Rebellion

by Livi Michael

  That was the last time the king saw his cousin alone. But he had plenty of time in the week that followed to reflect on why he was not more depressed by the situation. It was as though something had changed in him that night in Olney, when he had first realized he was alone. As though he had given something up, or surrendered to the will of God.

  Priests were always telling him to surrender to the will of God; whatever that was. One was not supposed to know, of course – that was part of the game. He had always looked askance at such theologizing. And he was not normally given to introspection. But then he was not normally kept prisoner in his own land, by his own brother and cousin.

  Something had altered, and if he had to say what he would probably say it was the will, not of God, but of the people. Because surely that was fate if anything was, the accumulated intent and desires of all the people in the land. And all the people who had gone before them whose legacy of thoughts and wishes and hopes was like a great tide into which they were all born and were borne along. He did not feel he could exercise any power over so large a force. And yet it did seem to be turning in his favour now. He knew it and so did Warwick. That was why his cousin’s face registered so much strain. The king’s popularity had been at its lowest ebb before the earl had captured him.

  Warwick’s brother, the Archbishop George, came to him next. He bowed, though his eyes were cold. ‘We need your presence in York,’ he said.

  The king did not answer immediately. This was the man responsible for arresting him in the first place. I think you should come with me now, he’d said in Olney. Nor do I think you can refuse.

  The king leaned back and put his hands behind his head. ‘Do you?’ he said.

  ‘We would like you to accompany us.’

  ‘Who is this “we”?’

  George Neville’s face, though broader and flatter than his brother’s, was very similar in the hostility of his glare. ‘My brother requires you to join him at York.’

  ‘But he told me I was not to leave here.’

  George Neville began to turn away. ‘You will be escorted there tomorrow.’

  ‘Am I not to hear why?’

  The archbishop looked at him with absolute dislike. ‘We will ride to York tomorrow,’ he said, and left.

  He learned more from Davies, who came with his sword and armour. There was an uprising in the north – a Lancastrian rebellion. The king laughed when he heard it was one of Warwick’s own family. And the king’s too – Humphrey Neville of Brancepeth; one of the multitudinous descendants of the Earl of Westmorland. He was a die-hard Lancastrian who had been attainted twice. Rumour had it he had been living in a cave for five years.

  ‘There are always rebellions in the north,’ the king said. ‘I’m surprised Warwick cannot suppress it.’

  Davies told him with apparent reluctance that Warwick had tried to summon an army to suppress the rebellion but the lords had refused to come until they had actual proof that the king was alive and well. And then, Davies said in hushed tones, the earl’s own men had started to desert.

  The king hummed a little tune as he pulled on his armour. ‘How do I look?’ he asked. ‘I fear that I have grown unfit after so long in captivity. Though I do not think I am any fatter. Not on this diet.’

  Davies assured him he looked magnificent. Every inch the king, he said. Edward looked at him with only moderate irony. He did not especially like the man, yet once he was in power again he would have to reward him in some way. That was one of the obligations of kingship.

  They walked out together into the expansive Yorkshire countryside. The king’s hand rested on Davies’ shoulder and Davies did not seem to know whether to look discomfited or pleased. And the king rode away from Middleham Castle in the company of Archbishop George. If not to liberty then at least to York. Where the people were overjoyed to see him. Trumpets blew, the streets were bright with flags and banners and the citizens thronged to see him. Many were crying.

  The king grinned at the archbishop, then spurred his horse forward into the crowds who parted and re-formed around him, lifting up their hands to be touched. With some difficulty he made his way to the market.

  Then the other lords arrived: Arundel, Mountjoy, Essex, Hastings, his brother-in-law John de la Pole and his brother Richard, Duke of Gloucester, all came to the marketplace to greet him. And pressed forward to do him homage. Their retinues were waiting outside the city gates, ready to defeat the enemy.

