Treason

by Meredith Whitford

  Francis and I came close to rupturing ourselves. As casually as possible I asked, ‘You met Mistress Shore?’

  ‘Yes,’ John said innocently. ‘Father doesn’t like her but I quite did. She’s pretty.’ Now he understood our silence, and blushed. ‘Father explained that she is the King’s – I mean, Father told me about – about – ’

  ‘Men and women.’

  ‘Yes. Well, I sort of knew anyway; you do when you live in the country and with soldiers. But he had to tell me so I would know not to say the wrong thing about Mistress Shore.’

  ‘Ah. Yes. Of course.’ Shocked though I was that the King should have let John meet his bawd, I would have given much to see Richard’s reaction. Well, I could imagine: cool politeness, noticing nothing out of the way, then the private explosion.

  Unaware of my thoughts, John was rushing eagerly on. ‘And the King said he relies on my father to keep the Scots at bay, and he’s buying lots of ships, and he has a cunning plan, and will lead the army north, he was all eager and he talked of Mortimer’s Cross and Towton and Barnet and Tewkesbury, and I know they were great battles – but I think Lord Lovell’s right and the King’s too old to fight now.’ Edward was just turned thirty-nine.

  ‘Yes, thirty-nine,’ said Richard later. ‘And that’s only middle-age, yet he looks an old man. And everything in London is as it was in ’77 and ’78, only more so. Hastings and Dorset encourage him in his boozing and whoring.’ We shared a bitter look at that, for we had liked and trusted Hastings. ‘I saw the Queen only briefly, a courtesy call with gifts: civil, cold.’

  Suddenly I remembered the King’s visit to York late in 1478, escaping plague in London. By chance I had been in York when they arrived and, paying my respects, I had been with the King and Queen when Richard rode into the city. Of course they had thought the cheering and the din were for them, until they had heard the shouts of ‘Gloucester!’ and ‘Duke Richard!’ and looked out on the usual scene of half the city out in the streets, mobbing him, merrily shouting hello, running alongside his horse, treating him as if he were one of them, throwing him flowers and presents. Thinking to please, the Mayor had grinned and said, ‘Ah, always the same when our Duke rides in; he’s our good lord, you see, and everyone knows it.’ The King had looked rather taken aback, realising that here he was a curiosity – ‘I’ve seen the King!’ – but the people’s real love was reserved for his brother. The Queen had looked icily, forebodingly furious.

  ‘I think,’ Richard went on, ‘that she lives quite apart from the King now. Well, there were the two more children, but I think she’s reached that time of life... They live separately. And you see how things are at Court when I tell you I took John for what I imagined was a private talk with the King, and Jane Shore was more or less acting as hostess. Though she conducted herself decently with the boy, I’ll give her that. But if he’d been five years older... I’m sorry for Edward’s children. But now when it comes to England’s defence, Martin, it is up to me. We’re back thirty years to when Henry Six had to rely on my father.’ A cry broke from him, ‘And he’s not yet forty! He should be able, fit – remember Barnet... Well, it’s up to me, now, and Northumberland, and people like Jock Howard and Lord Stanley. It is up to the North, Martin, for the south is in turmoil.’

  ‘Real trouble?’

