My sorrel shifted under me at the ambience of fear. I watched Richard, who sat his horse like a stone statue; Hastings too, grim and still. And coming nearer, a vast party of mounted men, their harness splattered with triumphant blood. It was the Church that came to take the King; the Archbishop of York, Earl Warwick’s brother. Edward rode up to greet him.
‘So you are come, my lord, from your Manor of the Moor,’ he said quietly. ‘I had hoped that the rumour did not run as I had heard, but it seems—by God’s Blessed Lady—that even Kings can be led astray.’ He looked around at us, the score or so of men who remained behind him. ‘Well, my lord,’ he continued, ‘will you at least spare these men, who ride under my standard of their own volition?’
The Archbishop smiled nastily. ‘Is it not your own prerogative, your Grace, to cry: “Kill the Lords! Disregard the commons!”? Pembroke died bravely,’ he added.
King Edward’s tone was like ice. ‘Where is your noble brother Northumberland, my lord?’ An unwilling flush ran up under the Archbishop’s stout steel helm.
‘Sir John is so blinded by folly he will not join us in this enterprise,’ he replied.
‘This treason,’ said the King, still marvellously sweet. ‘Or should it be considered a Holy War?’
The Archbishop swung his horse about and came up close to Edward. Foam gathered at his lips. ‘Yea, your Grace. A purge of this realm, levied upon upstart knaves who lead a King into the paths of wantonness. Succubi,’ he said, clutching at his dangling crucifix as if it were a Woodville throat—‘succubi that drain your Grace’s strength and treasure.’
Somewhere in the royal ranks sounded the hiss of a slow-drawn sword. Instantly a knot of the Archbishop’s armed men surrounded the King.
‘I am ready,’ said Edward pleasantly. ‘Whither do we ride? To Pontefract? A fitting manor for the murder of Kings, if memory of Lancastrian treachery serves.’
The Archbishop looked ill at ease. ‘I wear the cloth of Holy Church,’ he said uncomfortably. ‘We have no hand in such devilish work, any more, Sir King, than you have choice but to do my lord of Warwick’s bidding.’
Smiling still, Edward drove spurs inward and moved up. ‘I had hoped,’ he said, ‘that my kinsman was not so ill-disposed as it might seem. But I would meet with your Robin of Redesdale. Perchance I can best him at the pricks, for I too am a fair archer, my lord.’ To Hastings he said quietly: ‘Disperse your men.’ Richard’s horse reared up, fretted by its rider’s nerve-tense hand. The King looked at him, as if for the first time.
‘And my brother Gloucester?’ he asked the Archbishop, maid-meek. ‘I fear you will find him more difficult to seduce than fickle Clarence. Mayhap my lord of Warwick has forgot he is no longer a child—he is a fierce young man. Do you not fear him?’
The Archbishop Neville disregarded this irony. ‘Come, your Grace,’ he said firmly. ‘It was only your royal person that was desired.’ His captains formed up their spearmen in a solid line.
‘I am ready,’ said the King again, rosy mouth smiling. ‘I trust I shall be housed and fed better than poor Dickon of Bordeaux. For you have enjoyed in plenty my hospitality at one time.’ Then he was gone, close guarded, riding along the dusty June road, taller by a head than the rest; full as a ripe cherry with the juice of wit and courage. And we were left, with one accord turning to the Lord Chamberlain for succour, for the reshaping of our life’s pattern, now that the King was taken. And Richard of Gloucester spurred up close to his King’s best friend, and looked with trust into his face. Our worst fears realized, our first campaign brought to a startling climax, I sheered away from the forecast of a madman: ‘The foot that strikes the stone shall turn into a head—and the bones cast on a dunghill for ever;’ but in Richard’s late nameless fears I did believe, and for a short while I too thought on Nottingham as a care-ridden place. I feared for the King.
Edward Brampton spoke. ‘I guess zey vill take him north,’ he said.
The north. The unenvisaged north. A vast cache of secrets: wild, dangerous, adjoining the fearsome borderers’ domain. The north by day, lonesomely lit by plover-cries and the grave-song of wolf; peopled with cloaked assassins and sombre, holy men. God there in the north, but fiends also. A place for swift riding, back-looking. The north by night—Jesu preserve all who travel in that direction! The north a refuge also; to glean safety from its solitude, to bite through danger with the sword of determination. The north, hiding-hole for captives, for those whose presence is an embarrassment; for those in peril from their enemies. Just as a sanctuary can be a prison, so is a northern fortress likewise a place of safekeeping. The north. A stout chalice for the old royal blood.