  He’d thought that most of these lords had deserted him at Olney, but now here they were; desperate to display their loyalty. It seemed to the king that he had never seen nor appreciated the full beauty of loyalty before, how it shone like a star in the darkness. He was visibly moved when he addressed them. ‘Good people of York,’ he cried, ‘I am gladdened by your love. I am washed and healed by it, made better and whole. Now I will look to heal your wounds, restore you and make you whole. Because you have made me a better and a stronger king!’

  He could say little more for the uproar of the crowd. The king was back, he had destroyed their enemies; now justice and right would prevail. He looked out over their waving arms and saw his lords mounted and waiting for him, and his brother Richard.

  They made quick work of the Lancastrians, these loyal men, while he remained in the archbishop’s house in York. They returned swiftly, bringing few prisoners, because they had slaughtered most of the rebels. But Humphrey Neville and his brother they brought back with them, tied to a single horse. And on 29 September both were beheaded in the king’s presence, while the crowd bayed for their blood. And chanted for him afterwards, so that Warwick, who was there also, looked in a different direction and would not catch his eye. But the crowds would not stop chanting until he addressed them.

  ‘I must return to the capital,’ he shouted. ‘To mend the kingdom and make it well. I must return to my throne!’

  As he stepped down from the podium the archbishop stood before him. ‘You are planning to leave then?’ he said.

  ‘I am a little tired of captivity.’

  ‘We will accompany you.’

  ‘That will not be necessary,’ the king said. ‘I will have company.’

  The archbishop said something he could not quite hear, about getting his men ready to leave.

  ‘But I am leaving now,’ said the king. ‘Nor do I think you can refuse.’

  And the archbishop stepped aside, with a pained smile on his face.

  On the way back to London he made plans with those who accompanied him. He would give to his brother Richard power to secure those castles in Wales that had fallen to the Welsh rebels since Herbert’s death. That would prevent Warwick from extending his territory there. And to thwart him in the north he decided to release Lord Percy from his imprisonment in the Tower, and restore him to the earldom of Northumberland, thus reducing Warwick’s power in that county.

  No further retribution would be taken for the time being. The country needed peace, not war. He intended to wait and build up his resources before he took any further measures against his brother or his cousin. Let them wait and sweat.

  He had more pressing matters to attend to. He needed to call a council, restore order to the government, and release his wife and her mother.

  So he entered London, where the people were demented with joy. The king felt the surge of joy rising to meet him as he entered the gates. It was powerful enough to engulf him, to bear him down. But he gave himself up to it, riding into the thick of the crowds with his arms raised. The tide had turned towards him, and away from Warwick. He was borne on it through the streets to the Tower.

  And when he came to the palace within the Tower his wife ran out to meet him. She clung to him and wept with more emotion than she had shown since the early part of their marriage. And he lifted her up and took her to their private room.

  33

  Henry Stafford Receives a Summons

  In early October, when the king came to London, Margaret’s husband set off to meet
him wearing a new hat and spurs, in the hope that the king would see he was there.

  It was a trying experience since he did not like crowds. There was a moment when he had been lifted from the ground by the sheer mass of people, his feet barely touching the pavement. The stench of the crowd had something feral about it that had quite put him off his food. And he had lost his hat.

  ‘But did he see you?’ she asked. Henry said he couldn’t be sure. He had seen the king, but there was no chance of drawing closer to him. He had been seen by one of the lords who surrounded him – Mountjoy or Arundel – he was sure of that. And he had written from the safety of his inn to express his joy at the king’s return.

  There had been no reply, of course, but he had every hope that the king had received his message.

  Margaret knew that it was pointless to speculate. They had done what they could. She’d joined her husband in London because they had other business to attend to. They were finally going to meet with Lady Herbert, to discuss the question of her son.

  They would meet on the twenty-first day of October, in the Bell Inn on Fleet Street. Lady Herbert would be there with her brother, Lord Ferrers, and their lawyers. Margaret felt steeled, as if for battle.

  ‘It is good of Lady Herbert to come,’ her husband said. ‘She is still grieving.’