  ‘Oh – the King’s goddamn benevolences and taxes, it’s near as bad as in the old days: riots, uprisings. I hope nothing too serious, but trouble enough.’

  ~~~

  He was right. In the summer of that year, 1481, Lord Howard sailed the English fleet into the Firth of Forth and captured eight capital ships and scuttled many more. It was a brilliant raid – and the King sent word he was riding north to lead a land attack to consolidate the sea victory. He did not come. Nor did the promised army. Richard had the Border garrison, his loyal northerners, and the few thousand raised by the King’s indentures. That was all, and it was not enough. The Scots outnumbered us, but throughout that summer we held them off. It was touch-and-go sometimes. Raid and counter-raid, skirmishes: towns and crops burned. No set battles. For months on end we were in the field patrolling the Marches, lucky if we got home one week in ten.

  In September of 1481 the King got as far north as Nottingham. This time I accompanied Richard. But for his height, I doubt I would have recognised Edward. The glorious grey eyes were small and piggy now, lost in folds of fat, and he wheezed as he heaved his great body about. He could hardly sit a horse. Richard had always measured like a boy beside him, but now the contrast was ludicrous – and in Richard’s favour as you looked from his whip-thin, tempered hardness to the King’s grossness. No longer could one trace the family resemblance imprinted in their bones.

  And now the King admitted he could go no further north. He spoke crisply enough, discussing the situation acutely – debauchery hadn’t dulled his wits – but I saw the shamed misery in his eyes every time he had to say ‘you’ instead of ‘we’.

  Word came that the Scots were massing on the border for invasion. It was outright war now. We still had no reliable report of their number, but it was clear they had at least twenty thousand. The harvest that year had been one of the worst on record, and I know farmers always claim that, but this time it was true: people were starving the length of the land. Of course such shortages are always worse in the north, and to provision his army Richard had to secure licences from the King to buy food wherever he could, as far afield as Wales or Ireland if necessary – and it did become necessary.

  We raised some twenty thousand men, the largest army ever mustered in England, and not a man more could we raise. The King had taken about twelve thousand to invade France – and I can tell you we all thought bitterly back to that venture and wished we had thrashed France into submission while we had the chance. For the great fear was, of course, that while every English man-at-arms was busy on the Scottish border, France would launch against us in the south.

  ‘Or,’ said Richard, ‘since invading England is easier said than done – ’

  ‘Remember the Norman Conquest – ’

  ‘Even so. Now I’ve forgotten what I was saying. Oh yes. Well, Louis might try – but I think what he’s up to is carving up Burgundy. He wants France to rule from the Spanish border to the North Sea. I doubt Maximilian has much chance, though heaven knows he is doing his best.’ Mary of Burgundy had married the son of the German Emperor, and he was a clever statesman and general, but the problem was, as always, lack of men and money against the might of France. ‘So what we have to do is whip the Scots and secure a good, tough, lasting peace so our northern border is safe and we’ve got men and money to help Burgundy.’

  ‘Would the King – ’ I didn’t know how, to say it: the King needed his French pension and he wanted his daughter Bess to be Queen of France. Would he, in fact, lift a finger to help Burgundy, or anyone else, against France. But Richard knew what I meant.

  ‘I don’t know. But just the same I’m going to sort out the Scots.’ This conversation took place on our way home from Nottingham. We rode for a while in silence, then I said,

  ‘Where do we start?’

  ‘I don’t suppose.’ Richard said elliptically, ‘that in fifty or a hundred years anyone outside Yorkshire will remember me. But it would be nice if our grandchildren’s generation could say, ‘Richard of Gloucester? Yes, he won the war against the Scots for Edward Four.’ So let’s see if we can be a bit clever. Let’s see if we can get Berwick back.’

  It was more than twenty years since Margaret of Anjou had bartered away that northern fortress to the Scots. From time to time the King had made attempts to win it back, but the Scots were well entrenched and all efforts had come to nothing. It was shaming for England that the enemy held one of our citadels on our own land. Getting it back would be triumph indeed.

  ‘You’d be famous and no mistake if you did.’

  With his swift glancing smile Richard said, ‘What, like that Greek fellow who burnt the temple so his nam
e would live forever? Can you remember his name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nor can I. But we’ll have a go at Berwick just the same.’

  ~~~

  We did. Sieges are dull work to talk about, and there is little I can say except that we disposed a wing of the army outside Berwick and set about starving and firing them out. It was very different from the swift business in Wales back in ’70, when Richard had relieved Cardigan and Carmarthen castles in a few short weeks. This would be a long-drawn-out affair. And, meanwhile, Richard had other ideas for harrying the Scots.

  I suppose that in the end almost every nobleman and landowner in England was in that army we turned against Scotland. Some half of them Richard disposed against Berwick, the rest he called to his headquarters at Carlisle; and I noted that this group was largely composed of the men who had worked with him the last two years and knew the Borders as well as he did.

