The Beggar's Throne

by David Francis

  As the walls of Richmond came into sight, the companions crossed the fields that supplied the town with food and with pasture for their sheep. Small settlements dotted the countryside where farmers and overflow residents of town lived in small wattle-and-daub shanties. Nigel led Samuel and Oliver into the center of town, past a few townsmen who were walking home or on their way to the taverns. The streets were so narrow that the overhanging second stories of the buildings almost touched.

  At last, on a narrow alley just off the main street, they found themselves standing before a nondescript tavern.

  “I know this place well,” said Nigel, opening the door. “We’ll be safe enough here.”

  They stepped into a small room dimly lit by several large wall-mounted candles. A lone patron occupied a table near the hearth, and the room’s only other occupant, an old woman with several large warts on her grimy face, sat behind a small bar. The man at the table watched them enter from the corner of his eye as he took a pull on a large wooden mug of ale. Oliver was the last one in. They took a table against the back wall of the room.

  “Wait here,” Nigel told them, “I’ll speak with the innkeeper.” After talking with her quietly for a few moments, he returned to the table with a third wooden stool.

  “I’ve used this place many times before,” he assured Samuel and Oliver. “Molly minds her own business, sure enough. She’s bringing us some of her pottage, which will keep us well until morning.” He looked down at Samuel’s bow and quiver, which he had placed against the wall behind him. “You had better get that out of sight. It’s certain to draw attention. Not many townspeople own one.” Samuel nodded.

  When Molly returned with the pottage and a loaf of barley and oat bread, they attacked their bowls hungrily. The pottage was a thick stew of beans, peas, onion, and barley sprouts, with salt pork added for flavor. It reminded Samuel of the stews that Emma cooked. He wondered what the seneschal and Clifford’s men had done to them, to Emma and to Sally, after his escape. It would be difficult for his father to convince them that he had not been aware of Samuel’s presence in town.

  The silent man by the hearth stood and made his way to the door. As he pulled a ragged cloak over his shoulders, he paused for a moment to look back at the strangers near the wall, and then hurried out the door. Nigel stared at the door for a moment.

  “You said earlier that you were recently detached from Northumberland’s guard,” he said casually to Samuel. “How is it that he would part with an archer of your skills in such times as these?”

  The question made Samuel wary and he regarded Nigel with sharp eyes for a moment before he responded.

  “Let’s just say we mutually agreed that I would no longer serve him.”

  Nigel persisted. “And you never told me what you do,” he said to Oliver.

  “You’re asking a lot of questions all of a sudden,” Oliver said.

  “I owe you both a life and I’ll not forget that. But it’s always best to know something about the company you keep, not that I haven’t figured a few things out already.” Samuel was now growing apprehensive and wondered if they hadn’t made a fatal mistake. “I know, for instance, that the colors you wear are those of the Duke of York.” Until that moment, it had not occurred to Samuel that Oliver was still wearing the same clothes that he had worn at Wakefield, and that those clothes would show an allegiance to the dead duke by their very aspect and color. It should have been the first thing they tended to in Northwood.

  “If it’s true that my savior here served the Earl of Northumberland,” continued Nigel, “and I have no reason to doubt it, you make a curious pair; one a Lancastrian and the other a Yorkist. It is also apparent that you are running from someone.”

  Both of them were silently weighing their options, which seemed to be limited at the moment. Finally Oliver made a decision for both of them.

  “My master was the Earl of Rutland. Samuel came to my defense at Wakefield, much to the displeasure of the butcher Clifford, and as a result we both flee his wrath. Is there anything else you need to know about us?”

  “No,” Nigel said. “There’s nothing more I need to know.”

  They finished their meal in silence, the tension gone at last, and then went up to the second-floor sleeping room, where straw-stuffed sleeping pads lined the floor. The three were the only tenants. Nigel blew out the candle after they had each collapsed onto the nearest pad. There was a single small uncovered window through which a faint glow of moonlight streamed.

  *

  Samuel woke with a start and knew instantly that something was wrong. He shook his head to clear the haze. It was well after sunrise and the light streaked through the window. Oliver was still asleep on the next pad, but Nigel was gone, his pad clean as if no one had slept there. Loud voices came from the street below the window. He jumped up and carefully peered out to see several soldiers talking with the man from the tavern the night before, pointing to the door. It occurred to Samuel that they had only seconds to flee the building, and if the tavern did not have a back door, it was already too late. He pounced on Oliver and yanked him off his pad and on to his feet.

  “They’re right outside!” he said desperately. “Come on.”

  They plummeted down the narrow steps and into the passage between the main room and the proprietor’s quarters. They paused for an instant at the foot of the steps and saw Molly standing between them and the front door. She nodded toward a curtain to their left, and then walked to the door to answer the pounding.

