When I rode from the gates of Nottingham to head home again and prepare for next year’s fresh campaign I knew, deep in my heart, that Ned would not be with me then, or indeed take the field as a commander ever again…
Winter was harsh, complimenting the evil, luckless summer. Bad weather continued, only now instead of rain, heavy snowfall fell across the land one end to the other, while screaming winds felled trees and tore the roofs off cottages. Coming in the wake of the failed harvest, death roamed the land with his scythe; Anne and I gave what we could to the poor, who were most affected by the dwindling food, but even our table was barer than usual and the festivities of the birth of Our Lord subdued. There were no fireworks at the castle this year, and few guests, for the roads were impassable, white and glittering under a pall of snow.
Little Ned was surprisingly well, free of his usual winter maladies, but he was restive, cooped up within the confines of the castle, and threw angry tantrums because he was not allowed to ride his pony out upon the moors. I understood how my small son felt…for I was longing to ride away and settle the Scottish problems in a decisive manner.
Feeling a prisoner, I strode around the castle halls, quite purposeless. Anne and her mother were in the solar busy trying on fine garments, though few would see their clothes as no one was able to visit, nor could we travel abroad to other castles. Anne had felt unwell several months before, giving us a brief glimmer of hope that she had quickened with child…but once again, our hopes came to naught. Gloomily I began to think there would be no more children, but only God could know such things for sure. I never spoke my thoughts to Anne, for I knew how upset she became at the thought she had failed me.
As often happens in times of great hardship, rioting broke out in the land. Tynedale was the scene of one such outbreak, and the King ordered me to offer a royal pardon to all those rioters who would submit. Although the perpetrators willingly took up the pardons, I feared more unrest would break out through the cold months as supplies dwindled even lower. Worrisome, with the threat of Scots on the horizon as well.
Eyes hard, I climbed to the summit of Middleham’s great keep and stared out across the winter-bitten landscape: the dead trees with their boughs gnarled into claws that dripped sharp icicles; the steep dale-sides where the snow was wind-sculpted into peaked crests, almost as if snow had turned to frozen sea.
Scots, ignore me at your peril. The winter may hold me back, but in the spring….
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: NOT SO BONNY SCOTLAND
Dumfries lay burning, a tower of smoke rising from the remains of houses, shops, halls. Other towns near the Scottish border burned too, charred timbers black against the last vestiges of late snow. At Berwick the wreckage of a strong new wall, thrown up in haste by King James to strengthen the outer defenses, sprawled around the perimeter of the town, where I had ordered it cast down.
I sought to anger the Scottish King by such action, to draw him out with his army to attempt retaliation. Then I could move in with my entire force and, with God’s help, crush him in honourable face-to-face battle. No more darting back and forth across the dividing line of our two countries. Plain battle at last as I had wished for the past two years.
Pleased by the results of my first incursion into enemy territory in this year of Our Lord 1482, I left the army in the care of my captains and made a journey to Fotheringhay castle, place of my birth, there to meet with the King and the latest chesspiece in this deadly game—the Duke of Albany, brother to James of Scotland.
I was interested in meeting this Scottish lord, Alexander. Two years my junior, he was High Admiral of Scotland, his position mirroring my own. Or it had been. Warring with his brother as Clarence had warred with Edward, he had all his appointments revoked and his lands seized, and in peril of his freedom he had fled to Paris, where the Spider King welcomed him at court. There he married a French noblewoman, Anne de La Tour d’Auvergne, daughter of the powerful Bertrand, Count of Auvergne, after annulling his first marriage to Katherine Sinclair, daughter of the Earl of Orkney. Their four children had been declared illegitimate.
Louis had approved of the marriage of Alexander and Anne, and welcomed the Duke as a special guest at his court, but he was reticent in moving against King James to further the claims of Albany. In fact, the Spider King refused outright; the Auld Alliance did not apply to dissatisfied younger brothers. So in a quiet fury, Alexander left France and sailed for England to meet with Edward instead.
Edward, he surmised, might be more amenable; Ned considered Scotland in breech of a treaty written up in the 70’s, which included a forty-five year peace truce. Ned had also paid James a huge dowry for Princess Cecily, who was intended to marry young Prince James of Scotland, and now he wanted it back. Every penny.
