondering his own place in this conspiracy of adversaries.

  PART FIVE

  The Return

  1470

  40

  Jane

  Tŷ Gwyn, Tenby, Pembrokeshire

  Although it was not signed I knew the message was from Lady Margaret and would have to be burned but first I wanted to commit what it said to memory. The content was cryptic in the extreme.

  The bear and the daisy have united and our greatest hopes may be realized. Let the portcullis be raised, the red dragon unleashed and the greyhound returned to its dam. The martlet is due to land and then the sun will set.