Son of York

by Amy Licence

  FOUR: A Court Without a King, November, 1455

  Edmund drew in his breath. London was busier than he remembered. The lines of the rolling Marcher countryside around Ludlow had been redrawn by steeples, towers and the evil claw of the gallows, by wine and song, by the tang of spices and the smoke of charnel houses. Merchants and pirates sailed up and down the Thames, unloading their bolts of dazzling Venetian cloth or bitter oranges from the Holy Lands. Pigs and dogs foraged in the ditches while nuns knelt in cool dark cloisters, their lips dry from prayer. At twelve years old, Edmund felt so temporary, so easily bruised, against the centuries embedded in the walls here, against the lives and deaths these streets had seen. And those they were yet to see.

  Riding slightly ahead of him, Edward was soaking up the people’s adoration. All eyes were hungry for the handsome eldest son of the Duke of York, with his finely chiselled features and the warm eyes that seemed to promise laughter. He wore his confidence like a cloak; casual, glittering, all-embracing. Edmund wished he could enjoy their adulation too but the crowd filled him with unease. He sensed the ripple of power that ran through them, the brute force of bodies packed in closely together, the animal spirits that could easily turn their good-natured welcome ugly.

  ‘Wave, Edmund!’

  It was Peter, at his side, urging him to play his part. He lifted a hand in response but the gesture felt awkward.

  The procession moved on. Near the cross, sand and herbs had been strewn on the cobbles, making the horses tread more lightly. They paused briefly to be greeted by the mayor and aldermen, with their formulaic words and fickle smiles, flapping like moths around the latest flame. Their scarlet cloaks made a flash of colour against the drab house walls. Watching their faces, Edmund could not help but remember that not so long ago they had hurried to do homage to King Henry and his French queen.

  Then, from amid the clamour of voices came music. Soft, sweet music. The boy lifted his chin to listen. For a moment he was stilled as the low, throaty notes of a pipe wafted down from an upstairs window. Slowly they ascended the scales, climbing higher and higher, then trilling in a little flourish of joy. Edmund was held fast by it. It spoke to him alone, above the heads of the crowd. Then, just as abruptly as it had begun, the piping stopped. The spell was broken.

  ‘Edmund, wave to the people!’

  The boy forced one hand into the air. It made a pathetic sort of flutter, falling as if there was no weight to it. He coloured at once.

  And then the procession turned, blessedly, it turned. They had left behind St Paul’s, Blackfriars and the crowds of Fleet Street and passed along the Strand to the village of Charing. Now, green fields were visible beyond the rooftops. Rising up ahead was the huge stone Eleanor Cross, carved with its figures and patterns, set in the middle of the thoroughfare. Relief filled his chest. It was almost over. There, in the distance, with the autumn sun gently warming its grey stones, lay the great gateway to Westminster Palace.

  *

  Inside the great hall, it was dark as the grave. The boys stood blinking in the doorway, as the bright day cast their faces into shadow. It was just possible to make out the vast vaulted cavern stretching before them. The lamps were not yet lit but, at the far end, came the gleam of flames, the hint of doors and corridors and a warren of rooms.

  ‘This way.’ Peter was at their side, steering them up towards the royal apartments.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Edward, stepping forward. ‘I remember the way, I’ll lead.’

  And suddenly there was mother; all arms and folds of scarlet cloth as she wrapped them in her embrace. The softness of lace brushed their hot cheeks and, with it, the familiar warmth of her skin, overlaid with the smell of lye and roses. For a moment, Edmund was transported back to the world of the nursery, with the bustling of women and the creak of the rocking cradle. Edward pulled away first, cheeks red with excitement.

  ‘They gave us a king’s welcome in the city! Every citizen must have turned out to see us!’

  Cecily, Duchess of York, smiled at her eldest boy. She was forty, still bearing the signs of the delicate blonde beauty of her youth, although her eyes were lined. She carried her proud Neville lineage in her expression, with her aristocratic profile and delicate features, yet in her generous mouth were the unmistakeable signs of pride and determination.

