by Livi Michael
When Henry did not reply to this she said, ‘Now is the time for us to prove to the king that we are not in league with those who have acted against him – with Jasper, or with any of these other conspirators. He needs to know that we are above suspicion – that he can count on us – on you – for support.’
Henry’s forehead creased. ‘He does not need any extra demands,’ he said.
‘Henry,’ she said, ‘he is beset with demands. What better way to show our support than to give him a brief respite from them?’
‘He will not come,’ he said.
‘He will come,’ she said. ‘He needs his supporters now.’
She wrote the letter herself, and persuaded Henry to sign it, and for three long weeks she waited for a reply, rehearsing in her mind everything she would say to the king, and how he would reply, and what she would say to that.
But if he did not reply, she thought, at the end of the first week, it need not be the end of her project. She could write to him again in the New Year.
Unless he rejected her invitation absolutely, she thought, at the end of the second week. But why would he do that? Surely he would just not reply at all? And she wondered how long it would take her to accept that he would not reply at all.
Henry told her she would wear out her knees, praying for something that would probably not happen. Privately she considered that there was hardly any point praying for something that would definitely happen. She tried not to fast too conspicuously, aware of her husband’s watchful gaze, but spent more and more time in her room.
Then at the end of the third week she came upon him reading a letter that bore the royal seal. She hurried forward. ‘What is it?’ she said. ‘Is it from the king? What does he say?’
Henry did not even look up. He held the letter close to his eyes and read it with his usual aggravating slowness.
‘Let me read it for you,’ she said impatiently. ‘Is he coming?’
Henry looked at her severely for a moment, then held out the letter. ‘Yes,’ was all he said before walking away.
Rapidly she scanned the words that told her the king would be travelling to Guildford in early December and would be pleased to accept their hospitality on the way.
She read it twice, then clutched it to her chest. She could feel the blood rushing to her face, then draining away, leaving her light-headed. But it was only that she hadn’t eaten yet. Or perhaps that she needed some air.
Edward of York, she thought, and for a moment she could think of nothing else.
They were old enemies, of course. As far back as she could go their families had been on different sides. And now in one short visit she would have to overturn all that.
She would have to prepare the house.
It was a palatial residence, Woking Old Hall, unmistakeably the home of great nobles, and certainly a place where one might entertain a king. But even as she considered it she thought that she would not entertain him in the house. She would arrange a hunting party for him in their lodge, because he loved to hunt.
The forest surrounding their lodge teemed with deer and wild boar that would furnish the main part of the feast. The dining space in the lodge might not be adequate; but she could buy a pavilion of silk, lined in purple or royal blue.
It was not the best time of year for an outdoor feast, of course. But on occasion it was the best, a light sprinkling of snow making the woods magical, and venison roasting in the cold air.
Of course, it was just as likely to rain torrentially. So the pavilion could not be assembled until the day of the king’s arrival, and it would be put up close to the lodge in case the weather turned truly inclement.
Given his majesty’s prodigious appetite she fretted over the food; about quantities and what was available at that time of year. There would be dried fruit from their orchard and fish from the pond. Eels and lampreys from the river, which were a little common, perhaps, but the king loved them. She could buy cheese and geese from a local farmer, but she would have to send to London or Guildford for other more luxurious items.
In the end she sent for curlew, larks and plover from a London poulterer and 700 oysters from the Essex coast.
Then there were the materials she needed for her dress and for Henry’s outfit. Several yards of velvet and the finest Brabant cloth were made up for her in London and sent by barge, which caused her some anxiety in case it did not arrive in time or did not fit. The material for the pavilion arrived at the same time – swathes of purple sarsenet that had to be assembled somehow and that she had to hope would withstand the weather. She had ordered silk cushions in cloth of gold and extra hangings to keep out the cold. And wine, of course, several cases of it from Guildford.
Henry watched all the boxes and cases arriving with his habitual look of consternation. ‘It is to be hoped his majesty does not change his mind,’ he said.
She could not even afford to consider that possibility.
The day came and at five in the morning Henry left to meet the royal party at Guildford. Margaret retired to her chapel, adding prayers for the weather, the food and the king’s disposition to the usual litany. She remained on her knees until they felt bruised and her back ached, but her mind was too restive, too anxious for real prayer. After some time she sat back with a wave of resignation that was almost defeat. The tent was not large enough, the food was too poor, and it would rain.
She went to her room to be dressed in her new gown, which was a festive scarlet with fashionably long sleeves that covered her hands. It made her look yellowish and old; or older, at least, than her twenty-five years. She should never have chosen scarlet for her dress. But it was too late now. She went out to the hunting lodge in despair.
The sky was overcast and there was an edge of whiteness to the clouds that could turn dazzling, or to a storm. Her servants were erecting the tent, preparing a fire. The singing boys were already there, huddled under a canopy because there would be no room for them in the tent. She gave instructions to arrange the cushions so that those with the royal insignia would be interspersed with those bearing the Beaufort portcullis, then stood disconsolately in the tent. It was certainly too small, but there was nothing she could do. She went to inspect the lodge.