Inside the familiar Great Hall of Fotheringhay, with the Fetterlock upon the roof beams amid winged angels, and the white rose gleaming on cloth of gold behind the dais, I came before my brother. Ned looked far healthier than in Nottingham, but there were new lines of care and grief upon his brow, below his eyes. One of his daughters, fourteen year old Princess Mary, had recently died of a fever, and been buried in Windsor, with her golden hair loose as befitted a maiden and her body wrapped in layers of waxed cere cloth.
Smiling wanly, he heaved his great bulk from his ornate chair and embraced me, bear-like, nearly lifting me off my feet as he had done when I was a boy. “My brother, Gloucester, come from the north,” he said. “Ever loyal. Richard, meet you the noble prince, Alexander, Duke of Albany. The rightful king of Scotland.”
I raised an eyebrow at Ned, as my gaze swivelled to the well-dressed man standing at Edward’s right hand side beneath the ornate canopy.
. Duke Alexander was a lanky, long-faced fellow with a sharp upwards tilt to his nose that hinted at both haughtiness and pugnacity. Light reddish-brown hair, cut neatly above the shoulder, framed a visage bearing an expression of child-like dissatisfaction that seemed somehow familiar. With a little jolt, I realised that I had seen such an expression on the face of my brother George. Were so many royal brothers like this?
“I give you greetings, my Lord of Albany.” I gave a polite, stiff little bow.
“And I you, my lord of Gloucester,” returned Duke Alexander, favouring me with what he must have thought was a winning smile. It was not, in truth, for he looked best when his mouth was sealed fast. When exposed in a smile, Alexander’s front teeth were large and protruded like a rabbit’s. They gleamed, greenish-yellow, in the dim light of Fotheringhay Great Hall. “I trust that this meeting may bring about a long and satisfactory friendship between both our realms—very different from what is regretfully happening under my brother’s rule.” He sighed theatrically. “No rightful King of Scots is James—ever playing the fool with men below his ranks: singers and poets and jongleurs! It is not appropriate.”
I suppressed a smirk. Unwittingly Alexander had besmirched my brother, whose enemies (and even some friends!) accused him of consorting with lesser men, and surrounding himself with jousting poets, sycophants, and even swivel-eyed astrologers. Edward did not appear to have noticed Albany’s gaff, alas; his attention was fixed on some sugary confectionaries that the servants had placed on the table.
“Look at this, my friend Alexander.” He picked up one of the sweets. It had been decorated with a Lion Rampant, set inside a golden crown and surmounted by Edward’s Sunne. The symbolism was obvious and unmistakable…Scotland under England, though in alliance. “I think, my friend…” the King pressed the sweet into Duke Alexander’s outstretched hand, “this will taste very sweet upon your tongue.”
Later Edward and I conferred in private in a warm upstairs chamber, close and dark even with all the cressets on the wall lit. The fire roared and crackled in the brazier, casting red light over the expensive imported carpets under Edward’s feet.
“So…what do you think of our Scottish guest, the Lord Alexander?” asked Ned.
“As disloyal as they come and like to turn
on us in an instant,” I said, with blunt honesty, “but his dislike of his brother may make him useful…for a while.”
“He has sworn to me that should I aid him to seize James’ crown, he will hold Scotland under English suzerainty. And of course, my dear little daughter Cecily’s dowry will be repaid in full. Mind you…” he stroked his chin, looking thoughtful, “she may have to marry Albany.”
“Is he not already wed?” I tried not to sound condemnatory and prudish, but the tale of Albany putting aside his wife and disinheriting his own children was bizarre and unpleasant, and now, it seemed he might act the same again to marry a Plantagenet Princess.
“No matter!” Edward swept his hand about. “If necessary, that can be dealt with when the time comes.”
I thought that if a man could cast aside his first wife, children and all, marry another and then repudiate her even when she was breeding (as Anne de la Tour was rumoured to be) he would likely be just as faithless in all other aspects of his life. “Can this Albany be trusted to keep his word? Even for a while?”