  They had no choice but to trust her, and ran through the curtain. They were in a small storage room, the air pungent with the musty odor of dried foodstuffs. The sight of a door at the far wall gave them an opening of hope. Samuel rushed over and cautiously opened it a crack, peering with one eye out on the street. What had happened to Nigel, he wondered. Had he betrayed them? Had they been fools to trust him so readily? Behind them, crushing footsteps were rushing up the steps.

  “Check in there!” a loud voice yelled.

  Samuel knew they were out of time. Caution to the wind, he pushed the door open and pulled Oliver out into the street. They were on a side alley. To their right, soldiers were entering the tavern. They ran to the left, coming to an abrupt halt as four armed men came around the corner, swords drawn.

  “Halt!” an iron voice called.

  They turned and ran back the way they had come, but five soldiers had just poured out of the door to the tavern’s storage room. Samuel desperately sought another way but there was no place else to turn. A huge man with a hideous scar down the left side of his face stepped through the door, carrying Samuel’s bow and quiver. The scar deformed his mouth into a permanent smile.

  “We have them, Sir Hugh,” said one of the armed men ebulliently. Sir Hugh cowed him into silence with a quick look.

  He stood over the frightened young men, dominating the low street by his mere presence. After a moment he spoke to Samuel, indicating the bow, which he contemplated somberly.

  “You left your signature in a body by the road north of here,” he said. “The arrow had Northumberland’s markings on it. Rather careless of you.”

  Samuel silently agreed. It had been a terrible oversight not to remove the arrow from the thief before they left. Without warning, Sir Hugh laid a blow with the back of his gloved hand across Samuel’s head, sending him sprawling into a wall and then into a heap on the ground. Two of the soldiers picked him off the ground and brought him back to his feet.

  “That’s with the compliments of Lord Clifford. He is looking forward to administering your punishment personally.” Samuel spat blood, unable to clear his head. If it were not for the men holding him, he would not have been able to keep his feet. “Put them in irons,” Sir Hugh addressed the soldier next to him. “We leave for Pontefract immediately.”

  They
dragged Samuel and Oliver out into the main street, and fitted them with ankle irons as dozens of curious townspeople watched and jeered. When both were securely chained, they were led to a double horse-drawn wagon with iron posts at each corner. There were already two people huddled in the front corner, both chained to one of the posts. More than a dozen soldiers stood by, all dressed in the colors of Lord Clifford. Samuel stumbled a few feet from the cart, failing to properly judge the length of the chain that connected his leg irons. Oliver reached out and supported him.

  They were both roughly lifted and tossed into the back of the wagon. The horses startled and before they could be controlled by the driver, moved several feet ahead. The motion caused one of the prisoners in front to look up, and Samuel’s heart sank when he recognized them both.

  “Sally!” It was Oliver who choked out her name. Next to her was John Miller, so badly beaten that he was hardly recognizable.

  *

  “God and his ministers bear me witness, they will answer with their dearest blood for this outrage!”

  The queen was livid. She paced the marble floor of the St. Albans Abbey as Northumberland and Somerset looked on. Gazing absently out a small window in the back wall of the Abbot’s private chambers was King Henry, who did not appear to be interested in the events that had so possessed his wife. The royal party had commandeered the abbey for their temporary residence after the battle.

  “Our envoy, Sir Robert Whitingham, had apparently convinced the Lord Mayor to surrender London,” explained Northumberland, “but the townspeople, fearing that the city would be looted, began to riot. To make matters worse, two knights in Your Highness’s service, Sir Baldwin Fulford and Sir Alexander Hody, unbeknownst to us, took some men to the gates of the city and demanded its surrender. When they were refused, they immediately began pillaging the area, confirming the worst fears of the citizens. They poured out of town and put the knights’ men to flight. Now, the mayor and citizens are galvanized against us and have vowed not to admit the royal family under any circumstances.”

  Although Northumberland feared just this sort of setback when he warned Margaret about the pillaging, he knew this was not the time to remind her.

  “Your Majesty, one thing is certain,” added Somerset, “an attempt to take London forcibly when the gates are closed against us would surely meet with failure.”

  “We are aware of that,” she snapped. After taking several more paces across the room, she spun. “We gave no permission to attack the city. How did this occur?”

  “Majesty,” responded Somerset, “it is difficult to control every contingent of a large army. We have already begun to see desertions now that it is perceived that no further…um, extra remuneration will be forthcoming to the soldiers.”

  “That sniveling mayor and his henchmen must know that we shall have their worthless heads on the gates of the city for this.”

  “Yes, Highness, but you must remember that the Yorkists owe the city a great deal of money, and the mayor and citizens who made those loans know that they’ll never see their money again if we prevail. They also know that the Earl of March is on his way here with an army, and that has given them hope.”

  “Then after we have dispatched the earl, we will deal with London.” She turned her back and signaled for them to leave. But Northumberland sensed that it might be a good time to spring his bad news.

  “Your Highness, there is more you should hear.”

  “Well?”

