We had little more time for indulgence, for we had charge of outfitting our ships and victualling our army. The days sped by in a jabber of four languages, of checking endless lists. At night we fell into bed too exhausted for thought. Then, suddenly, everything was done. We were ready – except for news from George.
It came after a week. Exhausted from the double journey, Innogen came to another meeting with the King. ‘It is done, it’s assured. He wept, Your Grace, when I gave him your letter.’
‘Tears cost nothing.’
‘I think it was genuine. He asks – well, it’s in his letter – he asks you to forget the past and restore the estates and titles he held before. He says that when you land he’ll stay with Warwick until the last moment – that moment being up to you – then come over to you.’
‘Mmm-hmm.’ Richard finished with his brother’s letter and passed it on to me. It was about what I’d expected, and typical of George – incoherent, passionate, self-justifying. Warwick had wronged him – he had been beguiled from his true allegiance – Mother would be pleased now – he had some five thousand men – he longed to embrace his brothers once more and enjoy their love and favour – don’t land in the south-east – whatever happened, Isabel must be protected – perhaps Warwick had even used witchcraft on him – all forgiven now and he was the King’s liege man forever.
‘Forever meaning as long as it benefits him,’ snorted Edward. ‘But he is in good earnest now? You are sure, Mistress Shaxper?’
‘As sure as one can be.’ She looked at Richard. ‘Your Grace, I was to tell you this particularly. He said, “Tell Dickon I too remember Ludlow.”’
A swift flush mantled Richard’s cheekbones. He nodded slowly, and in answer to Edward’s raised brows said, ‘Yes, I think we can trust that.’
‘Yes,’ Innogen agreed. ‘But move quickly, Your Grace, before he gives the game away to Warwick or gets a better offer.’
‘I agree. Yes. Very well, gentlemen, let’s say the second day of March.’
I waited until all but Richard had gone then, taking Jenny’s hand, I said to Edward, ‘Your Grace, I ask your permission to marry Mistress Shaxper.’
Re-reading George’s letter, Edward swung about, startled. ‘Marry the lady?’
‘Yes, Sire. Please.’
‘Let them, Ned,’ Richard urged. ‘Reward their loyalty.’
Edward frowned, but he said, ‘Well, Martin, you are of age now and I daresay you know your own mind. Very well. You have our leave.’
‘We want to marry now. Here. We’ve just time before Lent.’
‘Do you! Now – in between provisioning ships, training an army... There’s no time to call the banns more than once before Lent. Still, there are ways around that, if you’re determined.’ But it appealed to Edward’s romantic streak, and I suppose he thought a wedding would put everyone in good heart. A good omen, even. ‘Well, why not? Yes. I will speak to Gruythuuse, we must do something decent for you, Martin’s my ward and cousin. And Margaret will want to help. Yes.’
And he turned the mind that could organise an armed invasion to planning the best wedding possible in the circumstances. It amused him, and he meant well by us. And so, three days hence, in the Church of Our Lady, Innogen and I stood up before the English Court in exile, some merchant friends of Innogen’s, the Seigneur de la Gruythuuse and, unexpectedly, Duke Charles and Duchess Margaret. The King of England gave Innogen away. Richard was my groom’s-man, a role which by tradition, he pointed out, entitled, or obliged, him to marry the bride if I didn’t show up. Innogen wore green velvet and cloth of silver, and her gorgeous hair loose.
Seigneur Gruythuuse gave us a splendid wedding feast, and I still have his gift of silver plate. Duke Charles’s gift, an ivory figure of St Martin, was one of the things lost when I fled England an attainted traitor.
