Authors: David Pilling
“You call the mass slaughter of my own subjects a victory?” snarled Edward, “have you any idea how many Englishmen died on that field, my lord? Fathers and sons, brothers and cousins, butchering each other like pigs. God knows I waded through enough blood that day to win my crown. It gives me little joy to remember.”
“Your pardon, Majesty,” Rivers stammered, almost dropping his eating knife, “I only meant to say that you have never been defeated. God has always smiled on you in battle.”
Edward glared at him. “So all my victories have been fortunate, is that what you mean?” he said, knowing he was being needlessly cruel but indulging himself anyway. It was far too easy to slip into such petty tyrannies.
Rivers stuttered out some reply, but Edward wasn’t listening. He could hear hoofs clattering on the cobbles outside, and the urgent sound of raised voices.
The door banged open, and two men-at-arms in royal livery entered, followed by a knight. His hair was soaked in sweat and plastered to his scalp, and his armour spattered with mud and dust from the road.
“Apologies, Majesty, my lords,” the knight gasped, buckling onto one knee, “but I have news that cannot wait. Not two hours ago, the Marquis of Montagu halted his army, and informed his soldiers that they were declaring for Henry VI.”
Gloucester shot to his feet. “How do you know this?” he demanded.
“I was part of Montagu’s vanguard, lord. As soon as I heard the proclamation, I deserted and rode here as fast as I could.”
“God grant all of Montagu’s men behave like you,” said Hastings. Edward drew comfort from the older man’s composure in the face of this dreadful news, and made an effort to compose himself.
“Where is Montagu now?” he asked, rising and wiping his lips.
The knight looked at him with doleful eyes. “He is marching here, Majesty, with all speed. Most of his men have stayed with him. They mean to scatter your army and capture you, thus ending the war at a stroke.”
Gloucester was first to react. “This is what comes of your mercy!” he shouted, pointing at Edward, “this is what comes of failing to rule with a firm hand. You should have hurled Montagu in the Tower when you took his earldom away, or hanged him.”
Edward was too stunned by the news to be offended. “Montagu has never complained,” he muttered, “he never once hinted that he sympathised with his brother.”
“Of course he sympathised!” Gloucester’s voice almost cracked in its shrill fury, “except in the case of our infernal brother Clarence, blood will always win out!”
“We must leave off this wrangling,” said Hastings, calm and decisive as ever, “how far is Montagu from Doncaster?”
“Fifteen miles or so, when I left him,” replied the messenger, “that was less than an hour ago.”
Edward and his lords stared at each other. Their army was hopelessly scattered, and could not possibly be scraped together in time to form a battle-line against Montagu’s forces.
“I have never run away in my life,” said the king, “but we face a stark choice. Flee, or be taken. Gentlemen, if we fall into Montagu’s hands most of you will be killed. I will be carried in chains south, to be paraded through the streets of every English town on the way to London.”
Gloucester drew his sword. “I will die before any traitor lays a hand on me,” he snarled, “and we have enough troops in the town to hold it until reinforcements can be sent for. Let us close the gates, man the walls, and dare Montagu to attack.”
“No,” Edward said firmly, “we have a Neville army to our front and rear, and there are no reinforcements to be had. I’ll not sacrifice the lives of our men in some futile last stand. Those who are minded to, follow me.”
He strode out into the dying warmth of the day. The lords followed him, like a cluster of nervous sheep trailing after the shepherd.
“Saddle and fetch our horses,” he ordered the guards on the door. They hurried away towards the stables at the rear of the inn.
“What about our men?” asked Gloucester, “are we not leaving them to be slaughtered?”
“Not if they have any sense,” said Edward, “once word spreads that we are gone, the army will disperse. Montagu will reach Doncaster to find that all his birds have flown.”
In spite of his love of pleasure and ease, Edward was at his best when danger threatened. A kind of nervous excitement filled him. He felt light-headed, and his blood tingled.
His excitement was tinged with despair. He was going to have to flee abroad, to abandon the kingdom he had fought so hard to win.
I will win all again,
he vowed silently as the horses were brought up,
I will sweep the board, and leave not another piece standing.
Chapter 9
The Tower of London, 6
th
October 1470
The Earl of Warwick made a triumphant entry into London at the head of an enormous host of forty thousand soldiers. Grand and shining in his polished armour, and mounted on his coal-black destrier, Black Saladin, he looked every inch the conquering warlord.
“A Warwick! A Warwick! God save King Henry!”
So the people hailed him as he rode through the streets. The typically shrewd and well-informed citizens had got wind of Warwick’s intention to restore King Henry, and that their previous monarch had already quit the country with a few loyal supporters.