And they took the King north, under cover of dark, although we did not learn of this until the moon had waxed fat and thinned, and again grown heavy with the child of night, during which time we remained together. We rode quietly, a small company cleaving to the hidden pathways, every so often one of us detaching himself from the rest and riding for a night or a day to return laden with whispers. The King was at Coventry, and had been stabbed in a quarrel with his brother Clarence. Nay, the King was at Warwick, sound and hearty. The King lay at Pomfret, in chains. I began to think that Hogan was not so mad after all, only armed with a foul and peculiar intelligence. Then one day we met on the road a merchant, fleeing from London with his wife and two young daughters, and servants with fear-green faces. Lord Hastings stepped out to meet them.
‘We ride to my kinsman at Sawley Abbey, my lord,’ gasped the merchant. He eyed our harness, the teeth of our lances and seemed minded to die of fright. His wife, contrarily, bestrode her great dappled horse like a soldier. Her curling red smile hid scorn.
‘Fool and husband, be at peace,’ she said sharply, and I wondered if my Margetta would turn out to be a scold, fine dowry or not. ‘These are King’s men. He is sick, my lord,’ she explained. ‘London is a city gone mad. Our premises among many have been despoiled. There is fighting in every ward.’
‘Yet the people love Warwick,’ I heard Robert Percy say.
‘Certes, sir,’ she answered, with a wit like crackling leaves. ‘That’s why they brawl so fiercely over the King’s capture.’ The two little maids peeped out from their litter. One was black-browed and swart as Brampton. The other owned a head like a golden angel—the kind men trade secrets for.
‘What is the talk in London?’ asked Sir Thomas Parr.
‘There is a Parliament of sorts,’ she said, to a withering shrug. ‘A pretty gathering, with none willing to bend the knee to any noble earl while his Grace’s fate is shaped by a scaffold. We love our King,’ she said, sad-proud, and the tiny maid, crooning to a baby-doll, leaned from the litter, Plantagenet fair.
Lord Hastings motioned the men aside. ‘God speed you, dame,’ he said. ‘May you find redress, once this mischief is at an end.’
‘Pray Jesu this is soon,’ she replied, and led the husband, head-hanging, forward and through our lines, halting for a brief instant before my lord of Gloucester, who sat his horse close by me.
‘Your Grace,’ she murmured, inclining her head. ‘Good lordship, give us back our King, soon. Oft-times he spoke of his sweet Richard,’ she said with the honey reserved for royal blood in the dark hours when all are equal.
‘Madame, our pledge,’ said Richard, spear-stiff. The bold lady then passed on; a queenly quean.
‘They will take him northward,’ said Lord Hastings, and Sir Edward Brampton sighed, a little, patient, alien sigh. Then Hastings said: ‘Or will they?’
Richard spoke slowly. ‘If London is divided, the Nevilles will not risk disaffection. My Lord Chamberlain, what say you-?’ Hastings sat silent, full lips sucked thoughtfully in.
‘Who knows my lord of Warwick best?’ asked Robert Percy. He looked at Richard, smiling, smiling. I too stared, and thought, if Gloucester waxes any whiter he will vanish from the sight of man; and my mind asked me: Jesu, has he ever known any happiness? I mused on my own careless life, and thought: it
is hard to be the brother of a King.
Richard set his mailed hand upon the Lord Chamberlain’s arm.
‘Lead us, my lord,’ he said simply. ‘Lead us to my brother—or to death. We are ready.’
Upon the road behind there was the thundering of many horse.
‘God’s Passion!’ said Robert Percy with a laugh. ‘’Tis a Neville. Can you believe that the sight of such warms my heart!’
Northumberland drew up his horse so sharply that its hind legs slithered on the road, and the score of men behind him merged into a wheeling coil of bright armour, pennons, flying tails and plumes. Fire leaped from the steel-smitten ground.
‘Gather a force, my lord,’ said John of Northumberland without ceremony. ‘The King lies at Pomfret. In my brother’s keeping. None will strike a blow for Earl Warwick until the King’s person is revealed unharmed. My agents have laboured well. The time is now.’