“I cannot say.” Edward scratched the head of a hound that sprawled on the floor before him. The beast sighed contentedly. “However, his brother has already broken his word to me, and I would rather this rather weak and vain man, for such I deem Lord Alexander, on the throne of Scotland that someone made of sterner stuff. I believe I can manipulate Albany, by pandering to his vanity and lust for a throne.”
“Maybe it could be so,” I said. “Our cause would be strengthened by having a Scottish prince in our fold. James’ popularity wanes amongst his nobles and the commons at present.”
“Exactly,” said Edward with sudden excitement, banging his fist down on the arm of his chair. The dog below him, drowsing, opened one eye and gave a quiet little growl. “Richard, will you ride to Scotland with the Duke of Albany and present him as a potential king to the people? And while you are at it, on the way there, you can teach them to never underestimate England…or its sharp swords!”
My heart sank a little. I did not particularly relish riding out with Alexander. “Will you be riding with the army too, Your Grace?” I asked, seeing that Edward looked brighter and more hale than he had in some time.
Edward’s great head suddenly bowed. “No…no, Richard, I cannot.”
“My lord King, the men would be so heartened by your presence.”
Edward sighed and suddenly pulled up his ermine-lined robe to the knee, startling me. “I show you this as a brother, not as your king. You must speak of it to no one.” He pointed. On his foot, nigh the anklebone, was an ulcer, angry and pustulent.
“Ned!” I cried, forgetting courtesy and calling him by his first name. “What is this? Surely Dr Hobbes can find some remedy for this malady?”
“He has tended it as best he can,” Edward sighed. “Yet it has not healed. But it will.” An expression of fierce determination passed over his once-beautiful features. “I swear it will. I pray to God every day that I may be delivered from this affliction.”
He leaped up, as if he had not just shown me the awful decay of his magnificent frame, the degeneration of his once-perfect body. “I will make sure you have all you need. I will send Hobbes himself to tend on you, along with eight surgeons for your captains. I will make sure diverse medicines are sent along, to be used in treatment of the wounded. In my absence, Richard, you will be my Lieutenant General. I trust no other as much as I trust you.”
“Your Grace, I am grateful,” I said, but my heart was sore… How I wished him well enough to ride out to Berwick with me!
The next morn, with my Lord of Albany in attendance, Edward mulled over, discussed and then finally signed the Treaty of Fotheringhay, in which Duke Alexander promised the King not only homage, but the town of Berwick, Lochmaben castle, and numerous lands in Ewedale, Eskdale, Annandale, and Liddesdale. Albany swore to break all alliances with France and to put aside Anne de la Tour, despite marrying her only that past January. He would marry young Cecily of York instead, when she came of age. He grinned like a mad rabbit, as he put his signature upon the document.
Presumptuous little man. He had already written Alexander R.
Berwick loomed in the distance. The castle stuck up like a fist, walls bristling with defenders. High on a hilltop overlooking the huge, flat expanse of the Tweed, it had nine great towers, and a flight of steep stairs that led to a jetty near the water. Its entrance faced the town and was reached by a drawbridge, which I presumed had been either raised or burned upon our approach. The town itself had reasonably strong walls, not including the recent one destroyed by my men. However, reports had reached my ears that in some places both earthwork and stonework were inferior and ill-maintained. If luck was with me, they would come down with ease if we needed to break through by force.
Alexander Duke of Albany was traveling at my side, a tiresome companion on the long road from Fotheringhay. He chattered on, like some incessant magpie, mostly about how ill-treated he was by James. It was like a long day with George when he was in full flow.
I answered Alexander in short sentences of one or two words, hoping he would soon sense I did not wish to converse: “Yes, my lord Duke. No, my Lord Duke.”
After a while, he gazed at me in sudden astonishment, and said, “You are not at all like your brother, the King, my Lord of Gloucester.”
I supposed his words were meant as an insult but did not rise to the bait. “No, I am not, my lord Alexander,” I said with a cold smile, wanting him to realise that I mistrusted him and would brook no misbehaviour on his part. Edward did not trust him either, but Alexander was less likely to have realised it, due to Ned’s deceptively easy way with men.
