by Amy Licence
‘Edward, there you are! A message has come from Windsor. The king is well again. The queen has closed up their household and they are on their way here.’
‘God be praised.’ Edward knew the formula, his mind still afire with the exchange of kisses. He watched as Alasia was led away.
‘He will be able to take over the reins of government again.’
‘That is indeed a blessing.’
‘So,’ said York pointedly, ‘we will be leaving Westminster. It is time to return to Ludlow. We must pack up our affairs and head north again. I want to be out of here before they arrive.’
Edward snapped back to reality. That was when he realised it was over: London, power, colour, life and love. They were to return to the quiet of Ludlow, with its wide open fields and endless roads, miles from here, miles from the king and queen and Alasia, and he was powerless to object. He dropped his head in duty. A door had been opened and quickly slammed shut.
*
They were heading back into the hall when the sound of trumpets reached them.
‘So soon?’ questioned Cecily. ‘It cannot be.’
Edward saw his parents exchange glances. But before they had time to think, the silence broke. The castle suddenly flooded with noise.
‘What,’ exclaimed Warwick, ‘can it be, so hot on the heels of the messenger?’
‘Oh yes,’ York nodded cynically. ‘They chose to give us no warning, to surprise us before we could leave. Margaret wants to turn us out in person.’
Warwick hastened to a window. ‘There, on the road, men in royal livery. By God, Henry is almost here. You’re right, this is some trick of the queen’s, to catch us unawares.’
‘The king!’ announced York, to the waiting attendants. ‘The king approaches, go quickly to your positions, make his chambers ready.’
The court wheels began to spin into life. Footsteps echoed through the corridors and voices called out instructions and warnings. The Borattis were swept away amid the movement.
Cecily was wringing her hands. ‘But the children are still in our chambers, the king’s chambers.’ She thought of the bed she had slept in that night, the large, bright rooms with their views across the river.
York came back and whispered hotly in her ear. ‘Then they must leave. We must find other lodgings at once, before we depart for Ludlow.’
‘But…’
‘There cannot be two kings in Westminster, you understand?’
She nodded, drawing herself up to her full height to face the task ahead. ‘Let’s head outside, we must wear our smiles of welcome.’
Edward followed his parents towards the distant doors. The guards threw them open at their approach and faint sunlight streamed in. On the cobbles of the yard, people were gathering nervously, blinking in the light as the castle emptied out. Alasia and her father were hovering by the kitchen steps, unsure of where to stand, but he could not concern himself with them now. Horses were being led away and a pile of hay in one corner was being hastily swept to one side. Over at the entrance gate, he saw the red heads of the Tudor brothers, as they peered eagerly down the road, hoping to be the first to confirm the news.
A second messenger galloped in: Jasper grabbed the reins and pulled the man towards him at once. A few seconds were enough to confirm the first report; he nodded to the assembled crowd with satisfaction.
York stepped forward to take charge at once. ‘Make way for the king. Assemble. All waiting people inside, stable hands at the ready, the king comes here this moment.’
‘So it is really true,’ said Cecily softly. ‘Is it just to score a point against us?’
‘I don’t know,’ York replied. ‘Unless, of course, Henry does not trust us.’
But it was not Henry who rode through the gates. A gold-covered litter decorated with a fleur-de-lys trundled into view, its occupant hidden by thick curtains.
‘The queen,’ whispered Cecily. ‘You were right, Margaret has come alone. No wait, let me be the one to welcome her, woman to woman.’
Drawing in a deep breath and smoothing down her skirts, Cecily advanced to meet the carriage, standing tall and regal, her spine a straight sweep. The golden coach drew to a halt and busy hands moved to pull the drapes aside. From the dark depths inside there appeared a figure wrapped in powdered furs, heavy Italian brocade and cloth of gold. Margaret of Anjou pushed back her hood and coolly surveyed the assembled court with her dark intelligent eyes. Then she looked down at the kneeling figure of the duchess before her.
‘My Lady of York.’ Her voice was cool, clipped.