  “Our latest intelligence confirms that Warwick has not fled to Calais as was assumed earlier. Instead he has joined the remains of his army with the earl’s at Chipping Norton and is headed this way as well.”

  This was bad news indeed. Warwick would add considerable strength to March’s army, and while she beat him once, she did not like her chances a second time with her tired army, especially this close to London, where Warwick commanded many resources.

  “Leave us,” she said with a wave of her hand. They both bowed and left. Northumberland thought that for the first time since he had met her years ago, he had heard resignation in her voice.

  As Margaret stood staring at the door through which her supporters had just left, she felt a hand on her shoulder. Henry had joined her.

  “Perhaps it would be wiser to withdraw,” he said softly. “There will always be another day.”

  “Oh, my dear husband,” she said putting her hand on his, “if only you could have been stronger, we would not now be so desperate.”

  “I did what I thought was best for the realm. Perhaps some day you will see that.”

  She shook her head. “But our son. What of him? He is all that we have in this wretched world that is still pure. How could I stand by and let him be discarded like the day’s kitchen waste?”

  “Don’t you think I thought about that?” he whispered.

  She turned to face him and put her hand on his cheek. “I have no notion of what you think these days, my king,” she said sadly and then found the abbot’s most comfortable chair and sat heavily. She was so tired, but there was still so much that had to be done. “I know what your people think of me,” she said, her French accent thicker than usual. “I know that they hate me, and it’s only their love for you that gives us any hope at all, but you were never meant to be a king, my husband. We both know that. Someone had to make the sacrifice and take up the burden that you refused. I do not regret doing that, and I never shall.”

  Henry looked out the window again. Cold air had returned to the land and the abbot’s garden was covered with frost. A finch landed on a stone bench, resting from the continual search for food.

  “It was so easy to let you do that,” he said finally, “and to retreat to my holy studies. And to my madness,” he added after a pause. “But I see now how unfair that was to you, only now that it is too late. Can you ever forgive me?”

  She reached out to him, too tired to get to her feet. He put his head in her lap. As she stroked his thinning hair, she could not think of anything that she would have done differently in their life together, and that thought gave her comfort. From the very first day that she was escorted into his presence, she knew that life at the English court would not be easy. When she was proposed as a bride for Henry, the French king, Charles VII, demanded that the English cede any claim to the provinces of Anjou and Maine to the French throne as payment. This was a heavy price in the minds of most Englishmen for a French queen, and many of the most influential barons were enraged. The fires that had consumed the factions of the House of Lancaster since the death of Henry’s father erupted with renewed fury. Margaret had learned quickly who her friends were and moved to strengthen her new husband’s position.

  “Perhaps we will yet prevail, but for now I think that you are right. We’ll go back to York and strengthen ourselves.” She hugged his head to her breast. For these few moments at least, she did not have to be strong.

  *

  Edward regarded the courtyard of Baynards Castle sadly. His army had marched into London like conquering heroes, escorted by throngs of townspeople, all shouting jubilantly and welcoming his arrival. After mingling with the impromptu gathering of city officials that had assemble before Baynards, Edward separated himself and escorted Hastings and Warwick into the courtyard. It was here, he remembered bitterly, that he last bid farewell to Edmund. He pulled his cloak higher around his shoulders to ward off the cold of this early March day. Still, it was good to see the walls of Baynards once again.

  This jubilant entrance into London was the culmination of a very successful journey. After his crushing victory at Mortimer’s Cross, he began the return trip to London, only to hear the disappointing news of the Earl of Warwick’s failure at St. Albans. He quickly sent several messengers out to locate the defeated earl with an entreaty to join the remainder of his troops with Edward’s. Word came bac
k that Warwick had indeed salvaged a respectable force and was in the process of gathering more men, and that they would meet at Chipping Norton, which happened as planned two days later. The cousins had no choice but to march with diligence to London and face the queen. Neither of them imagined that the people of London would prove such a formidable foil before the Lancastrian army.

  Edward ushered Hastings and Warwick into his father’s riverside castle. He was flush with excitement and new hope. Handing overcoats off to servants and demanding ale of the butler, they settled into the great hall where a blazing fire burned in the hearth.

  “I tell you that there will never be a better opportunity to press your claim, my lord.” Warwick was insistent on directing Edward’s thoughts. “The people of London will support your right to the crown because they have burned their bridges of reconciliation with the queen.”

  “I would be king of England, cousin, not of London,” said Edward.

  “To be sure, we must deal with the queen,” Warwick answered impatiently, “but this would be an important first step. The peers and commoners alike must regard you as their king, not just the Earl of March, or they will not support us.”

  “I must agree, my lord,” added Hastings. “What happens here will carry great sway throughout the realm. If you are proclaimed king, we will assuredly carry greater authority with us when we march against Margaret.”

  “But we can’t wait here to convene a Parliament,” said Edward. “It is imperative that we march against her before she gathers too much strength.”

  “Your father said the same thing before he chased her north,” said Warwick soberly.