by Amy Licence
The old family legends resurfaced, retold to the York children from an early age. To Edward it was a tale of wide, white skies, an old cathedral, leaning buildings. He had an image of his mother hurrying, looking worried; he heard the sound of a baby crying. ‘Sometimes I think I remember.’
‘You must have been three or four when you left. Edmund and Elizabeth had been born by then. It was soon after your return that the lieutenancy went to Somerset for the first time. Your father took it as a slight, part of this constant campaign to keep him from his rights; nor is it the first time he has marched against the king. You were only a boy at the time, you would not have known.’
Edward turned to him, his hazel eyes afire. ‘Tell me.’
Peter’s white head nodded. They reached the castle wall and he leaned against the step. The Crofts were heading off towards the stables. ‘It was in the wake of the rebellion led by Jack Cade. Your father was in Ireland at the time but rumours flew about the country, blaming him for anything that went wrong. Some of the rebels even rose in his name, calling for the removal of Somerset but the king refused to listen.’
‘So he marched against him? Did they fight?’
‘London was in chaos and Somerset retreated to the tower for his own safety. Two years later your father tried again; he marched to Blackheath but the gates of the capital were locked against him and Somerset and the king tricked him into a false, shameful truce.’
‘I remember it well, I was a boy of ten and all set to lead an army south myself to help father, before mother put a stop to it.’
‘She was wise to do so; brave as you were, you would have ended up getting killed.’
But Edward’s mind was already racing ahead. ‘What has changed now?’
Peter frowned. The boy was quick. ‘Now your father has Warwick at his side and the earl’s father, Salisbury. Together they might accomplish much.’
‘But if he loses?’
‘How your mind runs on extremes! Do not think of it yet. Until we hear otherwise, we will assume he has won. Then, if the worst comes to pass, all is in readiness for the flight; we will go to Ireland, to the Mortimer estates in Dublin; your father has loyal friends there. But it will not happen so, I am certain.’
Richard Croft was heading towards the great gatehouse that gave out onto the town marketplace. Edward watched as he drew out his chain of keys.
‘The gates are locked at this time of day?’
‘Just a precaution. I have told him there are beggars in the town.’
Edward nodded, his mind running on battles of his own.
Peter clasped a hand on his shoulder. ‘Let us go and breakfast now, there is no point pining away whilst we wait.’
The proud boy’s eyes burned into the doorway where Croft had disappeared. If he could do nothing else, he would win his own victory today.
*
The Duke of York squinted into the sun. The narrow street ahead lay empty, with every house silent. The shutters were drawn across the windows and the doors were bolted fast. A mosaic of rooftops showed the direction of the main street, leading to the abbey and the marketplace. Somewhere below them was the king, Henry VI, his face drawn with displeasure as he tried to understand how events had brought him to this point. His pale eyes would be searching the skies in confusion, seeking answers that would do little to allay the political situation, whilst his advisers whispered into his ears. Despite everything, the duke could not help but pity him.
For Henry himself was hardly to blame. Fortune had placed him on the throne but not fashioned him to rule, filling him instead with a gentle nature and mildness more suited to the cloister than the court. It was hard not to measure him against the might of his father, the heroic Henry V, athlete, diplomat and victor of Agincourt. Such a man might have ruled England unchallenged for decades, stayed rebellion with his fearsome eye or a stern word of command. He would have bound east and west, north and south, straddling the country as a Lancastrian giant, making its green forests and mudded roads peaceful. But his early death had handed his throne to a nine-month baby. Young Henry had grown up being dominated by his uncles, his favourites and now, his French wife.
A movement further down the road caught the duke’s keen eye. Someone was approaching under the house eaves, head bowed, walking in haste. With a quick gesture, he had archers training their bows at the form, ready to loosen their arrows in defence.
‘Don’t shoot! A message, a message!’
The bows lowered. A boy, panting and wide-eyed handed over a folded paper. York unravelled it at once, seeking the king’s signature. He did not find it; instead there were threats, rebuttals, objections; Henry would not hand over the Duke of Somerset who threatened York’s position, nor would he agree to name York as the king’s heir. The final words stung: there would be no negotiations with traitors. The paper crumpled in his fist and with it, all hopes that the day would end peacefully.