  This is the point at which I am going to write down something I have hesitated ever to tell anyone: I saw a ghost.

  We were camped near Hadrian’s Wall – 1482, I speak of now. As usual I had done the evening round of my troops, and because it was a fine night, though chilly, and because I was tired, I walked off a little way by myself, gazing up at the early stars and wondering if we would ever see an end to this border warfare. To my right someone moved, and I swung about ready to give the alarm. At first I thought from his silhouette that the man was a Scot, then I saw the metal helmet with its horsehair crest and cheek-guards, his short sleeves, his thonged calf boots and the fringed leather tunic. I had seen drawings of Roman legionaries, and knew this was what I was looking at. I recognised the round shield and short, broad-bladed sword. Perhaps the odd thing is that I was not afraid. My grandmother used to boast that she had Roman blood – rather dilute after a millennium, one would think, but I had inherited the profile one sees on the old Roman coins that are still to be found. I had the fleeting fancy that perhaps I was seeing an ancestor of mine. Like me, this man was taking a moment’s ease at the end of a busy day, listening to the sounds of his camp. Fellow soldiers a thousand years apart, we stood together, united in the duty of keeping the Scots out of England. He looked at me, that Roman, this I swear: he saw me. I had the impression he looked with curiosity, or amusement, at a soldier whose hair fell to his shoulders, who wore leather breeches and high boots, and whose sword was three feet long. Perhaps he thought, So you’re still at it, still manning the border, still using the Wall. For a moment we looked at each other, then I murmured a Latin greeting (well, it seemed polite) and when I blinked he was gone.

  Very thoughtfully I went back to camp. They had been looking for me, John came running to say Richard wanted me in his tent. As the other leaders straggled in from their own evening duties, I casually asked Richard if he had ever heard of ghosts up here.

  To my surprise it was Northumberland, who had the imagination of an onion, who said, ‘Up here on the Wall we all believe in ghosts. Plenty of men have seen Roman soldiers or the little people: the Picts and the Celts. Go to Buttermere and they say you’ll see the last of the Vikings who made their stand against the Normans four hundred years ago. Domesday Book doesn’t run there, so well did the Cumberland men keep the Normans off.’

  ‘Well,’ said Richard, ‘I believe most things are possible, but I’d be glad of anyone, mortal or ghost, who could interpret this map for me.’ He had it spread out on his table, cursing mildly as his wolfhound’s eager tail got in the way. Peering, I made out the northern part of Cumberland, the coast of Solway Firth and the southern parts of western Scotland. There was little detail, however.

  ‘What’s in your mind?’

  ‘We’re going to raid north-west into Scotland, to Dumfries.’

  ‘Why Dumfries?’ someone asked.

  ‘Because it’s an important town for the Scots. See, it’s on the River Nith, just inland from Solway Firth. Close to Ireland. A supply town and garrison. Gentlemen, we are going to take and burn Dumfries and every town on our way. My intentions are to show the Scots we mean business, and to tempt their army out into the open so we can get some real idea of their numbers – also, if possible, to bring them to decisive battle. If we succeed, it should be enough to end this business once and for all.’

  ‘What about Berwick?’

  ‘The siege continues. Lord Stanley is in charge there. No one expected it to be a quick business.’ He looked around. ‘This raid will be the usual dirty business, but let it be understood I’ll have no looting or rape. Any man who does so is to be hanged out of hand. And give the common people of the towns time to get clear. This is a warning raid and a reprisal for the Scots raids into our country, not a slaughter of innocents. Now find me among your troops any men who know the area well, we must learn the territory as best we can.’

  ‘Large raid?’

  ‘I think ten thousand, more if possible.’