Londoners were survivors, and had a finely-judged instinct for when to turn their coats. They cheered Warwick and the richly-dressed lords who rode behind him, showered flowers and petals on their armoured shoulders from upper-storey windows, and ensured that red wine flowed like blood from the fountains in every square.
Warwick liked to think that he was immune to the flattery of the mob, and was careful to appear grave and self-absorbed as Black Saladin clopped sedately through the streets towards the Tower. Inside he felt a tight little shiver of pleasure at the sound of his name echoing through the city, and gloried in the clashing of cymbals and wild blowing of trumpets that accompanied his progress.
Very few cheers were reserved for the Duke of Clarence. The petulant young nobleman rode just behind Warwick, no less grand in his fine armour, but significantly less popular. Clarence’s reputation as a faithless brother and a debauched, thriftless wastrel had preceded him.
Warwick put aside his secret joy at finally receiving the popular acclaim that was his due. He needed to keep a clear head, and act with deliberate care and resolve.
As soon as word reached London that King Edward had fled, the Yorkist government collapsed like a hollow pile of sand. His consort, Queen Elizabeth, might have holed up in the Tower and defied the invaders from behind its thick walls, but instead had fled to sanctuary in Westminster Abbey. She had no soldiers with her and few servants, and for the moment could be left to fret in peace.
Securing the Tower, the symbol of government and authority in England, was vital. The cries of the mob seemed to die away as Warwick rode up Tower Hill and studied the whitewashed walls of the keep, shining like a grubby diamond in the dim October mist.
Inside that grim fortalice was the greatest treasure in England. The shabby quality of that treasure said a great deal for the miserable state of the country. King Henry VI, mad, despised, a prisoner for almost a decade, but still alive, and once again destined to sit on the throne he was so desperately ill-suited for.
The gates of the outer ward yawned open for Warwick and his entourage, and the guards knelt and bowed their heads as he cantered inside. A harsher man might have hanged a few of them, just as a warning, but Warwick was anxious not to spoil the festive atmosphere inside London. Much depended on the notoriously fickle goodwill of the citizens.
He left Black Saladin in the care of his squire, and mounted the stairs to the upper levels of the keep with just Clarence and Oxford for company.
“This place was always hellish cold,” remarked Clarence as they laboured up the winding steps, “the damp rises off the Thames and infects the stones. I would hate to reside here for a month, let alone nine years.”
“If certain people had held to their sacred oaths, our lord the king would not have been obliged to stay here for so long,” Oxford said stiffly. Clarence scowled at him, but said nothing more.
Warwick felt uneasy. To the likes of Oxford, who had always stayed true to the House of Lancaster, Henry had never ceased being the rightful king, even when shut up in prison. Warwick could hardly claim such a record of loyal service. There was a danger of a rift opening up between the diehard Lancastrians and those whose loyalty had been slightly less than unquestioning.
Old wounds, old resentments, bitter, lingering feuds…these were the scars of civil wars. It fell to Warwick to try and heal them. He had craved the power, and now it dawned on him that the responsibility was about to fall on his shoulders as well.
King Henry could not be expected to rule – he was a puppet now, required merely to validate Warwick’s seizure of power in England – and Queen Margaret would have to be restrained. Left to themselves, she and her vengeful son would decorate the gates of every town and city in England with the heads of so-called traitors. Warwick was wise enough to know that peace could only be achieved by compromise, not revenge.
At last they reached the doorway to Henry’s prison. Two halberdiers guarded it, but were as pliant as their comrades, and bowed humbly before Warwick.
“Is the prisoner…is His Majesty ready?” Warwick demanded, remembering himself just in time.
“As ready as we can make him, lord,” one of the guards replied promptly, “we washed and shaved his face, and persuaded him to eat a little breakfast, but nothing on earth will persuade him to change his clothes.”
“Washed and shaved, and made to eat a little breakfast,” Clarence said sardonically, “what a mighty sovereign we have come to rescue.”
“Be silent,” Warwick snapped, and gestured at the guards to get on with it. One of them rose, took a set of iron keys from his belt, and unlocked the large black-timbered portal.
Warwick hesitated before entering. He felt oddly afraid. What did he have to be frightened of? One lone madman who had to rely on others to wash and feed him in the morning?
“Foolish,” he muttered, and stepped purposefully towards the door. Clarence and Oxford followed.
Henry was in the exact same position as the last time Warwick had visited him at the Tower, seated on a bench beside a fireplace with his hands demurely folded over his bony knees. He didn’t seem to notice his visitors until the door swung shut with a bang, which gave Warwick time to study him.