Towards the end of the celebration, after Richard had made a witty and mercifully brief speech, Edward rose and called for our attention. ‘It is a humbling and disconcerting experience,’ he began, ‘to be a King yet unable to provide a suitable wedding present for friends. The very clothes I wear I owe to the gracious kindness of my dear brother-in-law Duke Charles’ (applause) ‘and to our generous friend in need the Seigneur de la Gruythuuse.’ (Warmer applause.) ‘Even the coins in my purse are come to me by charity.’ (Consoling murmurs.) ‘Now, I have known Mistress Robsart only a brief time, but she has served me and England faithfully and with skill. In short, she is as clever and loyal as she is beautiful.’ (Wild applause, and the groom and best man both kiss the bride.) ‘Martin, now, is my kinsman and I have known him from a child. He has been a loyal friend to my dear brother of Gloucester’ (cheers) ‘and a friend to me and all my family.’ (More cheers, and Duchess Margaret kisses the blushing groom.) ‘He has twice gone into exile on our behalf – though if one must be exiled, what better place than Burgundy?’ (Laughter and many cheers, and Duke Charles unbends into a smile.) ‘He has been loyal when perhaps the easier part would have been to forget his first allegiance.’ (Applause while people begin to look longingly at their drinks.) ‘Therefore,’ said Edward, taking the hint, ‘it behoves me to give this charming young couple some suitable wedding gift, but what, I asked myself, could I in these circumstances give them of my own? Come here, Martin.’
Bewildered I went to him. He lifted his sword, and I thought in confusion, He cannot be giving me his sword! And no, he wasn’t.
‘Kneel, Master Robsart.’ The sword touched me twice. ‘Arise, Sir Martin.’
Astounded, delighted, I nearly wept as I stammered some clumsy thanks.
Edward never missed a chance. ‘If thanks are due,’ he said, ‘I shall take them in the form of a kiss from Dame Robsart.’
~~~
Our honeymoon was a week in a house lent by Margaret. The seven days passed like so many hours. Neither of us slept on the last night. We made love, then lay holding each other until the dawn. Innogen squired me, dressing me and buckling on my sword; I was her lady’s maid. Sentimentally I cut a lock of her hair and folded it away in my purse. We had agreed on a quick farewell, or we’d break our hearts. We parted halfway between Bruges and Flushing, leaning from our horses to kiss.
‘I love you, Innogen. No woman was ever so loved.’
‘Nor any man. Au revoir, my darling. God keep you safe.’
‘And you.’
I left without a backward look.
Seven
1471
It was an unpropitious start. The wind was against us, and for nine days our ships rode at anchor, unable to leave Flushing harbour. To those who don’t suffer from it, seasickness is either hilarious or contemptible, but those nine days nearly killed me. I wasn’t the only one; our own men grimly endured, as did I, but some of our Flemish and German hirelings began to mutter about bad omens and would have deserted if they could. Richard nursed me devotedly, and obtained some dose that helped a little, but I hardly noticed when at last the wind changed, and on the eleventh day of March we set sail for home.
Once at sea the voyage went well enough, but you can imagine how we cheered when at last we sighted the English coast. But George had been right – the southeast of England was hostile. The scouts sent ashore at Norfolk scurried back to report that the county was against us and to land there would be our death warrant. So on we sailed up the east coast to Yorkshire.
I revived enough to vomit all over the beach when at last we landed. Then, being ashore worked its usual cure and although I was weak as a kitten I was in better trim than many of the men. The weather was vile, high seas, a wind straight from Russia cutting through our wet, salt-stiff clothes. The first hours were a cacophony of the neighing of frightened horses, the shouting of orders and obscene complaints in three languages, but we managed to make our landing. But we were alone.
‘Where are the King’s ships?’ Richard croaked; he looked as deathly as I had felt for the past two weeks. ‘And Rivers’s?’ I volunteered to investigate, and set off m
unching noisy cheese and a lump of that garlicky German sausage. All I could discover was that we’d come ashore north of our target, Ravenspur, and there was no sign of the rest of our fleet. I picked up vague word of other ships having landed to our south, so we got our men formed up, and in the early dark we set out hopefully southward. A few miles on someone hailed us, and sure enough it was the King. He and Rivers were safe.
Next morning we began our march through England. We moved inland and south, and for every town that welcomed us with joy, another shut us out. York closed its gates to us, but with Richard interpreting in the broad Yorkshire dialect we had learnt at Middleham, Edward used Bolingbroke’s trick and vowed he had only come to reclaim his York dukedom – throne? What throne? The burghers of York enjoyed the joke, and let us in.
