by Amy Licence
‘That is a relief,’ said Cecily.
‘And York will make them submit. He will be generous.’
She nodded, smiling at the realisation. ‘He has always been too generous.’
‘And as he says, they will be back soon.’
‘But where is Edward?’ asked Cecily, scanning the courtyard.
‘Here he is. Dressed for the part.’
They watched as the tall figure appeared from the direction of the stables, swathed in grey with ermine around his throat.
Cecily suddenly turned to Warwick. ‘But why does Edward go alone, when the three of you go north?’
‘Because we go to meet the greater threat. Tudor may not even be able to raise men and Edward will halt his progress then join us in the north. Don’t forget I was with him at Northampton. He has a gift for inspiring men to follow him.’
The duchess followed her eldest son with her eyes as he approached.
‘All is set,’ Edward announced. ‘I am ready.’
‘Come here.’
Cecily took him in her arms and pressed her lips to his cheek. ‘My blessing and the love of God will go with you.’
‘Thank you mother. I will see you again soon.’
She stood aside to let the men mount. York turned his horse around to take a last look at his wife.
‘Wait!’ She hurried forward, pulling the ruby ring from her finger and holding it up to him. ‘Here, take this, wear it for my sake. Bring it back to me.’
York smiled and slipped it on his finger. Then, with a wave of the hand, he rode out of the gates with Edmund and Salisbury behind him. Edward watched them go, then looked over to where his mother and Warwick stood.
‘For the house of York! Soon to be kings of England.’
And the courtyard resounded with the sound of his horse’s hooves.
*
The days passed, in marching feet and masses sung, in long dark nights and frost-kissed mornings, until Christmas arrived. England lay grey and white in the early mists after dawn, with the church bells pealing out in steeples from parish to parish. Few birds sang in the bare branches and the roads and roofs were slippery with rime. People came out of their houses in response to the summons; women wrapping themselves up warm, children rubbing their eyes and men yawning, some side by side in silence as they passed under the porch. Inside, there were green boughs and berries, candles glowing bright and clouds of incense. They knelt and offered prayers, they sat and listened, or whispered or slept, thinking of absent ones, or the cows to be moved, or the fence to be mended in the field.
Across Westminster, a hush descended as the bells rang out for Terce. Before a carved altar, hidden away inside his closet, King Henry knelt in prayer, seeking rest and peace from the stormy political currents. His tired body ached with the strain of the past few years as he pressed palm against palm and put his trust in the Almighty. A short distance away, Warwick entered the queen’s apartments dressed in tawny velvet, with embroidery of gold and jewels on his hat. His wife, Anne, and his two daughters were waiting for him by the fire. Outside, the river ran past the palace into the distance, past the leaden windows and brick turrets, the stable yards and ornate gardens. The fields beyond were quiet but in the distance, the smoke and huddle of roofs marked the location of the city, of the thousands of souls lodged between St Paul’s and the tower, of the waters gushing below the bridge, where the boatmen daily took their lives into their hands. At Baynard’s Castle, Cecily sat with a book open in her lap, reading to her younger children about the lives and works of the saints.
On the battlements of Wigmore Castle, Edward gave the orders for food to be distributed among his men once the morning service was over. Liveried men brought out bread, pies and cold meat, flasks of ale, carried in procession across the courtyard. Towards the hills in the east, rain was gathering, pooling in great dark clouds that promised to reach them before the day’s end. Somewhere, under the darkening storm, lurked the Lancastrians, tramping along narrow country lanes with the wind at their backs. Far away in the north, in a Scottish castle, overlooking a grey loch, candlelight warmed the stones of a turret room. Queen Margaret bent over the contours of a map spread out over a table, her eyes both weary and angry as she traced the route with her fingertips. Seated to her right was the dark figure of Henry Beaufort, his mind knotting with plans. Curtained off in an alcove, her son, the eight-year-old Prince Edward, lay asleep, dreaming of a world where crowns and castles did not crumble overnight. The clouds moved across the sky and drew out a feeble ray of sunshine, to brighten the spot where he lay.