  ‘And why would they not, given two such boys? Look at you both! Edward you are scarcely recognisable.’

  He laughed. ‘It hasn’t been that long!’

  ‘Long enough for a mother, long enough and far too long again, come,’ she drew him back to her and pressed her lips on his forehead. ‘A mother’s blessing. How tall you are and how like my father you are growing.’

  Edward endured her caresses before breaking away and heading to the window to scan the view.

  ‘And my Edmund, my own comfort.’ Cecily had a different voice for her second son. ‘Did the journey trouble you?’

  And although it had been a trouble, a trial and discomfort in the glow of all the faces, Edmund did not want to seem the baby, so he put on a show of bravery.

  ‘It was no trouble to me, I’ve grown out of such childish fears!’

  Perhaps the retort had been too brusque or too quick. Her gentle smile told him she understood; she saw through him but also recognised his need. She kissed the top of his head, his ear, his cheek.

  ‘Of course, of course, for you are quite grown up now. But I am glad to have you safely at my side again. What a Christmas we will keep this year, what laughter and good times, with all of us here together, if it pleases God.’

  ‘All of us?’

  Cecily smiled. ‘They will all come for Christmas, Elizabeth and Margaret, George and Richard, and we will be together again, every last one of us. The living in my arms and those already passed will be honoured in our thoughts.’

  And just as he had been understood, Edmund knew the source of his mother’s words. There had been other children, born before and after him, whom it had pleased God to claim in their infancy. The last had been little Ursula, who had only lived a few days after her birth, that summer. He knew it weighed heavily on her heart, no matter how stoic she professed to be.

  Now she smiled and drew him closer to kiss him again and nibble at his rosy cheeks. He tolerated her and did not push her away as his brother had done, for Edward was a diplomat, a warrior, active, proud and independent, a man of action like their father, while he, Edmund, was his mother’s son.

  ‘We must explore the gardens!’ called Edward, gesturing towards some unseen location outside. ‘There is so much to do and we can take a boat from here up river to Windsor and hunt there.’

  ‘Ah, but the king is at Windsor,’ said his mother softly. ‘Yes, he has taken to his bed again and, although the physicians are being cautious, it seems that he is in danger of losing his wits again.’

  ‘Is he gravely ill?’ Edmund spoke against her ear, remembering the fevered nights of childhood illnesses. At Middleham, it had always been the soft, scented form of his mother who had sat beside his bed through the long dark hours until dawn. Her white hands had moved like birds above his head, alternately mopping his brow and offering prayers.

  ‘We cannot be certain,’ she said to him. ‘No one is certain of his illness. His body seems strong enough but his mind is frail.’

  ‘Poor King,’ said Edmund, as if he was speaking of a bird that had fallen from its nest. ‘But what would happen if…’

  ‘Ssh,’ interrupted his mother. ‘You must never speak of the king’s mortality. Some people would see it as treason.’

  ‘Treason?’ The word left him cold with horrible imaginings.

  ‘But remember King Henry has a son now to continue his line.’

  ‘The prince is only three!’ declared Edward, cutting in from across the room, ‘and we cannot have another baby on the throne, so father should be king.’

  ‘Should he?’

  The voice, deep and echoing, came from an anteroo
m. For a moment the boys froze, wondering who had overheard their indiscretion, before the tapestries parted to reveal the Duke of York himself, his eyes burning with energy. He was dressed in splendid blue velvet, inlaid with silver tissue, while warm furs lay draped about his shoulders. The boys knelt, as protocol dictated.

  The duke laughed, striding into the room, beaming across his tanned face. ‘There is but one king in this kingdom and I would not exchange his poor lot for mine.’ He drew them both to the window seat where the air was sweet with the scent of the rain-soaked meadow outside. ‘Your mother is right, though, we must be cautious and wait. This new parliament will declare me Protector again and I have much support from among the nobles, yet the queen will seek to oust me in favour of her boy. We must be discreet.’

  The fire crackled and burned behind them.