Hastings turned to the whole company, but it was to Richard of Gloucester that he spoke.
‘Come, good prince,’ he said. ‘You and I will ride together. We will shortly have his Grace again at Westminster.’ And Richard smiled, his colour returning. Hastings spurred forward. ‘King’s men!’ he cried, holding up his sword. Richard watched him. ‘My lords, muster all the men you are able in the north country. We ride to free a King!’
John Neville’s sweated mount brushed my leg in passing. ‘How does my lord of Gloucester?’ he asked Richard softly.
‘Grateful, sir, for your fidelity.’
‘The King has given me the favour of a great earldom,’ answered Northumberland. ‘I could do naught else.’
‘Would that all were as grateful,’ said Richard.
We mustered a great company, and set Yorkshire aflame with our own holy war, our pledge to rescue an anointed King. We were not at York to see Edward standing in the market place, whole and sound; neither did we hear the cheers, nor see the dark glances of disapproval for Earl Warwick and Clarence. For we were busy. I rode with Northumberland and watched our ranks swell with lords and commonalty alike, while to the west the standards of Hastings and Gloucester summoned both the loyal and the wavering until all were armed, shouting for the Rose, the golden Rose, who answered from Pomfret Castle with a proclamation that made Robin of Redesdale’s pitiful shaft break midway, like the ill-oiled, unprepared thing it was.
I have seen King Edward’s smile often. A cunning smile, or a kindly glance, or a mischievous smile full of white bodies and soft beds; never, however, a sad smile that I saw. But I remember, over the tearful, bloody years, the smile he wore at Pomfret when we rode, calm and sharp of blade to escort him back to London. We left the Nevilles weak as a woman lately up from childbed. We rode into London accompanied by the greatest lords of England, welcomed by the Aldermen of the City, in loyalty’s blue.
Richard of Gloucester was horsed between King Edward and the Lord Chamberlain. For the White Boar had drawn men, as it had drawn me—ask me not why. He had rallied hundreds to his standard. He looked drained and proud. Verily, I thought him happy at last. And the King was not ungrateful, for he gave Richard honourable commissions in Wales.
As for my part, the King was still pleased with me. He brought me into his Household as Gentleman Usher; many were the tasks I undertook beside the guarding of his royal person. Cleanly and strong archers, gentle men—was the stipulation. But King Edward also loved love. I was quiet, I was discreet, and if I were a little surprised at times, I did not show it. Gentleman Usher—that is good! Many women did I usher in to that god-like presence.
I saw Richard once before he departed for the Welsh marches. He took my hand.
‘My thanks for your loyalty in this affair.’
‘I hope to meet your Grace in less turbulent times,’ I answered. ‘I recall, you owe me three shillings.’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Leave it—as surety that we shall dice together again. Besides, I find myself sorely ill-purveyed of money.’ And we laughed together in remembrance, for it was a good jest, the King having rewarded him well. He said:
‘Gloucester does not go back upon his word. You shall have your debt in full—the next time we come upon each other.’
‘May it be soon, Richard my lord,’ I answered.
‘I feel you are a good man,’ he said softly. ‘Give me your prayers, sometimes.’
I saw him hardly at all for some two years, during which time the King kept me occupied with all manner of pleasurable duty. Many the cloaked lady; many the whisper. Toxophilus was still my leman, but wantonness led my rein. O Jesu! I was a laggard lover of Richard those days, for if ever I spoke his name at Mass, it was only when others did so in accord, and without deep thought. Fitting, perchance, that the next time our paths crossed it was in the face of danger.
Again, the enemy Warwick. But a Warwick better prepared, and we so unready. Mad, furious flight, easterly that September; a night ride through chill mists sad with the warnings of winter. To Norfolk, with the mud of the King’s horse stinging up into my face. From Doncaster, where I had been waked by the rude cries of the rex minstrallorum. Enemies had come to take the King; allies of Earl Warwick, with an army that far outnumbered our own. Again, the same frail company: Lord Hastings, galloping stirrup by stirrup with the King. Sir Richard of Gloucester; a few esquires. A score of men-at-arms, hastily and inadequately harnessed. An addition: Sir Anthony Woodville, now Earl Rivers. He had misplaced his helm, and his bright yellow hair streamed about his face, and once he gave me a smile, riding, saying softly: ‘The pity of it! I was having a wondrous dream; saints in their golden crowns.’