The Duke of Albany fell silent. I waved my hand in the direction of the town, where my forces were already present, camped before the walls. Stanley’s forces were with them; his banner with its stag’s heads and the insignia of the Isle of Man (of which he presumptuously called himself ‘king.’) fluttered in the wind. Tents upon tents stood in white lines; the air reeked of woodsmoke. “We are here, my lord. Berwick. Unlawfully given away by Marguerite of Anjou, though by all rights an English possession. And you are going to be true to your word and make certain it ends up back in English hands, where it belongs? ”
“Of course, my lord,” Alexander almost yelped. “I am a man of my word. Do ye not believe me?”
“I believe you want a pretty gold crown,” I said, well aware I was being rude to the point of offensive. “So keep your desire in mind in the days ahead, and do not waver in your resolve.”
His face turned puce and his mouth work furiously over his teeth but he said nothing. As I had hoped.
I turned my horse’s head and thundered toward the town and the massive encampment before its walls. Francis, who had ridden just behind me, nodding politely to all Albany’s complaints , galloped with me, laughing.
Dusk had fallen. Red sky, red torches. Rams smashed against the huge wooden gate of Berwick, the impact sending massive booms throughout the streets beyond. Church bells clanged wildly, tolling a warning. Above the gate, the defenders dived for safety as fiery arrows struck the wooden platforms on which they stood. It had not been a very spirited defense thus far; a few arrows and only a splash of lukewarm water thrown through the murder-holes above the gate. The feeble deluge bounced off the head of the ram, harmlessly.
The ram struck with one final bang, and the wood shattered. The two towers astride the gateway groaned as if living things and began to buckle at their foundations. I had commissioned sappers to undermine their bases once the majority of the defenders had abandoned their posts under a hail of arrows and flames.
Timbers shrieking, the last of the wall-walk fell away, and the final few soldiers above hurled their last missiles at us and fled for their lives.
The towers collapsed, one slumping like a deflated subtlety on a banquet table, the other falling backwards into the town streets with a roar, taking out a tall, angular house in its wake. Clouds o
f dust eddied up in a great storm.
My men roared in battle-fury and surged into the unmanned gap where the towers had stood guard. I gave the signal, the trumpets blared and we advanced banners, and marched into the exposed heart of Berwick town.
Hand to hand fighting broke out. The defenders were poorly armed and poorly armoured, and without much effort were pushed back or overcome. Blood washed through the gutters amidst offal from butchers’ stalls and foulness from upturned chamberpots.
“Come on, come on!” Driving my balking stallion through the packed streets, I struck right to left with my battle-axe. With little effort, I forced my way through the press of struggling bodies in Marygate and reached the Woolmarket, where the merchants of the town had their businesses. I drew my men around me, sat proudly beneath the banner of the White Boar, with a chalk-faced Albany beside me, and my knights and squires forming a protective circle.
I nodded to a herald and a trumpet was blown, its clear notes rising above the ruckus in the streets. “People of Berwick, I will speak with you!” I rose in my stirrups and shouted in the loudest voice I could muster. “Cease to fight and listen to my words.”
In the square the skirmishes began to die away, with some men bolting for freedom down the side streets. Distant screams and the clashing of swords were still audible, but the sounds seemed to be streaming away in the direction of the castle. A fool’s journey, for the bridge would be gone, and they would perish between the blades of my men and the yawning gully below the walls.
Carefully I lifted my visor…very carefully, for many a commander throughout history has been slain by the rash exposure of his face. But I wanted them to see me, to hear my words clearly and mark them well.
“People of Berwick,” I repeated. I could see the ordinary folk of the town peering terrified from the upper floors of houses, or lurking in the shadows of doorways with anything they could grab to hand as weapons. “I am Richard, Duke of Gloucester, brother of his Dread Highness, King Edward, fourth of that name. I wish the ordinary folk, who take no arms against me or mine…” I heard the sound of several blades and pitchforks dropping to the cobblestones, “…no ill. I am merely come to free this town, once part of the kingdom of England and treacherously given to our enemy the Scots by the illegal actions of Marguerite of Anjou, sometime Queen consort of England, and return it to the English crown.”
I, Richard Plantagenet: Book One: Tante le Desiree Page 33