by Amy Licence
‘Poor country! A country without a king, like a ship with no one at the helm. That’s why they needed father to step in, and why they despise him now.’
‘So we are not welcome there?’
‘Father proved to be a better ruler than that feeble Henry and they know it.’
Edmund nodded at the family mantra. ‘I know.’
The old man in the closet looked up from his writing and the boys pretended to bend their heads over their books. It was a long time before Edmund spoke again, his voice soft.
‘I want to explore. To see the world, to visit the places we read about, the pope in Rome and the Holy Lands, even just to see spices growing on trees.’
Edward laughed, then saw his brother was serious. ‘Spices and popes? What have you been reading? You’re feeling hemmed in here, tied to one place?’
‘I don’t know, I love this place, perhaps it’s just impatience with the slowness of things. Sometimes it feels as if we just sit out the days, waiting, learning these endless lessons. That we just eat and sleep. Do you never feel that?’
His brother thought of the pulse in his veins on waking, of the strength of his limbs and the sheer bodily delight of action and reaction, of meals to anticipate and hot fires, of warm refreshing sleep and the thrill of the hunt. For him, the present moment was everything. He was a child who lived physically, whose experiences were tactile and energising, of the five senses, bones, tongue and teeth. His eyes were drawn by girls with baskets, crossing the outer bailey.
‘Why don’t we plan a joust, invite some of the local families? That will give you something to think about.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘And we’ll all be together again at Fotheringhay soon.’
From somewhere outside, a horn blasted. Pigeons rose in a cloud. The gatehouse ahead swarmed with movement and a man on horseback broke through. They recognised him at the same time and the world was suddenly transformed.
Edward was already heading for the staircase. ‘It’s father!’
‘Wait. Should we tell him, about last night?’
The older boy shrugged, his lips already tempted to form the curve of a confession, to spill out the incident in the evening lane and see the wrath of justice descend. There was an undeniable attraction in the sharing of news. He pictured the warm fatherly hand on his shoulder, imparting the weight of government, legislation and a sense of the wider world, green and fertile, stacked up behind. It would be a comfort indeed, to slip back under the blanket of childhood and let father lift the weight of the memory. No doubt the hated Croft and his sons would be sent packing. But it was impossible.
Edward’s young head teemed with the imprint of his ancestors, the boldness of John of Gaunt, the might of Edward III, of men steaming from the battlefield and fighting with words in the council chamber. Whatever the future might hold, he knew where he had come from.
‘No, I’ve dealt with it. Father doesn’t need our troubles added to his.’
Edmund accepted this, trusting that the right decision had been made. The sound of activity on the floor below sent them galloping down the spiral stairs as fast as they dared go.
*
In the centre of the room stood Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York. He was a wiry, dark-haired man in his mid-forties, his lean face and peppery beard seasoned by campaigns in France and Ireland. He was not a tall man but somehow his energy gave the impression of great height. In a state of perpetual readiness, his every muscle seemed alive and taut, ready to spring. His head was held high with an attractive blend of ease and control, of quiet entitlement but not arrogance, as though the rest of the world was simply a natural extension of himself, as much his own limbs as his arms and legs were. And those hands, powerful and broad, could command fleets and armies, loyalty and love, as well as instilling fear into his enemies.
His sons stumbled into the room but fell immediately on bended knee at the sight of him. He waited, pleased at their display of deference, a smile playing about his lips, knowing that they were bursting to speak. Anything might have happened in the weeks since they last saw each other. Edmund broke first.
‘What has happened? Is all well?’
York let out a laugh. ‘Come, boys, come to me, let me touch you, to see that these two fine young men are not phantoms.’
They ran to him, each one embraced under a strong arm. The familiar tang of leather and sweat stirred them to memories of other places, other people.
‘Indeed, all’s well with the world at this moment. And with you?’
‘All’s well here too, father,’ replied Edward. ‘We go about our books and our training, the days pass.’
York ruffled his sandy hair. ‘As I knew you would, my boy, as I knew you would. I have ridden miles this morning and must eat, so let’s sit and talk. Is this your dinner hour? Close enough, I should think.’
He called into the doorway. ‘Bring food and wine, stoke the fire, bring linen and cloths, we’ll dine here, at once.’
This energy broke the soporific spell and, at once, men in blue livery moved silently and swiftly to light more candles, replenish the fire and hurry down to the kitchens. They ate quickly out of habit, from the plates of baked meats and pies laid before them.
‘So you’ve been to Fotheringhay?’ Edmund finally asked, satisfying his appetite before the others.
‘I left there on Monday. Your mother is tired, that’s to be expected, but the younger ones are thriving and she has your sisters for company. The surgeon has bled her and she is content enough for one in her condition. The child has quickened and moves well; she believes it will be another son. She has sent me a letter for you both, here.’
York untucked a slim folded packet from inside his clothing; Edmund took it at once, snapped the seal and began to read.
Edward watched his father carefully. ‘So why are you not at court?’
York smiled and drained his cup. ‘Court is not a prison, not yet at least. A man may still come and go.’
‘And the king, he is really restored to health?’
‘His wits have returned so he no longer has need of me. For how long, I do not know. He has his wife and her lackey.’