And then we broke out our banners in good earnest: the Royal Arms, Edward’s Sun in Splendour, Richard’s Blanc Sanglier. Men flocked to us, and by the Midlands we had an army of nearly five thousand. Percy of Northumberland neither aided nor molested us, which was better than we had hoped. John Neville did the same. At Coventry Edward proclaimed himself King, and sent a formal offer to Warwick: battle, or a life pardon. No reply came. And just outside Coventry we met Clarence.
Looking over his army of some six thousand in their warlike array I understood why the King was at such pains to placate him. Even as our two forces closed up I wondered if it was a trap. Surreptitiously we all readied our weapons. Clarence rode forward with his personal bodyguard. The King and Richard did the same. Clarence waved, and Richard spurred his horse forward, full-pelt towards his brother. I thought, God, no, you’re riding to your death – then their right hands clasped and they were embracing, clumsy figures in their half-armour. George took his brother’s face between his hands and kissed him, and from both sides a great cheer went up.
As they rode back to us I was struck by the difference between them. George had gained weight, and the fullness of his face made him look boyish. His hair crackled with recent washing, he was shaved smooth, he was clean and glossy. No dent or scratch marred his beautiful Italian armour gleaming silver in the sun. Richard, by contrast, showed all the strain of exile and work. Like all of us he had lost weight: helping to arm him that morning I could count his ribs. From boots to helmet his leathers and armour were scratched, stained and scuffed. Tanned and weathered, with the sharp lines of authority and tension in his face, he looked ten years his brother’s elder. As indeed he was, in character and mind, for George was forever caught at the age of eleven, the pampered golden boy.
George knelt before the King. Holding out his sword across his palms he raised his voice to carry to every man in the two armies. ‘I am your Highness’s loyal subject and true liege-man.’ Cheers went up. Edward said, ‘George – ‘ very quietly, then swung off his horse and took his brother in his arms. For a moment they clung together, then George lifted their clasped hands in the air and yelled, ‘God for England! Edward and Saint George!’ The battle cry rang out valiantly, echoing as every last man took it up. But I thought Clarence had only just remembered to insert the word ‘Saint’. Sodding hypocrite.
Another offer of pardon was sent to Warwick, this time by George, a nice irony. Again no response, and we learnt that his brother Montagu and the Earl of Oxford had joined Warwick. And again the race for London was on. Both sides ordered the City to hold. In a last-ditch attempt Archbishop Neville paraded King Henry through the city, then read the runes and popped Henry back into the Tower and galloped off to submit himself to Edward.
Any doubts about the feelings in England fled at the reception London gave us. The city went mad for us. Every citizen who could walk was out in the streets. The air was thick with flowers, we were garlanded with laurels and white roses, every hand seemed to hold a wine cup, every throat was hoarse with cheering. I’ve never kissed so many girls in so brief a time. Edward was back.
We went first to St Paul’s to make offering, then Edward pelted off to Westminster Sanctuary to the Queen. Dog-tired and with no wish to intrude on their reunion, I went straight to Baynard’s Castle. The Duchess of York welcomed me like a son, kissing me and patting me gently when from joy I wept all over her. She was in her mid-fifties, and looked it, but she was still one of the loveliest women I ever saw, and she was the nearest thing I had to a mother. I loved her, and I was home.
‘And married now!’ she said. ‘Margaret wrote to me about your wedding and your knighthood. You deserve the honour, Martin dear. And Margaret says your wife is as beautiful and charming as we could wish for you.’
‘She is, and nearly as beautiful as you, madam.’ It was cheek, but she liked it, although she disclaimed it as arrant flattery.
‘Not that I mind compliments from handsome men... My dear, if you are as tired as you look, no doubt you would like to go straight to your room. And would a bath appeal?’
‘It sounds the most wonderful offer in months.’
‘Good. The steward has orders – and here is someone you’ll remember?’
I looked at the tall, slim boy with dark-blond hair flopping in his eyes. ‘Francis Lovell! How good to see you!’
He was shy. He said later that we seemed so much older, so entirely changed from the boys he had known at Middleham, that he hardly dared speak to us.
‘I didn’t think you would remember me, Sir Martin. How do you do? How good to have you home.’ The Duchess was glancing toward the door, her hands clenching and unclenching. Tactfully Francis said, ‘You will want to go to your room – you’ll allow me to squire you?’
‘Gladly.’