An omission: no faithful John of Northumberland this time! Alas, the fickleness of princes—and the irony of circumstance! No longer Earl of Northumberland, but plain Marquess Montagu, it was from him and an army doubly outnumbering the King’s that we fled.
Four or five woolships bobbed against the quay at Lynn. It was the King himself who marched over the cobbles and spoke with the harbour-master. A few incurious eyes watched. A greybeard sitting on a coil of rope spat in the sea and muttered: ‘Heigh-ho! Kings sail out—Queens sail in,’ and cackled, the horrid laugh of the ancient. The captain of the wool fleet was likewise unmoved.
‘Your Grace wishes my ships—to take you to Flanders?’ Despite the imminence of our danger, Edward pressed him but gently.
‘You will be well rewarded.’
The other answered, shoulders hunched: ‘King’s men will steal the room for my cargo.’ One of Edward’s esquires dropped a pouch of gold into the captain’s hand. He shifted it to his other palm, saying: ‘This will not redress the lack of my livelode.’
The King was taking off his cloak, the purple cloak lined with ermine into which I had eased him what seemed years before, thought it was but a matter of some hours.
‘When we return,’ he said gallantly, ‘I will give you a far richer garment. Meanwhile, keep the King’s cloak warm for him. Pray for him.’ This, with a smile to charm the blood.
Behind me, Richard of Gloucester was talking.
‘He has him,’ he said softly. ‘Would Jesu that men followed me, like they do his Grace.’
I all but turned, but checked myself, for I fain would have told him: Ah, they do, Richard, my lord! You may not have the bright glory of Edward; your countenance may be sober and over-anxious, yet, there was one once that dropped his dreams and took horse at your bidding. Even the Welsh respect you—you need have no fear. And I looked at Anthony Woodville, with his calm fairness and devotion to the King, and I thought: we may be fugitives now, but I am proud to sail into exile with such great men. So clever, charming and devout. All thoughts of Earl Rivers’s base lineage and past Lancastrian loyalties had long been chased from my mind.
As I leaped over the vessel’s side and dropped down on deck, an aiding hand caught mine. A familiar, tense grip.
‘How does the man of keen sight?’ Richard asked, before I could beg his pardon for having used him as I would a page, then: ‘Ex
iles—equal in exile. But mark me, we shall return in glory.’
And when they raised anchor, in a wave of fish-stinking sea, I marvelled at Gloucester’s confidence, for London was swamped now by the adherents of Warwick and Clarence and the fearsome Frenchwoman, the French Bitch, Queen Margaret, who men said was half-mad with ambition and love for her whelp Edward.
I walked behind Richard on the deck, looking the last on England. The quay swung away and a high-calling flock of seabirds lifted around our vessel. And then my mind brought back Margetta, for her breast was verily the colour of those crying gulls, and her eyes... why, gazing at the whipping grey water, sucked black in pools by the wind... surely, she could see me! Margetta my betrothed, whom by now I had met, and loved.
I sat down upon a sarpler of wool, hatefully wet from an early squall, and cursed Northumberland, he that was, well—I cursed Montagu then, the Neville who had turned through rancour to treason. King Edward stood by the masthead, under the sail which waxed as a woman but newly with child; and I thought on Margetta and, for an instant, spitefully, upon the King. For the culpa was surely his; he had traded an earldom for a kingdom, and had lost. John Neville had been crazed with spleen. I had heard his very words from Earl Rivers, reading a letter borne in after the event.
‘My lord vows,’ he said, laughing on each word, ‘that the King has robbed him unjustly. Is this how he rewards loyalty (asks my lord)? For here is a rich Earldom forfeit to Lord Percy, and for what? A Paltry Marquisate—and a pie’s nest to maintain it with!’ He and Thomas Grey had laughed, loud and long. Rich, warm laughter. Until their gay humour was shortened by the avenging pursuit of six thousand men.
I was ocean-soaked again already, my clothes only just having dried from our earlier crossing of the Wash. I walked upon the deck beside Richard. The sails of our little craft fattened now, like a woman well-ripened with love’s fruit. Richard was saying: ‘They should fly England aloft,’ looking up at the mainsail; and I had need gently to remind him that we had only the garments we stood up in, let alone the Royal standard, or pennoncelles.
We Speak No Treason Vol 2 Page 4