‘The Duke of Somerset?’
‘The very same.’ His face darkened.
Edward nodded, piecing together his limited knowledge of the Lancastrian royal family and their followers. Since Henry VI had recovered, his French wife and her favourite were in a position of strength again, their hatred of the house of York burning with a greater intensity.
‘But why do they hate us so much?’
York laid a hand on his elder son’s shoulder. ‘The enmity goes back years, but of late, Somerset has mismanaged things in France. He did not appreciate it when I tried to call him to account. He has the king’s ear and he fills it with poison.’
‘Is he dangerous?’
York’s jaw tautened. ‘As much as I am to him.’
‘Oh! Mother writes that Richard has had his first taste in the saddle,’ smiled Edmund, looking up from the letter he was reading. ‘He hung onto old Fetlock all the way across the field to the butts, then slid off over his head, clinging to the reins until Georgie lifted him down.’
‘So what now?’ Edward asked his father softly. ‘Will they send you back to Ireland?’
‘No, I must be close to London. The situation is volatile. I do not know which way Somerset will jump next.’
‘He plans to retaliate?’
York nodded. ‘As Protector I could keep him out of the way, but now the king no longer needs me, he is after my blood. As soon as Henry recovered he released him from the tower but this time I have the support of the Earl of Warwick, so perhaps together, we might defeat him.’
‘And the queen?’
‘Loathes me.’ He gave a small, wry laugh.
‘And Exeter?’
Their father’s face darkened again. The Duke of Exeter had been married to their eldest sister Anne when she was only a girl b
ut that had not prevented him from rebelling against the family. York had managed to curb some of his violent excesses and place him under lock and key at Pontefract Castle.
‘He has been freed.’ York shook his head in disgust. ‘And I have been relieved of my Captaincy of Calais, in favour of Somerset.’
‘Not again! The man is the very devil!’
‘He may well be, Edward, he may well be.’
‘Oh, but Georgie has had a fever!’ exclaimed Edmund, reading further down the page. ‘Mother writes that he has been confined to bed with stomach pains and sweats these past three days and only now begins to recover. Did you see him father? It was a fever that took William, wasn’t it?’
York turned to him. ‘Don’t be anxious over George, either of you. He has colour in his cheeks and is eating well; he’d eaten a little chicken and pudding when I left him and will soon be up and about again. In fact, he and Richard are probably already making mischief in the garden as we speak.’
‘And mother writes that Elizabeth and Margaret have quarrelled again.’
‘Now that I cannot remedy,’ nodded York, leaning closer to his elder son and lowering his voice. ‘I have more, for your ears, later.’
Wiping his mouth, he rose from his chair. ‘Let’s walk down to the stables, my men have brought new horses for you.’
*
Outside, Edmund ran ahead to see the pair of white stallions being rubbed down and watered after their journey. In the middle of the green bailey, with the crows circling above, York paused and looked about to check who was within earshot. A sense of urgency came into his brown eyes.
‘I must speak to you only, Edward. The political situation has changed.’
At once the boy was all attention. ‘How so?’
‘The queen has summoned a meeting of the Great Council to Leicester.’
He looked over to where Edmund was running his hand gently over the mane of one of the powerful beasts.
‘If we attend, we will almost certainly be arrested. Reliable sources tell me they are questioning my loyalty. There is no choice but to fight, so we have been assembling troops on the Welsh border; that is why I am in the area. We have three thousand men camped in the hills.’
Edward felt a thrill of excitement. ‘A battle? A real battle?’
‘It seems that it must be so, but listen, listen well. I have little time. If we raise our standard against the king and lose, we shall all suffer. You are my eldest son. If I am killed…’
‘You will not be!’
‘Listen. If I am killed, you will head the family. Trust no one, only put yourself into the Earl of Warwick’s hands and he will guide you until you come of age. You may even have to flee, to Ireland or abroad, until the country settles or there is some other change. The horses I brought are strong and fast; handle them and get used to them but do not tire them out, so they are ready.’
The boy was silent, absorbing this.
‘You understand?’
‘Yes, father.’
‘You must be prepared to go with Warwick at any moment; I will speak with your tutor so he may make the arrangements. Edmund need not know until necessary and your mother and the little ones will be safe at Fotheringhay. The king will be lenient with them and the queen will remember her former friendship with your mother.’
‘Of course. What will happen?’
‘If we win, I shall keep my life and liberty. I would not choose this path but the queen leaves me little choice.’ He put his hand on Edward’s hand. ‘Don’t worry; I shall appeal to the king. In spite of everything, he’s not an unintelligent man; he’s deeply devout and would prefer not to see bloodshed; this may still be settled with words, not blows.’
‘Are you afraid?’
‘It is mortal to doubt but only the weak man allows it to overcome him. Fear can lose battles. We must trust in the Lord.’
Edward nodded in recognition.
‘Let’s join Edmund. I must be on my way soon, as I plan to meet with Warwick before sunset. Remember what I have told you; be wise and secret in your counsel but when you act, be decisive and do not waver.’
‘I shall never forget it.’