Time stretched unbearably like the string of a bow. She paced from one window of the lodge to another, rehearsing again the best way to make her plea to the king. Then she prayed simply that she would not say the wrong thing.
Finally she heard the first horns blowing, which signified the hunt was coming that way, followed by cries and shouts of laughter.
She went out into the sharp light to meet her king.
She could not mistake him, massive as he was, dwarfing everyone around him. He wore an ermine cloak and a coronet, and seemed, as far as she could tell, to be in a good humour. A little behind him was Henry, pink from his exertions. And several men followed them, carrying a dripping deer.
That was all she had time to see before sinking into the deepest curtsy she could manage and was dismayed to hear one of her ankles crack.
The king extended his hand to raise her. ‘Countess,’ he said.
She looked up and saw, in the fractional moment in which such things occur, the way the king’s eyes, always alert to the prospect of female company, glazed over, the look in them replaced by a more customary courtesy as she took his hand.
She’d heard, of course, how the king sometimes sent for the wives or daughters of his hosts to entertain him through the night. The irony was not lost on her that of all husbands Henry was least likely to be injured by such an eventuality, but she could tell there would be no such complication here. And she was glad of it; he was not her type either, this young giant who occupied half the tent.
He was immediately at ease, sinking down on to the cushions, disposing his great limbs graciously while the rest of the company followed suit with varying degrees of elegance. Henry sat cross-legged next to the king in a posture that curved his chest and made his paunc
h prominent. Margaret sat to the other side of her husband, trying not to notice the effect of so many mud-spattered boots on the newly bought silk.
She was close enough to the king to see there was a certain pouching beneath the eyes, and broken veins beneath the skin of his cheeks that flushed as he ate or when he laughed. His hair was nothing special, the blue eyes rather small, but she could see why people called him handsome. Firstly because he was king, of course, and secondly because of his impressive build. And thirdly because of some quality in his face. He was attentive. When he spoke to you it was easy to believe there were only the two of you there.
It was a dangerous quality, she thought. It drew people towards him and drew out of them a greater trust and freedom than the situation warranted. Already Henry, usually so reserved, was talking volubly about the latest manuscript they had bought: a chronicle by Jean Froissart in which the king had an especial interest since it detailed the usurpation of Henry IV and by implication invalidated the claim of Henry VI to the throne. The king leaned towards Henry as though he was fascinating, while eating with his fingers. Margaret ate too, more cautiously because her sleeves were getting in the way of the food.
She was intensely aware of the king, who was talking now about the latest manuscripts he had acquired, all of which confirmed the validity of his father’s claim. There was something not quite English about him, she thought. His eyes and that sensitive mouth reflected exactly the fluctuations in the other person’s face; their hopes and fears. He had none of the usual dour aggressiveness of the warrior; none of the obvious ruthlessness of a man who had shut up his cousin in the Tower, slaughtered so many at Towton, or imprisoned and tortured so many opponents to his reign.
Even as she listened to him talking about the splendours of the library at Bruges and his own ambition to build one at least as impressive at Windsor, she felt the impossibility of asking for what she wanted. She felt awash with melancholy, and as if she had been cast adrift in a boat, bobbing further and further away from the shore where she was bound.
Outside, the threatened rain had begun to fall, but the singing boys sang on.
Henry was talking now about the claim made by the Earl of Warwick to their Kendal estates. ‘It is not true that Edmund Tudor was attainted,’ he was saying. ‘That’s why you were able, if you remember, to grant the rights to my wife.’
She held her breath. She would not have chosen, just then, to direct the king’s attention to the Tudor brothers. But the king was nodding. And he said, ‘My cousin the earl is good at pushing boundaries. It is one of his especial gifts.’
And then he turned his attention towards Margaret. ‘And you, Countess,’ he said, ‘what can I do for you?’
He spoke with a light irony as though acknowledging the fact that the only reason for approaching a king was because one wanted something. She swallowed hard to get rid of a piece of crust in her mouth, then murmured something conventional about his majesty having done them too much honour already.
‘How is that possible?’ he said, and his light eyes focussed on her as if, even though she was not attractive to him, he could not resist playing the old game.
Any other woman would have answered playfully, but this was not a game she knew how to play. She angled her chin downwards and said it was not possible to expect more in the circumstances. But the king by now had drunk a considerable amount of wine. ‘It is always possible to expect,’ he said, waving his goblet. Her throat tightened; she could not speak. After all the speeches she had rehearsed. But Henry, her husband, leaned forward and said, ‘My wife is very concerned about her son.’
‘Your son?’ said the king. ‘Herbert’s ward?’
She raised her eyes to his and saw that he was surprised by their bleakness. ‘But I believe he is being very well taken care of,’ he said, and she managed to say that indeed she had no complaint in that quarter – a better home could not have been provided for him.
‘But I do not see him very often,’ she said. ‘He was going to visit us here. But now – it has been interrupted.’
She could see a calculating light in the king’s eyes that took into account the events of the summer, Jasper’s attack on Wales, the link to Margaret of Anjou in France. She wanted to beg him to believe that they’d had nothing to do with any of it, but something warned her that he would not be moved by protestation. Her gaze remained fixed on his, as though asking him to believe what she could not say.