‘Most honourable Queen, you are welcome back to court, we all rejoice to see your return. I trust you had a safe journey. Please come and take some refreshment whilst your rooms are made ready.’
‘Thank you, Duchess,’ Margaret replied in her low tones. ‘I shall do so, but before I do,’ and she turned to the courtyard, running her eyes across the assembled figures before fixing her gaze on York, ‘let it be known that by the will of almighty God, King Henry has risen from his bed and will be arriving amongst us tomorrow, to call a new parliament. The king is king again.’
York bowed his head, biting back the bitter taste in his mouth. ‘Amen to that.’
A cheer ran through the yard, initiated by the loyal Tudors.
York caught his wife’s eye as she led the queen inside. The pale winter sun disappeared behind the clouds and the courtyard was cast suddenly into shade. The last thing Edward saw of Alasia was her father hurrying her out of the gates.
NINE: Faces in the Dark, January, 1458
It was not yet light. The sky was still full of stars as the sun began to spread across from the east, through the darkest of blue winter mornings. Slowly, the city came to life, with braziers lit at crossroads and the glow of lamps and fires flickering behind locked doors and shutters. The air was mild for the season, clean and cold, with the promise of later warmth.
A man yawned in firelight, a woman called upstairs to wake her child. Traders were hawking wares, carts heading for market and girls with bleary eyes carried buckets in search of water. Along the Thames rose the towers and chimneys of great men’s houses, hidden away behind thick walls that enclosed courtyards and scent-filled gardens. In a quiet street, a massive pair of gates swung open and a small group of riders clattered purposefully out into the dawn.
The leader grasped the reins in his powerful hands. His eyes scanned the street with experience and a sense of ownership; they were set in a lean, tanned face, with a peppery beard that had become more white than black in recent years. His hair was dark but thinning a little through care and age: three more summers would bring him to the age of fifty. Richard, Duke of York, was a powerful figure in the saddle, an extension of the horse’s speed and strength, as he guided his mount with careful, exact commands. He was still a neat, compact man, at ease in his limbs, who moved with a natural sense of nobility. The past three years of stress and cares had not detracted from his bearing: with Henry VI re-established and Queen Margaret pulling the strings, he knew he was treading a fine line. Now, he narrowed his eyes and checked up and down the street outside his London home.
On his left rode the Earl of Warwick, his dark curls tucked under his fur-lined hood. He was York’s cousin and ally, but he was his physical opposite in many ways: the earl’s powerful head was squat and round as a cannonball, ending in a square jaw and cleft chin. He sat heavily in the saddle, leaning forward and the cold morning air had already brought a high colour to his ruddy cheeks. He exchanged glances with York and nodded as they headed north, past the Royal Wardrobe, then west past the monastery of the Blackfriars.
On York’s right rode a tall young man in green velvet. The last couple of years had transformed Edward, Earl of March, from a long-limbed youth into a lean and imposing figure. His chest had broadened and endless hours in the field and tilt yard at Ludlow had given his muscles a lean definition. The hazel eyes and close-cropped sandy hair served as reminders of the boy he had
been but his face had lost its air of childishness and resolved itself into the handsome angles of high broad cheekbones and wide forehead. His nose was straight, with aristocratic nostrils and his lips formed a sensuous curve. Nearly sixteen, he had shot up in recent months and now sat higher than his father, with his shoulders square to the front and his chin held nobly high. His eyes conveyed a sense of promise, while his mouth betrayed a certain impatience. Flanked by their guards, the three crossed the Fleet River then rode on to Temple Bar, through Blackfriars and into the Strand.
Recent years in the city had seen an uneasy truce. The Lancastrian king and queen had lost any popularity they had enjoyed in the city, with constant whispers about their private life and the extent of Margaret’s ambition. It had been a relief when they had left and ridden north, to establish themselves at Tutbury Castle, leaving London under the free hand of York and his allies. At first, the distance had helped. Without King Henry’s wan face in Westminster, business was conducted more swiftly but the queen was another matter entirely. Her supporters continued to stir up trouble both in and out of the chamber. Now, two years since York had reluctantly stepped down from the position of Protector, an uneasy stasis held the country in its grip: one king ruled in the north whilst York did his job in the south. Soon enough one of them would have to make way for the other.