And York was again all smiles, crossing the yard in strides, catching the sunlight in his greying hair. He beckoned Edmund from the stables, where the boy was all admiration for the magnificent horses, measuring their height and strength, anticipating their speed and stamina. Edward hung back and watched them, stirred by the sense that he was moving from his brother’s world into one of which he had previously only dreamed.
THREE: First Blood
England woke to a cold grey dawn. In the fields, colours slowly clarified as fingers of light moved in from the east. Rabbits lopped through hedgerows and birds sang. Cows lifted their heads into the mist, tongues lolling, as women’s fingers searched for the soft fullness of their udders.
The routines and rhythms of life began again, of fire and water, death and life. As the sun climbed higher, it threw light onto the forms of men massing among the greenery, rising, assembling, moving in a single body. It caught the blade of an axe, the curve of a bow. Along the lanes echoed the earth-rumbling of marching feet.
In the little market town of St Albans, the first fires were being lit. Children yawned and stretched in bed and shutters were opened. A lone cart rumbled through the marketplace, carrying animal feed. The driver was sleepy, rubbing his eyes as he urged his horse forward. Someone called to him from a window and a hand waved down, a cheery voice called a greeting. He pulled on the reins to steer away from the deep verge ahead, tilting the cart, then swerving back to balance again. But the end of the street looked strange. He blinked. And then, a few hundred yards away, he became aware of a mass of life, hundreds of men, waiting quietly in the gloom, watching the road ahead. Suddenly he was awake. Snapping the reins down on his horse’s back, he turned in a wide curve, cold with fear, bolting back along the road he had come.
‘We are under attack,’ he cried, softly at first. Then his voice grew louder as the image began to sink in; swords, axes, spears. ‘Get out to the fields, lock your houses up, we are under attack.’
A woman spinning at her wheel heard him; a girl drawing water at the well looked up and dropped her bucket.
‘We are under attack,’ he repeated, before slipping from his cart and crashing to the cobbles. For there, under the overhanging eaves of the houses, another wall of men was creeping slowly into the heart of the town, a long chain of figures bent on death. And one among their number bore a flag, a stripe of green and white with the image of a red dragon. It was the standard of the king.
*
Geese were cackling below the window. Edward looked across to where his brother lay sleeping, hair tousled and one arm flung up behind his head. Once or twice in the night he had cried out, in the throes of some nightmare or wrestling with some demon. Now he looked at peace. It would be better to let him sleep.
Edward slipped out of bed and pulled on his shirt and braies. It had not been an easy night for him either, with the early morning hours bringing troublesome questions and fears. He knew of old that the dark hours before the dawn were the worst but, once the first bird had sung, hope had been born anew. Now, as he stretched his aching limbs, his father’s words returned to him along with his familiar face; the dark eyes, and his warnings for the future. In the stillness of the rumpled bed sheets, it was hard to picture men locked together in battle, blood-drenched and gasping. Yet this might be the hour, this might be the moment. It might even be over already, with the day won or lost. A messenger could be riding this way right now, crossing the countryside with the fatal news. The realisation gripped Edward’s stomach and he looked about with new eyes. Ludlow had been his home for so long; was he to leave these friendly walls behind forever?
He hurried outside, across the green space and into the chapel. The almoner, Croft was already there, his thin lips devoutly pursed. His two sons, Rick and Alan, stood on either side of him,
watching Edward with sullen eyes. Croft nodded curtly to acknowledge his employer’s son. Edward passed them and joined his old tutor, Peter, who was already at prayer, on bended knee before the shimmering altar. The carved silver cross and marble faces of the saints looked down benevolently, as they had each morning, noon and night for decades. The silence was so complete Edward could feel it pressing in on him on all sides, enfolding him in its safety. Not even the eyes of the Croft brothers could burn a hole in his back that day. Surely all would be well? Lifting his head, he met the carved eyes of the Virgin, cradling her child.
As Edward walked out into the daylight, Peter drew alongside him. He had served his charges since they were small boys, knew their moods and characters well. His kind grey eyes spoke of his knowledge and concern.
‘You are thinking of your father?’
Edward winced. ‘I am that transparent?’
‘No, but it is a time of change, of great danger to the family. I would be surprised if you were not.’
‘He has told you?’
‘A little. Enough that I may be of use to you, if the time comes.’
The boy sighed. ‘My mind runs on it incessantly. Not knowing is the worst. I wish I could be there with him, instead of here doing my lessons.’
‘There is nothing you can do except wait and pray. You must trust in your father and in God.’
‘I know.’
Croft and his sons emerged from the church, the almoner sweeping the courtyard with his acid stare. Then he gathered his sons close and appeared to be giving them instructions.
‘No one else here knows?’
‘No,’ said Peter. ‘No one else. Not Croft.’
Edward nodded. ‘I don’t trust him.’
‘Forget him,’ said Peter. ‘He does not deserve your thoughts. Today, think of your duty and your family. I know you are afraid.’
Edward pursed his lips, refusing to acknowledge what Peter had intuited.
‘Remember this is not the first time your father has fronted an army,’ the old man went on. ‘You were born in Rouen whilst your father was fighting the French. Do you remember anything of those days?’