*
Something was moving in the trees. York strode to the edge of the battlements and stared down into the greyish mass of woodland that shaded the road to Pontefract. At first he had thought it was the flight of a bird, but no such creature appeared against the white sky; and then he had seen the second movement, solid and cumbersome, like a stray horse or deer. Sandal Castle rose high above the treetops, with its keep set on top of the ancient motte, giving views over the River Calder and the Yorkshire countryside.
It was nine days since they had arrived, riding in slow cavalcade through the county, the drawn sword before them again as a sign of the duke’s new status. People had come out to cheer them along the route, bowing their heads as a sign of respect at the grey-haired man who would be their next king, at his son who grew more confident and more handsome every day, at the snowy head of Salisbury, renowned in the county for his experience. They had passed the feast of Christmas quietly, in prayer and remembrance of the dead, before sitting up late into the night, laying out their plans. They had seen quiet dawns spread mistily across the valley and the flights of birds in search of food. They had heard the silence of night in the middle of a dark nowhere, with only the stars spread overhead and the occasional bark of a fox in the undergrowth. They had prayed in the castle chapel, anticipating the moment when they met with the queen and her armies, lying just miles away to the east. Their requests for an audience had been refused, so he had letters dispatched south to Edward. A time might soon come when they were in need of his support. At least they had a few days of grace, until the feast of Epiphany, which should allow him enough time to march his armies up from Wigmore.
York turned back to the trees. He had become familiar with their lines, with the shapes made by their trunks and naked winter branches. Tuning his senses, he strained to see and hear, but all was stillness in the woods. The sun was climbing in the sky, despite the heavy veil of clouds. The gates of the castle had been locked since their arrival and supplies were running low; perhaps this was the day they might venture out across the green space to the farms and houses on the edge of the town. There might be eggs and smoked meat, or whatever was available at this time of year. Edmund certainly would welcome the change of scene. But York needed to be cautious; since the Act of Accord had named him as Henry’s heir, there would be no grounds on which he would trust the queen. Slippery and twisting like an eel in a stream, she would continue to elude him before turning to bite just as soon as she had her mouth. He would watch the road for any signs of life and make a decision later in the day.
Inside the keep, Salisbury was sitting before the fire, watching the flames lick around the hearth. Here, Edmund was kneeling on the stones, disturbing the glowing logs with a poker while the earl’s own youngest son, Thomas, stirred herbs into a flagon of wine. He was a tall youth, born in the same year as Edmund, and just as keen to prove himself alongside the wisdom of his own elder brother. There was some resemblance between Thomas and Warwick, with the boy’s mop of dark curls, but his face was still soft and smooth, his expression as yet unresolved.
‘Yes, I was in France when they burned Joan of Arc,’ Salisbury was saying. ‘I was with King Henry in Rouen, while the preparations were being made for his coronation.’
‘You saw it?’ Edmund asked, letting the poker fall.
‘I wish I had not.’
‘What sort of end did sh
e make?’
Salisbury shrugged, accepting a tankard from his son. ‘What sort of end does any woman make on the pyre? I have seen many things, fought in many battles and witnessed acts of brutality, but this was one I will not forget.’
‘She was young?’
‘Yes, not much older than you.’
‘But the things they said about her, as a witch, inciting the French against the English.’
‘The French did not need much inciting. She was just a girl, standing there in a white dress.’
The young men exchanged a glance.
‘But she had faith, such faith. There was something of the divine about her, I could see it even then, something serene in her face, in her simplicity. She was just a peasant girl, she knew nothing, she had no military training, and yet she led the French to victory.’
‘And she was put on trial, as a witch?’
‘I attended her trial. I was then in the service of my uncle Beaufort.’
‘Beaufort?’ Edmund’s eyes opened in surprise.