  ‘Let no man overhear you speak of this, nor woman either. These things must remain between us until the situation resolves and there may be ears pressed to the door in the service of the queen.’

  Edmund’s eyes crept towards the wooden panelling.

  ‘So in all outward things, let us be merry and celebrate the Nativity with divine service, feastings and disguisings. We will fill Westminster with music and laughter and show the whole of London just how a king should live. Let none have cause to criticise us or doubt our loyalty.’

  As he spoke, there was a soft thud on the floor, like a footfall. They turned to see a log, fallen from the fire, blazing away on the stone flags.

  York rose up immediately and hastened across the floor but Edward was already at his side. He reached for the cutters in the hearth and replaced the log, leaving only a scattering of grey ash. His hazel eyes beamed up at the Duke.

  ‘You have us now father, whatever happens, you have us with you.’

  *

  A hum ran through the crowd as York cleared his throat and raised his goblet. Standing before them in green and brown silk, he looked every inch the king, with a dazzling ruby set into his cap and more gems sparkling on his fingers and chest.

  ‘My Lords, Ladies, I bid you all give a hearty welcome to my eldest sons, Edward, Earl of March and Edmund, Earl of Rutland. They are newly arrived from Ludlow. I trust they will be welcomed at every turn and afforded their due respect and rank as sons of York, descendants of Edward III and as your cousins.’

  He was answered by an array of cheering voices and clapping hands, some more enthusiastic than others.

  It was late and the candles were burning low. The air was thick with smoke and the scent of roasted meat. The great hall had been transformed, with trestle tables draped in the finest cloth and set with the most exotic dishes that London’s markets could offer. Musicians played softly and tumblers, dressed in particoloured hose, turned somersaults and walked on their hands to amuse the diners.

  Edmund had no idea of the time. They had sat down at four, when the light was already fading outside and an endless succession of dishes seemed to flow from the kitchens. Even sharing his portions with Edward, there was yet another pie or pudding, more dressed poultry or baked fish set before them, coloured, gilded or scattered with herbs. After the humble fare of Ludlow, he had been amazed by the offerings of the Westminster kitchen and had eaten heartily; the tender haunches of meat in thickly spiced gravy, the soft white bread, a peacock dressed with almonds and violets, its rainbow tail spread wide in a dazzling fan. Then there were the puddings, the special favourites of the boys; quivering jellies dyed bright purple and red, golden tarts sprinkled with saffron, custards scattered with rose petals and cloves and sweet marchpane, painstakingly painted with geometric patterns.

  Now the evening was drawing to a close. Servants in the Yorkist livery brought up the final dish from the kitchens and a hush descended on the assembly as it was set down on the high table. A huge sweet carving depicting St George and the dragon, it sparkled in gold leaf, glinting and shining in the light of the torches. Edmund’s jaw fell open in awe as the dish was rotated to show it from all angles, before the pieces of sticky yellow marchpane were broken and distributed. He did not notice Edward lean in beside him.

  ‘All our friends are here, and some of our enemies too. Before they leave, it would be good for you to know them, you must be wary as father says.’

  Edmund nodded, urging himself awake.

  ‘Why do we have so many enemies?’

  Edward made an exasperated noise in his throat. ‘Do you listen to nothing father tells us? Half of our guests tonight would rather be raising their glasses in a toast to the king, or perhaps bedding his French wife!’

  Edmund looked at his brother with wide eyes.

  ‘Just a rumour,’ Edward faltered, his adolescent bravado briefly shaken. ‘Forget it. But look, let me point them out to you.’

  Edmund frowned and nodded, turning his attention to the long table flanked by men and women dressed in their best clothes.

  ‘Look, there, our cousin, the Earl of Warwick, dressed in grey.’

  Edmund peered at the hard-faced handsome man, his jaw square and firm as he surveyed the hall with astute eyes. His head was powerfully built and topped with a mop of dark curls. He ate quickly, mechanically, as if his mind was elsewhere. A diamond ring gleamed on his little finger.