  War is war, and you can’t be dainty about it. We hoped for battle as a cleaner and more decisive alternative to this rotten work of raiding and burning, but at the cost of people left homeless and destitute we taught the Scots what it is like to be on the receiving end of such raids. What the Scottish King was up to was anyone’s guess, but we saw neither hide nor hair of his army that May, and we retired back across the border unmolested.

  ~~~

  In June the King sent for Richard, and I shaved off my beard, trimmed my hair, dug my good clothes out of my campaign chest and went with him down to Fotheringhay Castle to learn the King’s cunning plan.

  Maddeningly, the King had given Richard only the vaguest hints in his letters, so you can imagine our surprise when he introduced us to his guest the Duke of Albany. This devious gentleman was the Scottish King’s brother, and three years ago, after plotting to overthrow his brother, he had escaped by the skin of his teeth to France.

  Edward’s plan was simply this: to use Albany as a figurehead in our war, which would now have the aim of putting him on the Scottish throne. In return, Albany would, once King, do homage to Edward for his crown, give up Berwick and some other lands and, most important, sign a treaty of peace between our two countries.

  ‘And if anyone so much as mentions George... ’ Richard said that first night when we had retired to the privacy of our chambers. There was a fraught silence, then we all burst out laughing. Wiping his eyes Richard said, ‘My God, it’s a case of the biter bitten. It’s perfect, it’s 1469 all over again, with positions reversed. We’re using the King’s brother against him exactly as Louis and Warwick did. Albany’s the Scottish Clarence. And Fotheringhay, of all places! The King’s as subtle as a smack in the chops. Remember ’69, Martin? Galloping in here with Hastings, the King a prisoner and his brother seeking to overthrow him?’

  ‘Do you think it will work?’

  Staring at me as if I had started barking, Richard said, ‘Of course it won’t work! The Scots may not think too highly of wee Jamie but they like his brother even less, they would never accept him as king! But it makes a canny bargaining ploy. And I suppose stranger things have happened. So we all pretend the sun shines out of dear Cousin Alexander’s arse.’

  And so, genuflecting in the direction of the Albany posterior, we rode back north.

  The city of York had word of our coming, and set out to show the Scottish king’s brother just how Richard was regarded. The Mayor and the Alderman greeted us in full fig of scarlet and crimson, all the Guildsmen too, and behind them every citizen, all cheering their heads off. The Council put on a great dinner, and presented Richard with their best wine and fish and demain bread. Albany was visibly impressed, and quite welcome to think it was in his honour.

  ~~~

  And now we settled down to reclaim Berwick. The King had sent money, arms, men, cannon; every sort of supply. We had nine surgeons under Doctor Hobbes, the King’s own physician. To receive news quickly, the King had also instituted a mounted courier service with thirty men each riding a stage of ten miles flat out, then handin
g messages and letters on to the next relay. This way, London could have news from the north in only twenty-four hours.

  The town of Berwick quickly yielded under our dogged assault, but the fortress itself held out.

  Now King James at last stirred himself to lead his army south. Scottish politics were a sealed book to me, but I knew that the Scots nobles were constantly at war with one another and their King. And James had been rather too free with his lowborn favourites – shades of Edward II and Richard II. At Lauder these nobles turned against their King, hanged his pretty-boys and clapped the King into Edinburgh Castle, a prisoner. Clearly they had studied English history. Albany danced with glee.

  Richard left Lord Stanley to continue the siege of Berwick, and took the rest of the army north into Scotland again.

  And we took Edinburgh.

  We seized the enemy’s greatest city. It was the greatest English victory since Agincourt. And we did it without losing a single man on our side.

  If the Scots expected the customary usages of war, they were in for a pleasant surprise. Richard did not burn or sack Edinburgh, and he so rigorously enforced his rules against looting and rape that no citizen of the town could complain of being molested.

  Then, leaving Edinburgh under military control, Richard led us east to Haddington, where the elusive Scots army was lying low – for all their reputation as fierce fighters, they had been remarkably slow to engage with our army. But now it was to be battle, once and for all...

  No, actually not. The Scots had had enough. The lords now in control sent envoys to Richard asking for a truce.

  Years back our King had, as part of the old truce agreement, promised his third daughter, Cecily, to the King of Scotland’s son. That had fallen by the wayside, of course, but now the Scots were all for signing up again. The problem was, Edward had made a half-promise to marry Cecily to the Duke of Albany.