In silence, the riders passed by the turning to Little Drury Lane, leading up to the wide open fields of the Convent Garden. Their thoughts were elsewhere; on last night’s revels or their dawn prayers. Edward was closest to the darkness, his senses sharp and alert despite the early hour. Suddenly, a feeling of unease gripped him. The morning seemed to change colour slightly as something in the shadows disturbed him; an unexpected movement perhaps, or a shape. He raised his hand and the others at once drew in their reins, their horses rearing up at the sharpness of the command.
‘What is it?’ asked York in low, precise tones.
‘I’m not sure.’ Edward’s voice had broken, deepened. ‘Something isn’t right.’
‘What did you see?’ Warwick was quick to draw his sword, wary after decades of conflict.
‘Nothing yet. It was more of a sense of it.’ Edward’s lips hardened into a concentrated line. He just knew.
In recent years, York had come to trust his eldest son’s judgement. Edward’s skill at riding and bearing arms, along with his youth, had often given him the edge over his father’s experience. On this occasion, he was not wrong.
The shadows of the passageway began to teem with men and a motley collection of armed figures launched themselves out of the darkness towards York’s party. Edward’s awareness had forced their hand, putting them on the back foot.
‘An ambush!’ cried Warwick at once, his sword bearing down upon the first unfortunates to cross his path.
Edward kicked out his boot and felt his foot connect with a man’s shoulder. The attacker stumbled but came back at once, a long knife glinting in his hand. York’s guard fell upon him before he could reach the duke’s party and Edward turned his sword instead to parry blows coming from behind.
‘Who are you? Who sent you?’ York shouted.
The dark figures fought with a sort of desperation, as if to be slain in the scuffle was preferable to survival. For a few minutes they made a valiant effort to dismount the riders but were soon beaten back and while some fell, wounded, others continued to stand their ground in spite of being overpowered. When Warwick’s sword sliced through the torso of the ringleader, spraying the cobbles with his blood, those still able to run took it as their cue to flee.
Warwick dismounted and pulled aside the cloak of the dying man. He let out a cynical laugh. ‘Beaufort’s livery.’
‘Of course,’ York grimaced, shaking his head. ‘Retribution for the death of his father at St Albans.’
‘Who sent you? Who ordered our deaths, admit it, was it the Duke of Beaufort?’ Warwick shook the blanching face, making a wave of dark blood ebb from the gaping mouth. The man was incapable of speech, so the earl let him fall back against the kerb.
‘It’s Beaufort’s men all right,’ Warwick agreed. ‘He would have known we were to ride this way, on our way to the council, so he set this trap. It is not the first time. Last year he tried a similar trick when I was in Coventry.’
‘He will answer for it!’
‘He will deny it.’
‘Let’s away,’ urged Edward, ever practical, ‘in case any more appear. Our men can finish the job.’
He spurred his horse onwards and the three galloped side by side down the narrow street to Charing Cross, into King’s Street and on to Westminster.
As they entered the palace gates, where the torches flickered and dimmed, Edward caught sight of his father’s expression. Resolution and dismay fought for mastery across his grave features, as he struggled to come to terms with the attack.
For Edward, it was natural that they should attract enemies. Their position provoked antagonism and there would always be those who resented their positions. But York, for all his wisdom and experience, could never seem to shake off the sense of injustice. He was royal by blood, with as good a claim to the English throne as King Henry. In many ways, he and the ineffectual king were as different as chalk and cheese, but their common bond showed, thought Edward, as he slipped from his horse. They were both too trusting.