‘My mother’s brother, the cardinal. He is long dead now. Yes, my line descends from her, from John of Gaunt, from the same Lancastrian route as the king himself.’
‘Was it…’ Edmund hesitated. ‘Was it a swift end?’
‘Swift enough. She called for a cross at the end. An English soldier gave her one made from wood and she died in prayer.’
The fire between them crackled.
‘They burned her again,’ said Salisbury. ‘After she was dead. As if they had to be certain. It was unnecessary.’
‘And the French did not try to save her?’
‘It was the French who betrayed her, who sold her to the English. Well, it was the Burgundians really, but the French did nothing to rescue her. She was taken by the Luxemburgs, by the uncle of that woman, the one now the wife of Baron Rivers. The Woodville upstarts.’
‘Where did they bury her?’ asked Thomas.
‘There was not much left to bury. They threw her remains in the river.’
Thomas shook his head. ‘They might treat a man like that, a dangerous enemy, but a young woman?’
‘God rest her soul,’ agreed Salisbury, with solemnity.
Edmund remained on his knees by the fire, his eyes blazing behind the fall of hair across his forehead. The earl could see that the story had moved him.
‘She is with God now, Edmund, she was a martyr. It happened in the past, it cannot be changed now, whatever we might wish.’
Edmund picked up the poker again and raked over the embers.
*
Mounted, they formed a line facing the open gate: York and Edmund, Salisbury and Thomas, with a few dozen men behind them. The road stretched away across the open space, through the trees and towards the town. Lines of smoke rose into the distance, indicating their direction.
‘We’ll be back within the hour,’ York stated, his eyes fixed on the horizon. ‘To the town and back, then we’ll be provisioned until Edward arrives. Lord Harington will hold the castle with the other men.’
Salisbury peered out into the open space. ‘Where does the queen’s army lie?’
‘Outside Pontefract, nine miles to the east.’
‘For certain?’
‘As the scout reported this morning. They will not venture to strike at us yet, not during this holy season. I would hope the queen’s mind is elsewhere.’
‘Running on young Beaufort most like.’
York pretended not to hear Salisbury. ‘Shall we part at the bridge and try different ends of the town, Edmund and I to the south and you with Thomas to the north?’
‘That sounds sensible to me.’
They urged their horses forward at a walking pace. ‘We’ll move slowly,’ said York, scanning the trees either side of the road. ‘Cautiously, just in case.’
‘You fear attack? They might just as easily have caught us on the road north ten days back.’
‘And they will not dare strike at you now, father,’ added Edmund. ‘It would be an act of treason to do so. The king would have to condemn his own wife!’
York rode on in silence. A sudden movement to his left made his grey head snap round and his heart pound. In a clearing, amid tall grasses, a hare bounded away, disturbed at his play. Behind him, Edmund and Thomas were talking about their homes; the meadows and orchard around Fotheringhay and the rolling green hills that surrounded Salisbury’s Middleham Castle. They spoke of the sun rising on misty summer days, filtering through treetops, of autumns with the valleys choked in brown leaves, of riding home through May lanes at dusk, as the sky lay in ribbons of pink and purple. Thomas’s thoughts turned to his young wife, Maude, newly married and left behind at home, awaiting his return. Halfway through his speech, the young man’s voice cracked with emotion and touched York’s heart. When Thomas spoke of love, Edmund’s silence was complete, and his father knew the boy had never yet experienced that emotion; not for a woman other than his mother, or sisters, or the Virgin Mary gilded and serene above the family altar. And yet he had the heart most receptive to love, most gentle and tender, than any other the duke had ever known.
They came out of the trees on both sides. York saw at once that they had walked into a trap. The handful became dozens, lining the road, dark in the Beaufort livery.
‘Turn,’ he shouted, pulling on his reins. ‘Turn back to the castle. Edmund, turn!’
But they were already behind them, across the path where their horse had just left their print in the dust. More were pouring down out of the trees and already drawing their swords against the Yorkist troops who had followed their duke on foot.