Once again Henry spoke up. ‘My wife writes to her son all the time,’ he said. ‘I expect she will write to tell him of the great honour of your visit. Each time she writes she asks if she may visit him, but there is no response. We have not seen him for more than a year.’
Slowly the king nodded. ‘It must be difficult for you,’ he said.
Finally she managed to speak. ‘I beg you to believe that I would do nothing to risk the welfare of my son,’ she said. ‘We are first and foremost your majesty’s loyal subjects.’
The king leaned towards her on one elbow, and in the sympathetic tones that had propelled so many women into his arms, said, ‘You must miss him very much.’
She couldn’t help it, tears rose to her eyes. He noted this, of course he did, but all he said was, ‘I will write to Lord Herbert. The child should see his mother more regularly.’
Then Henry spoke up for her again. ‘We have been concerned about young Henry’s title to Richmond,’ he said. ‘Especially in view of the activities of the Earl of Warwick.’
The king leaned back, at last releasing her from his gaze. ‘As to that,’ he said, ‘his estates and titles are safe as long as he remains in Herbert’s care. Until he marries.’
‘As long as he marries Herbert’s daughter,’ Margaret put in swiftly.
The king said that in that case they would be safe in perpetuity. ‘Or as long as I reign,’ he added and they were both quick to assure him that they hoped he would reign in perpetuity.
‘Yet – things change,’ Margaret said. ‘And if they were to change, I would not want my son’s future to be so – tied.’
The king looked at her. ‘You have a different betrothal in mind?’ he said, and she said that of course she had not – it was not her place. Yet if something were to happen to the Herberts, then her son’s assets were such that more than one person might benefit from them.
The king waited. She took a light, rapid breath. ‘Whoever was to marry my son would secure an alliance with the House of Lancaster. And end all potential for future strife.’ She looked fully into the king’s eyes.
She could see him making a series of rapid reappraisals: of her, of the situation regarding her son, and the fact that he had two infant daughters. Finally he said, ‘Such a possibility should not be overlooked, although for now your son is safe in Lord Herbert’s care. And we have to hope that nothing happens to Lord Herbert, who is one of our greatest supporters.’
Henry and Margaret heartily agreed, fervently assuring the king that the Herberts were constantly in their prayers, along with the king himself.
And the talk passed easily, lightly, to other things. But through the remaining hours of feasting she was frequently aware of the king’s measuring gaze upon her. And also of a small but growing jubilation, that she had said what she wanted to say and the king had received it well. And Henry had supported her, had made it all possible, even though he had not wanted the king’s visit. So despite what she had previously thought about prayer, it seemed for once that God had responded, and had been unexpectedly receptive to her requests. What now could prevent her from seeing her son?
The Battle of Edgecote Moor: 26 July 1469
In the summer season [of 1469] a whirlwind came down from the north in the form of a mighty insurrection of the commons of that part of the country. They complained that they were grievously oppressed with taxes and annual tributes by the favourites of the king and queen. Having appointed one Robin of Redesdale to act as captain over them the rebels proceeded to march, abou
t 60,000 in number … to London.
Crowland Chronicle
Robin of Redesdale rose in rebellion and many associated with him … and immediately after another rose in rebellion, named Robin of Holderness, with his accomplices …
Brief Latin Chronicle
The Duke of Clarence and the Earl of Warwick came from Calais with a large force and went to meet this captain as they were all at one.
Newsletter from London, August 1469
And against them arose, by the king’s commandment, Lord Herbert, Earl of Pembroke, with 43,000 Welshmen, the best in Wales … and Robin of Redesdale came upon the Welshmen in a plain beyond Banbury …
Warkworth’s Chronicle
And a sharp battle took place which lasted about eleven hours.
Newsletter from London, August 1469
29
William Herbert Writes a Letter
Later, though there was not much later to be had – less than forty hours between the end of the battle and his execution – William Herbert wondered if he could have acted differently; broken the field earlier, perhaps, and fled? Or surrendered, and tried to do a deal. His army was outnumbered after all, he could see that even as he stood on the top of Waldron Hill, facing the enemy on the opposing hill. And the Earl of Devon’s archers had not arrived. Was it madness, heroism or a certain bloody-minded adherence to principle that made him lead his men in a downward charge straight into the arrows of the enemy? First dozens then hundreds of men lay strewn across the hillside, struck through with arrows, the shafts of them quivering in the wind.
With hindsight, that barbed gift, it seemed like madness. Or the mad recklessness of despair that was known to overtake men in battle. At any rate, he and his brother had led the charge downhill and into the river, continuing on foot when their horses were struck down.
But without archers they couldn’t pass through the dense wall of foot soldiers.
Furious combat had ensued. They had wielded their poleaxes with the savagery that came when hope was extinguished.
In all the confusion he remembered a single moment clearly. He had looked round and seen the earth breaking up. That was what it looked like through his visor and the sweat in his eyes; the earth and the river were falling apart and sliding away. It took him a moment to realize it was the crush of soldiers attempting to flee. In places they were so densely packed that the dead, impaled on the spears of their enemies, were borne along upright in the crush.