*
Inevitably, they were late. The council chamber was already full by the time they strode in through the carved double doors and took their places. Wine and spices had been laid out, drawing the men into a knot around the table. Edward assessed them rapidly: the clergymen gathered in their familiar group, with Thomas Bourchier, Archbishop of Canterbury, at their head, along with the Archbishop of York and eight or ten bishops. Then the Earls of Worcester and Devon, loyal to the Lancastrian cause, the Stanley brothers deep in conversation with Baron Audley and the more friendly faces of John de Vere, Earl of Oxford and Warwick’s father, the white-haired Salisbury. At the end of the table, Jasper Tudor sat alone, his angular face glowering at them all. Since the plague had claimed his brother Edmund, in the damp autumn of 1456, his features had always worn a sullen cast as if he was stewing some terrible revenge for those he believed responsible. There was a resolution in him, a burning intelligence and resourcefulness that might make him their most formidable opponent yet. Edward’s eyes moved on, disliking the cast of Tudor’s features. Beside him, bowed over some papers, was the smooth head of Baron Rivers, the Lancastrian knight who had married the king’s widowed aunt.
York’s indignation had resolved into anger. He stood at the head of the table, one arm smarting with a blow from his attackers. At the far side of the chamber, the lean, black-clad Beaufort rose to his feet, alongside the scar-faced Duke of Buckingham. The pair exchanged a silent glance that told York all he needed to know.
‘You are tardy, my Lords,’ Beaufort began. ‘We have already begun our discussions on the…’
York cut him dead. ‘We would have been here sooner, except we were set upon by a band of men on the road, intent on our destruction.’
‘You were ambushed?’ asked the ruddy-faced Bourchier, genuinely aghast.
‘Indeed we were. It was only due to the presence of mind of my son Edward, and the bravery of our men, that we escaped serious harm.’
‘There is no question,’ added Edward at his side. ‘It was a deliberate attack. They must have known we were to pass that way and lain in wait for our appearance.’
‘God’s blood!’ exclaimed Salisbury. ‘Are any of you injured?’
Warwick answered his father. ‘Just bruises. We were fortunate this time.’
‘And next time?’ York asked. ‘What then? This is not the first time that I have been attacked in this way; it seems that my enemies conspire to send me to a better place.’
There was a murmur in the hall.
‘Do be seated and rest,’ spoke Beaufort, his oily voice cutting through the noise. ‘You are in need of some me
dical attention perhaps; should I call the surgeon?’
‘You would do better to call off your men.’ Warwick snapped.
His retort hung in the air.
‘My men?’ asked Beaufort with elaborate formality.
Warwick was still angry. ‘Before they do any further harm.’
York lifted his hand slightly in warning but a confrontation could not now be avoided.
‘Call off my men?’ Beaufort repeated calmly. ‘Whatever can you mean by that?’
‘Do you think this was an attempt on your lives?’ asked the archbishop. ‘Not merely a group of criminals?’
‘Criminals in livery perhaps,’ added Edward.
Beaufort coloured. ‘Are you making an accusation? Do you wish to offer a challenge?’ His hand crept inside his clothing, as if seeking a concealed weapon there. ‘I will gladly accept any challenge any of you wish to extend.’
‘Now, Beaufort,’ cautioned Buckingham at his side. ‘You go too far.’
‘We make no challenge,’ York replied in controlled terms. ‘Although there is reason enough for such a challenge to be made, given the cowardly circumstances of the attack this morning. Yet we make no formal accusation at this time. However, if we are met again in similar circumstances, we shall not be so restrained.’
‘Restrained?’ Beaufort sneered. ‘Are we really to see the house of York exercising some restraint?’
‘Enough!’ said Salisbury decisively. As one of the oldest council members, he commanded a certain respect, regardless of his Yorkist affinities. ‘This is not a battlefield, we are here to debate the law in the king’s name.’
‘May I then suggest,’ added the archbishop. ‘If York and his men are quite well, that we partake briefly of some refreshment and then resume business.’
‘It has always been our intention,’ complied York, ‘to attend this council session for the sake of business and business alone, in the interest of national peace and the name of the king.’
‘Then that is agreed,’ stated Bourchier. ‘A moment to recollect yourselves, my Lords.’