The Duke of York turned to his waiting men, his eyes steeled in determination. They massed in the road behind him, ten or twelve deep.
‘Our terms have been refused. Today, we must fight in order to protect our king from the influence of the ambitious and corrupt Somerset, who seeks to usurp the true line of succession and have me removed. We must defeat him or die in the attempt. The odds are on our side; the king’s forces are but small and he awaits reinforcements that our scouts tell us are still many miles off. Warwick waits in the outlying fields with his forces, ready to act as soon as he receives word. They scarcely expect us to attack; our victory lies in the element of surprise. The moment is now, we must seize it. In the name of the king, of St George and for the true English line, the Mortimers, and for the honour of the house of York!’
He thrust his sword skyward and the blade glinted in the sun.
‘For the honour of the house of York!’ cried his men, their arms echoing his own.
*
It was quiet in the stables. Horses moved softly and gently in the half-light, drawing their hooves through straw with the grace of immense, controlled strength. Edward breathed in the stuffy air, acrid with the tang of dung. The world seemed different this morning, sharper and more real, as if childhood had already begun to recede. He could hear the rats scuffling in the corners.
An uneven shape appeared in the doorway. The air darkened. Concealed in the stalls, Edward watched Rick Croft approach, his face a snarl, thick throat pulsing with his short breath. It was almost too easy, knowing his daily routine, as simple as tempting a dog out of its kennel with a scrap of meat. He watched as Croft grappled with a bag of oats under his arm, dropped it so they spilled over the straw, kicked out in frustration.
‘Pick them up.’
‘Eh?’ Still crouched, Croft swung round.
‘I said, pick them all up.’ Edward stepped out into the light. ‘You dropped the oats, so pick them all up. Don’t waste a single one or else you’ll be sleeping out here tonight with no supper.’
Croft’s squat head shuddered in his broad shoulders. He was clearly struggling with the desire to react but he could not refuse a direct order.
‘What are you waiting for?’ Edward urged, fuelled with the sense of battle. ‘Get down on your knees and pick them up, every last oat.’
Grumbling, his enemy complied. Edward stood over him, recalling his taunting words and blows out in the field. The oats were tiny; they had scattered and mingled with the straw. Croft’s clumsy thick fingers clawed in the dust but he was losing patience. Inching forward on his knees, he reached Edward’s boots. One fist shot out and grabbed the boy’s ankle, trying to tip him over but Edward was ready for him. He shook him off easily and sent Croft sprawling back.
‘Nice try. You think I’m stupid? You can go to bed hungry for that.’
Croft snarled. ‘Who the hell do you think you are, little boy? Now your father has gone, you’re nothing.’ He rose up to his full height, a tall, solid, imposing height, with the strength of an unthinking brute.
&n
bsp; Edward came forward to meet him, his bravery registering as surprise in the cruel eyes. ‘Who do I think I am? Who exactly? I am Edward Plantagenet, son of the Duke of York, recently Lord Protector, a descendant of Edward III and your lord and master.’
As soon as he had delivered the words, he followed them with his fist. His knuckles connected with Croft’s cheekbone and sent him sprawling back into the muck.
*
It seemed as if they had been huddled inside the house forever. Father, mother, the children, grandparents and servants, crouching on the floor with the oak table pushed up against the door. They had been eating when it started, with fresh bread and jugs of ale set out on the table. Then there had been shouting outside, screaming and the dull thud of feet against the step but now it was quiet. Had the soldiers gone?
The man opened his eyes. In his arms, his youngest daughter was still trembling and gently, he handed her to his wife. The room was so still he could hear his own breath as he rose slowly, his eyes on the window. Beyond the pane, he could see a square of grey sky and the tops of trees. There was a path that ran from the back of the garden out to the fields.