  ‘He fought for us at St Albans; together he and father are undefeatable. That ring was a present from father for his loyalty. And beside him is his father Salisbury, our uncle.’

  Seated to Warwick’s left, the Earl of Salisbury’s hair was already white but his body was solid as a barrel. As their mother’s eldest brother, he was fifteen years her senior, heir to the Neville title and had fought with their father in France. Edmund felt comforted to see him, recalling a spring day in the past, when the earl had held him in place in the saddle and led him on a pony around an orchard full of blossom.

  ‘Oh yes, I remember…’

  A servant brought a dish of spices. Edmund watched as his brother took a pinch of some rich red powder and sprinkled it into his wine glass.

  ‘Beyond them, the three Bourchier brothers, our uncles by marriage. Henry is Lord High Treasurer, Thomas is Chancellor and the Archbishop of Canterbury and John, well, Uncle John is the youngest.’

  Edmund nodded, taking in the three round grey heads with their family resemblance and modest but well-constructed features. Henry was married to their aunt Isabel, and had proved himself a capable reliable man, full of wisdom.

  ‘And there, at the end, is Buckingham, Humphrey Stafford, another uncle to watch. He speaks of peace but he commanded the king’s army in the battle; now he has lost favour with the queen but he will turn his coat again when it suits him.’

  Edmund looked first at the long, lean man with gaunt cheeks, trying to commit his face to memory. As he gazed across the table, strewn with dishes, Buckingham turned and his brooding eyes met those of the two boys like a reprimand. A livid scar across one cheek marred the symmetry of his face, a legacy of his stand at St Albans. Edmund hurriedly reached for his goblet and buried his face in it.

  ‘Beside him is mother’s sister, the Duchess Anne and their two eldest sons, Humphrey and Henry,’ his brother added, but Edmund dared not lift his eyes in fear of meeting the man’s gaze again.

  ‘And on the left,’ Edward whispered, not noticing his discomfort, ‘are the Tudor brothers, Edmund, Earl of Richmond and his younger brother Jasper, Earl of Pembroke; the products of a secret marriage between the king’s mother and her squire!’

  Edmund nodded at the scandal but he could not help admiring the two red-haired earls, tall, strong and handsome. The elder Tudor’s face was softer and longer than his brother’s more angular features. They seemed close, as he and Edward did, their heads bent together as they talked in soft voices. There was definitely something regal about them, these two sons of the beautiful Queen Catherine of Valois, but also something else, something that set them apart, which he could not quite put his finger on. After Henry V’s death, she had made a secret marriage to her
Welsh groom and these two tall young men had been the result. Of all those in the hall that night, they interested the boy the most.

  ‘Then there is the Earl of Devon, who is Somerset’s son-in-law and Lord Stanley and Lord Saye…’

  Edward’s voice trailed away as York rose to his feet again, addressing the hall. Edmund was relieved, his head spinning with all the new names and faces to remember.

  The murmuring voices fell silent and all faces were turned in York’s direction. The blazing light of torches glanced off their jewels and caught the whites of their eyes.

  ‘My Lords, a final word of business before we part for the night. As you know, the council has appointed me lieutenant to open a new parliament. Tomorrow I go to visit the king and, after that, we will meet to discuss what action is to be taken.’

  A low ripple rose from the floor. York waited until silence was resumed.

  ‘I am sure I need not remind you of the importance of your attendance. Our country stands in need of guidance; it is for this purpose that you were issued with the summons to assemble. The last parliament granted a general pardon for the regrettable losses of St Albans, so let us forgive the conflicts that made us draw arms against our cousins and conclude a lasting peace in the name of King Henry and in the interests of England. I hope I can count on your support.’

  There was a muted murmur again. Edmund noticed the Tudor brothers exchange a low glance.

  ‘This parliament will set out the duties of the Protectorate. Then we will publish a new set of ordinances for the running of the royal household until such a time that the king may himself make his wishes plain. Each loyal man will have his place at the Protector’s side and all those superfluous to the royal service will be removed. Until then, God be with you, my Lords, and good night.’