And gladly I trod up the narrow, worn stairs to the room I remembered. The beds had new red and yellow hangings, the walls were fresh-plastered and hung with a tapestry showing Dido greeting Aeneas. Fur rugs on the floor. A table with a shelf of books. Candelabra blazing from the mantel, the table, beside the bed. A cushioned clothes chest. Spring flowers in a silver bowl. A tray of wine.
In a daze I watched the servants set up the bath-tent of red silk. The sheet they draped over the wooden tub was of finest linen, the water scented with rosemary. Since leaving Burgundy there had been no chance for more than a quick once-over at the basin, so this was bliss indeed.
Kneeling to pull off my boots, Francis said shyly, ‘One thing about growing up in Warwick’s household, you learn to squire a knight.’
‘Yes. You do. Lord, it’s only three years – feels like thirty. Who could have imagined what has happened! But how come you here, Francis? I thought you were still at Middleham?’
‘I was, but it became – difficult.’ His fingers nimble on my buckles and laces he gave me a quick, bitter smile. ‘So a short time ago I simply left. I was with my wife’s people, but once I heard you were coming I threw myself on the Duchess’s mercy. Martin, sorry, Sir Martin, would – do you think – I’m fifteen and well-trained, so – do you think the King would let me fight?’
Naked for the first time in a month I stood up, stretching luxuriously. My clothes lay in a filthy, malodorous pile. Burn them, I thought to myself. ‘You can ask, Francis, but the King has a rule, no one under sixteen.’
‘Richard might...’
‘You can ask,’ I repeated, and sank into the benison of hot water. Despite his baron’s rank Francis dismissed the servants and did for me himself, washing my hair, scrubbing my back and feet. Half asleep I idled, drinking wine and telling Francis about Burgundy, my wife, the journey home.
‘Warwick won’t accept any offers of pardon,’ he said when the talk came round to present matters. ‘You know his pride. He has gambled and lost. There’s no choice now but battle.’
‘No.’
‘After Easter?’ Tomorrow was Good Friday.
‘Sooner, I think. Francis, we could still lose.’
‘No,’ he said with enviable confidence. ‘Martin, about fighting – should I ask Richard?’
‘Ask me what?’ The man himself entered as we spoke. He was in tearing high spirits. ‘Christ,
I’d give an arm and a leg for a bath!’
‘We’ll send for a narrow tub.’
‘Out. My turn. Why, it’s Francis Lovell! How are you?’
‘Well, thank you, Your Grace. I hope you are well?’
Richard was flinging off his clothes, he never had any patience with servants undressing him. ‘I’d be better if Martin would shift, I want a bath. And you used to call me Richard, why so formal?’ To the boy’s delight he kissed him fondly. ‘What did you want to ask me?’
‘If I could fight for you. Would you take me?’
Reluctantly quitting the bath I said, ‘I told him the King’s rule about being sixteen. But we know he’s well-trained, so why not?’
‘Hmm. He is certainly a good squire.’ Francis had laid towels over the wooden bath mat and had more warming by the fire. The servants emptied the tub, cleaned it, and re-filled it. Francis wrapped me in my bed-gown and I settled back on the bed with another cup of wine. Watching critically Richard said, ‘So far as I’m concerned you can. If the King asks, you’re near seventeen. You can be one of my squires. And you can start by washing my hair, but watch out, I’m sure I’m lousy.’
‘Thank you!’ Francis plied the soap as if charging the enemy colours.
‘I trust the Queen is well?’ I didn’t like her, but I felt sympathy for that haughty woman crammed helpless into Sanctuary for six months, stripped of her dignities, terrified no doubt, bearing a baby who might have no future except as a political pawn.
‘She is.’ Richard laughed. ‘Martin, she kissed me! Threw her arms around me and kissed me and called me Richard!’
‘My word.’
‘Indeed. And, among ourselves,’ (the servants had gone) ‘for the first time I believed she married Edward for more than ambition. She came running out of the inner room, and saw him, and her face lit up, and she flung herself into his arms and kissed him and called him Ned, which I’ve never heard her do. She was crying with delight, and her headdress came off and her hair fell down and she never minded, she laughed. And then the little girls came out, and Edward knelt down and hugged them, all three of them at once, and he was crying.’
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