He inched forward, daring himself to look. His back was hot with the eyes of his loved ones. The tops of the apple tree appeared, then the red brick wall and the point of the hen house. He felt his shoulders relax in relief and stepped closer, spotting the bucket that had been dropped as a child ran indoors and the white sheets his wife had draped over the bushes to dry. A green leaf fell from the skies, twisting and twirling its slow path to earth. He watched it with heart beating.
Then, as if out of some vision of hell, the wall shattered in the centre, sending bricks flying into the garden. A booted foot appeared, then another. As the dust cleared, there were suddenly dozens of men, armed and urgent, jostling their way through, stamping across the shrubs growing by the wall and trampling the sheets underfoot. For a moment they paused, and at their head, like the crest of a wave, appeared the Earl of Warwick, dark, swarthy and compact, bristling with energy. Then, as an unstoppable tide, they surged onwards, hacking their way into the fence of the next garden.
‘À Warwick! À Warwick!’
If they saw the man at the window, they ignored him. They did not need him. The shaking figure heard their chant before he dived back down to the floor, lips mumbling in prayer.
*
In the marketplace, a basket of plums came crashing to the ground. The purple fruits rolled unnoticed across the cobbles, pulped under hurrying feet. The king’s army was in chaos. Men spilled in each direction, fogged by confusion as arrows rained down from above. Some were still pulling on armour, balancing on one leg as the point of an arrowhead embedded itself in their vulnerable flesh. Bodies littered the ground, writhing and moaning whilst others limped to shelter, banging on doors that did not open. Amid them all, beside the market cross, the figure of the king remained motionless. Encased in armour, only his eyes flickered, betraying the terror and turmoil within.
Standing at the crossroads where the abbey’s land met the town, Abbot Whethamstede saw the tide of men approaching. The little green lane had never before witnessed such a sight. Grasses blew in the breeze and a bird circled above, yet hell itself was coming this way on two legs. The sun shone on armour as one man hacked mercilessly at another, with blood pooling in sticky dark patches. He could hear the screams of the dying, the heart-rending screams of souls in torment that he would never be able to forget.
The news had reached him as he knelt at morning prayer. Terrifying, apocalyptic news for the little town, with its huddle of workshops, inns and homes around the market square, where women met to gossip and children played games. Sheltered inside the stone crypt, he had hardly been able to believe his ears, yet here it was, like one of the old manuscript illustrations of the fires of damnation. He was no stranger to death and suffering; over the years he had sat at men’s deathbeds and tended the sick and wounded, yet what he now saw turned his stomach. Some lay in the gutters, bleeding from wounds to the head, arm or throat. Others simply slumped where they had fallen, with their glazed eyes fixed on the heavens. The abbot knew he should rush in, offer them the last rites and the chance of salvation but he could be of little help if he was wounded or killed.
Hurrying back to the cool stone sanctuary of the cloister, he heard feet pounding after him. Cold fear prickled down his spine. Was this the moment God had chosen for him? Was he to become a victim in this senseless struggle? His chest pounded. He would embrace martyrdom if that was God’s chosen path; if that was the destiny he was being offered.
He swung round. A handful of bedraggled knights were clattering down the path.
‘For the love of God, let us in, let us in. They will kill us all, in the name of the king, let us have shelter inside.’
The abbot ran ahead and hammered on the door. It was thrown open at once and the figures staggered into the misty gloom of the nave.
*
Back at the market cross, Henry VI slowly dismounted. His pale eyes swept the scene. The low pitch of dying men’s moans reached him from the surrounding lanes. Somerset was at his side, a tall, spare man, his cheek bleeding.
‘You are wounded. Why did you take off your helmet?’
The king looked at him in surprise.
‘Your neck, look.’
Henry felt the duke’s fingers against his skin, then they came away red with blood. The sight of it curdled his stomach.
‘I didn’t notice, I didn’t feel it. I suppose it must have been an arrow. I couldn’t see with the helmet on. Is the day lost?’
‘Never. Let us get you to safety. There is a tanner here who will shelter you, come with me, come. They will not think to look there. Warwick is about to burst through into the main street and meet York’s troops. We cannot lose a moment, come.’
As they hurried away, the air behind them roared with the promised arrival and the clash of metal on metal.