York felt himself break out in a cold sweat. They were caught in a pincer movement on both sides, trotted like lambs to the slaughter. All he could think of was his boy, his dear boy, at his side. His eyes met Salisbury’s pale ones and a silent understanding passed between them.
The enemy drew closer, with the glint of steel forming a ring around the riders. The first casualties were falling: men in murrey and blue with whom they had played dice and drank ale at Christmas tide lay blooded upon the ground. The only vulnerable spot was the direction they had been travelling, towards the bridge, towards the town. Fewer men stood there; there was a brief window of hope.
‘Thomas, Edmund,’ urged York. ‘Ride now, break through, ride along the bridge to the town and on to York. Go now, you must go now!’
‘But father!’ Edmund’s eyes were incredulous.
‘Go!’
‘No, I will stand with you.’
‘Go, boys,’ added Salisbury, drawing his sword to fend off the first attack. ‘We will meet you in York, by and by. God speed.’
Still Edmund stalled. ‘Father?’
‘I command you, in your mother’s name. Go now, go fast. Give her my love.’
Reaching over, York landed the flat of his hand down upon the rump of Edmund’s horse, sending him speeding away, with Thomas following. The duke did not have time to see them disappear; attackers were approaching from his left, their faces intent upon death. He hacked down at them with his drawn sword, feeling the satisfaction of its cold hard blade slicing through enemy flesh. But hands were pulling at his clothing from behind: he gripped his knees tighter but could not hold on and slipped from the saddle. Salisbury was also down, landing on his feet and, back to back, they swung wildly against the enclosing circle. York’s blade sliced clean through one, crumpling him to the ground in a gush of bright blood, then up through the legs of a second and down again upon some fellow’s skull.
The blow came from the side. Its cold steel came as a surprise between his warm ribs. He had imagined this moment a few times, but it was never quite like this, a sudden stillness and slowness, as he realised the entire length of the foreign object inside his own body. He dropped to his knees, his head light. Some new sensation made him raise his hands, to find they were wet with someone’s blood, coming in waves, as if it was being worked out of a pump. And then there was a thrusting in his
back, another in the side of his neck. He could not keep upright any more. He fell onto the ground. His cheek lay in the mud and the texture of grass played against his moving lips. Then there was nothing.
*
At once he saw that the bridge into the town was guarded. Edmund’s chest was beating as if to burst as he reached the bank, pulling up the reins and looking round wildly to see if there was another route for escape. But the bulrushes grew thick and dense along each side and the slope would easily break a horse’s ankle. They might dismount and swim, he supposed, turning round to find Thomas. But the other boy was nowhere to be seen, just the empty road behind him, echoing with approaching horse hooves. They were following and they would soon be upon him. He gripped the reins with trembling hands. There was no time for prayer; he must take his chance and try to break through these four or five planted on the path ahead, with the river coursing beneath them.
Then he saw it. Halfway along the bridge was a little chapel, set against the side, protruding the depth of three windows into the stream. A chantry chapel, dedicated to the Virgin. If he could only reach it, he could seek sanctuary there; no one would dare violate the holiness of such a place. The men were slightly beyond it. He judged that he had a good chance.
‘Go boy, go,’ he urged his horse, straining forward in the saddle. But with some strange presentiment or foible, the beast was reluctant to mount the bridge. Perhaps it was the waters coursing below, or perhaps the creature had been disturbed by the sudden flight. Edmund kicked its sides in vain. It only reared its forelegs up and threatened to unseat him. Now the riders behind him came into view, their bloody swords drawn. There was no choice but to dismount and run. He hit the ground hard and his knees buckled, but at once he was up and racing ahead.
Then he saw with relief, that there was a familiar face in the middle of the bridge. The grey-haired Lord Clifford, whom he had seen at Westminster, dining in the hall, jousting in the tilt yard, seated among the lords. His sympathies were Lancastrian but once, when Edmund was a small boy, he had given him a pair of silver buckles.