  I am still grieving, she thought.

  ‘We must be conciliatory and amenable,’ Henry said. ‘It is a great concession for them to come.’

  She looked at him impatiently. He had grown fatter as she had grown thinner. He was starting to go bald. ‘I will be as amenable as the occasion demands,’ she said.

  The inn was dark, the walls blackened by smoke and grease. They were greeted by Henry’s lawyers and candles were brought to the alcove where they sat. They ordered a platter of mutton, bread and cheese then waited almost half an hour for their company to arrive.

  Lord Ferrers came in first. Margaret recognized him by his resemblance to his sister. He had the same fair, aristocratic good looks. Lady Herbert came in behind him. She was thinner, Margaret noticed, and seemed distracted. They were accompanied by two lawyers.

  Lord Ferrers did most of the talking, addressing Henry and his lawyers.

  His brother-in-law, William Herbert (deceased), had paid one thousand pounds in 1462 for the wardship and marriage of Henry Tudor, Earl of Richmond. He had looked after him well, at his own expense, raised him as one of his own sons. He was part of his sister’s family now – in fact, it could be said that he had lost his father.

  ‘I would not say that,’ Margaret said, and Lord Ferrers looked at her sharply. Lady Herbert merely blinked at the candle flame.

  ‘My brother-in-law was the only father the boy has ever known,’ Lord Ferrers said, with a slightly aggressive insistence. ‘He fed and clothed and educated him as he would one of his own sons – his children are the young earl’s brothers and sisters. It would be wrong at this time of grieving to pluck him from the bosom of his family.’

  Henry shot her a warning look to tell her not to say anything. He began to spread the documents on the table, for the benefit of the lawyers. Lord Ferrers did not even glance at them.

  She did not like him. She had not expected to like him, of course, because of what he’d done. He’d taken Edmund captive at Carmarthen Castle, kept him under guard while plague broke out and killed him. He, as much as his brother-in-law, had caused this situation.

  Now that she sat near him, however, she found that she did not like him because of a certain brutality beneath the elegance.

  She turned away from the discussion and gave her attention to Lady Herbert, leaning closer. ‘I am sorry for your loss,’ she said.

  She could sense Lady Herbert’s withdrawal. This expression of sympathy exposed the change in their position. There was an alteration in her, Margaret could see that. It was as though she was preoccupied or lost in the twilight world of grieving. Margaret remembered it well.

  Now she knows what it feels like, Margaret thought.

  It surprised her sometimes, this part of herself that lurked beneath the surface like a cold pebble. Did she not feed the poor, minister to the sick, give alms regularly and conspicuously?

  The elder of the two lawyers was saying that there were no legal grounds for keeping Margaret’s son, and went on to read the writ he had brought, which was in Latin. Margaret had no grasp of Latin. She would have to sit in silence while they discussed the future of her son in a language she did not know. Lord Ferrers, however, interrupted him, saying that the writ did not signify – it was a matter for the king.

  She would not dare to approach the king after her visit to Clarence only a few weeks ago. She felt a burning resentment towards Lord Ferrers, who was so resistant to her claim, unmoved by the evidence of their lawyers.

  But then, unexpectedly, Lady Herbert leaned forward. ‘He does not belong to us,’ she said. ‘We should let him go.’

  Everyone looked at her.

  ‘Everything must go, sooner or later,’ she said, looking back at them with luminous eyes.

  ‘My sister is unwell,’ Lord Ferrers said.

  ‘I am not unwell,’ she said. ‘I am bereaved. That is different.’ She looked at Margaret. ‘Your son should be returned to you,’ she said.

  Margaret’s heart began to pound.

  ‘It’s hardly that simple,’ Lord Ferrers said. ‘It is the king’s command that you should have custody of him.’

  ‘But you can speak to the king,’ Lady Herbert said, turning the beautiful blue blankness of her gaze towards him. ‘He will listen to you.’