*
Croft was not defeated yet. He sat up, hair full of straw, eyes blazing. He had guts, Edward admitted to himself.
‘Just because your father happens to be a duke,’ he spat, struggling to his feet, ‘it doesn’t mean I can’t squash your snivelling face in the mud. You and your milksop brother.’
‘No, you’re right,’ retorted Edward. ‘He isn’t here to stop you. But I am.’
Croft lunged forward but Edward was faster. His fist caught the thickset jaw and sent his enemy crashing back against the stable door. A second blow to the side doubled him over. Edward grabbed a fistful of his brittle hair, recalling Edmund’s troubled night and moments when he had endured the bully’s sneers and taunts, simply because he had been smaller and weaker.
‘I’ve had enough of you. I’ve been lenient with your treachery but a man has his limits.’
With a huge shove, he projected Croft forward into the deep straw piled up with horse dung.
‘Edward.’
The voice came from the stable door. He swung round to see Peter standing silhouetted by the sun. Shame seized him at once; Croft had had it coming, yet he knew such behaviour was beneath him.
Peter stepped oved the threshold. ‘That’s enough. You, get out.’ He barely looked at Rick, sprawled across the floor, but the lout did not need another invitation to leave. He scrambled to his feet and disappeared.
‘This isn’t like you.’
‘He’s an animal,’ breathed Edward heavily. ‘He attacked Edmund, pulled a knife on us.’
‘Then you should speak with his father.’
‘But Croft…’
‘I know, but it is the right thing to do. Let it go. Brawling like this is beneath you. We have more important battles to fight.’
Edward flushed. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Let us forget it now. Come inside, back to your studies and we will try to divert your mind. Edmund is waiting. Show him the way.’
*
Warwick’s men swarmed about the market cross. Their eyes were
keen and their blades drenched in blood. The earl pushed back his visor as the Duke of York approached.
‘He’s inside?’
Warwick nodded. ‘Holed up like a rat.’
York turned to survey the building, and a shadow drew back from the window.
‘He’s watching us, waiting for our next move. Is there no sign of the king’s reinforcements?’
‘Oxford’s men are still a day’s march away.’
York sighed, the inevitable dawning. ‘Do we try and take him alive?’
Warwick stepped closer, conspiratorially. ‘We’ve crossed a line. We can’t go back. If he lives, we’ll be attainted as traitors, perhaps worse. Blood has been shed on both sides, now it’s him or us.’
‘Then we must make it swift.’
York knew what Somerset would be thinking. He was a commander of the English army, a knight of the garter and Lieutenant of France: such men did not lurk in corners. He would step out into the daylight and face them, fighting to the last, even if it meant being cut down. A soothsayer had once warned him that he would meet his death in a castle. Now, the irony of the inn’s sign, depicting the strong stone battlements of defence, was not lost on York.
He raised his gloved fist and gave the signal.
*
The afternoon shadows were long and lean as Edmund watched from the castle window. The archery butts were golden from the last sunlight as the day slipped towards evening; soon the bell for prayers would ring, followed by the dinner hour. Then, they might sit for a while before the fire, making plans or listening as Peter read stories of chivalry from one of the old French books.
Through the window, he could see Edward, bending to pick up a stray arrow from the ground. His brother had been restless, unable to keep his long limbs still so Peter had allowed him to go outside although he hadn’t quite finished his reading. He was a far better archer than Edmund. Each time he practised, his balance improved, although his right arm and shoulder still hurt from the repeated exertion. One day he would be one of those men who could lift a cart singlehanded.
Then, as the sun slanted down upon Edward’s head, Edmund saw his brother turn. His whole manner changed, his shoulders drawing up tall, his spine straightening. Edmund followed his gaze towards the castle gates, where a lone rider had been admitted. It was a man in the Yorkist livery of murrey and blue, his horse veering as he pulled up the reins. Edward hurried forward and received a message from the man’s gloved hands. Edmund watched from a distance as his quick fingers broke the seal and scanned the contents. Even from the window, it was clear that the news was good.