  Both sets of lawyers began talking at once, but Lady Herbert stood up.

  ‘It’s hot in here,’ she said. ‘There is no air. I’m going outside.’

  Henry looked at Margaret and she realized she was expected to accompany Lady Herbert into the street. Even though the discussion was at this crucial point.

  Reluctantly she followed Lady Herbert to the door. In front of them was a squalid, malodorous alley, leading to all the clamour of London.

  Margaret supposed she should speak. ‘I – am grateful to you,’ she said. ‘I know you are – fond of him – that you have taken good care of him – given him an excellent education –’

  Lady Herbert did not even look at her. ‘I know what loss is,’ she said. Margaret murmured something to the effect that the acceptance of loss was in itself a kind of gain. Lady Herbert looked at her kindly. ‘You don’t think that,’ she said.

  No, she did not think that. But she was anxious to return in case Lord Ferrers had managed to turn the argument his way again.

  ‘You know what he asked me, before he left?’ Lady Herbert said. Margaret did not know, and was not sure that she cared.

  ‘He asked me to spend the rest of my life in chastity and prayer. Take holy orders if I could. He made me promise. On the Bible. And wrote it to me again in a letter the night before he died. In case I should forget. He was about to lose his life – he could not bear the thought that I might not lose mine.’

  She said the last words with such bitterness that Margaret looked up. ‘Will you do it?’ she said, but Lady Herbert did not answer her directly.

  ‘William was not a man who took kindly to loss,’ she said, with an edge to her voice.

  He inflicted enough on me, Margaret thought, but she was looking at Lady Herbert with different eyes, seeing suddenly what her marriage must have been.

  ‘That’s why I can release your son,’ she said. ‘Because I no longer want to be a prisoner.’

  And there it was suddenly, the shift inside Margaret of a long-held grudge, a fixed and rooted resentment. She was so disconcerted by this that for the moment she couldn’t speak.

  Outside in the street a great rabble passed, drunken, noisy. ‘Perhaps we should go back inside,’ Lady Herbert said.

  They made their way back to the alcove where the lawyers were now talking money with Lord Ferrers. Margaret slipped back into her seat in time to h
ear him name an exorbitant sum, and her spine stiffened. She had been expecting some sort of monetary transaction, had been putting money aside for it all these years. Even so, the amount mentioned would cripple them.

  Henry was leaning forward, his face creased in concentration. He said that he did not think any amount was owed for the upbringing and care of his stepson – given the fact that Lord Herbert had purchased his wardship, the care of his ward might be taken for granted. Lord Ferrers said that he was not proposing to draw up a bill of actual expenditure, but he thought some acknowledgement should be made of the investment of care, and some compensation for what they might lose.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Walter,’ Lady Herbert said. ‘He is their son. They should not have to buy him back.’

  Lord Ferrers looked so confounded by this that in another situation Margaret might have laughed. ‘I am merely trying to recoup your investment,’ he said.

  ‘Investment!’ said Lady Herbert. ‘He is not a coin. He is a child. And he is not my child. He is Lady Margaret’s.’

  Lord Ferrers’ face reddened, but he would not give in. He insisted that at least the original amount of money for the wardship should be returned. And that the matter should be referred to the king – they could do nothing without the king’s express permission. The king himself, he said, would decide on any monies that were payable.

  Margaret’s spirits, which had risen mercurially, fell at this. She looked at Lady Herbert, but she could hardly disagree; she was forced to accept that it was a matter for the king. Henry was giving her another warning look, to silence her. So it would be put off again.

  ‘I will be seeing the king myself very soon,’ Lord Ferrers said. ‘I have been called to council and can speak to him in person. Then we can meet again.’

  Margaret’s spirits sank even further. The king would listen to Lord Ferrers, of course. There would be no one to put her case forward and the king would not listen if they did.

  ‘I will write to the king,’ Lady Herbert said unexpectedly. ‘I will say I am perfectly willing to return your son.’