It could be worse, he reflected. Henry’s keepers had cut his hair and beard, so he at least looked vaguely presentable. Always a slender, lightly-built man,he had been kept adequately fed and watered, and even developed a little paunch.
Warwick wrinkled his nose. There was a dreadful stench in the room. No doubt it arose from the filthy knee-length russet smock Henry wore, and the inevitable hair shirt beneath. Henry’s calves were bare, and Warwick almost gagged when he saw a louse crawling up his ankle.
“Your Majesty,” said Oxford with genuine respect. He was the first of the three nobles to kneel before the ragged figure on the bench and bow his head in reverence. The earl was a big, powerful man, and looked capable of snapping Henry’s neck between finger and thumb.
“Like a bull paying tribute to a mouse,” said Clarence, clapping a hand over his mouth and nose, “Christ save us, Henry stinks. I’m not going to kiss his hand. I might catch something.”
For once Warwick could empathise with his troublesome ally, but the forms had to be observed. He knelt beside Oxford and placed his hands together as if in prayer, offering them up in homage to Henry.
“My lord king,” he said gravely, “I swear my oath of allegiance to you, and vow to return Your Majesty to his throne and kingdom.”
Clarence followed suit, though his oath was more of a resentful mumble, and all three men waited expectantly for Henry to react.
After a few seconds of tense silence, Warwick looked up. He had not paid much attention to Henry’s face, and had forgotten how large and expressive his eyes were. They were sad blue eyes, layered like an onion, with different facets of their owner’s splintered personality gazing out on the world.
They stared at Warwick now, with a vacancy that suggested he had not understood a single word of what had just passed. Henry’s moon-calf face was still plump, but there were deep lines scored into the corners of his mouth and eyes.
“Majesty,” Warwick said, louder this time, “can you hear us? You are King once more.”
A muscle twitched in Henry’s left cheek. He blinked, once, and ran a dry tongue along his lips. His mouth worked, and he seemed to be fighting for words.
“God save us,” said Clarence, “he’s lost the power of speech.”
“Nonsense,” replied Warwick, with a confidence he didn’t feel. The best doctors in the land had failed to diagnose the core of Henry’s malady, though it plainly derived from his Valois blood. Only God knew how far his mind had degenerated in the past nine years.
Henry’s lips peeled back in a ghastly smile, revealing the blackened ruins of his teeth. “My dear cousin,” he rasped, “have you come to restore my godhead?”
He tossed his head back and laughed, a weird, high-pitched croaking noise, not unlike an over-excited bullfrog.The laughter quickly subsided into a hideous ruptured giggle, and he hid his face behind his tattered sleeve.
“His Majesty is not well,” said Oxford, rising, “his gaolers have not looked after him properly. We should send for a physician.”
“And someone to bathe him, and fetch a change of clothes,” added Clarence.
Warwick said nothing. His eyes narrowed as he studied the pathetic figure, tittering into his sleeve like a naughty schoolboy. He had always wondered how much of Henry’s madness was feigned or exaggerated. How much of the real man was still in there, looking out at the world and laughing at his deception.
“You will be king again, cousin,” he said quietly, “even if I have to strap you into your throne.”
Chapter 10
The speed with which the Yorkist government collapsed took Martin by surprise. He had expected to fight a war, and taken a tearful leave of his sister and niece. They stayed behind in France. Warwick and Queen Margaret had agreed that she and her son should remain in France until England was secured, and Margaret had insisted that Mary stay with her.
Martin entered London as part of Warwick’s entourage. He had never visited the capital before, or any major city, and was overawed by the sheer size and grandeur of the place, not to mention overwhelmed by the noise and stench.
He was good at spotting deceit, and saw plenty of it on the faces of the people who thronged the streets and cheered themselves hoarse for Warwick and King Henry.
Martin had no desire to linger in such a cesspit any longer than necessary, and tried to obtain permission to leave from Warwick. This wasn’t easy, since Warwick was now de facto head of state and had a kingdom to set in order, but after three days of futile lobbying he finally managed to reach the earl by fighting through a crowd of petitioners in Westminster Hall.
“Lord,” he shouted above the din of conflicting voices, “I have a request!”
Warwick was seated behind a plain desk at the foot of the steps that led up to the royal dais. A troop of six halberdiers wearing his badge of the bear and ragged staff flanked his chair, and there were archers in the gallery above. Assassins might lurk anywhere, and he was wise to employ a strong guard.
The wooden throne on top of the dais was empty, for the newly-restored King Henry had not yet been shown to the public. Dark rumours swirled through the markets and ale-houses that Henry was no longer capable of telling friend from foe, and that an actor was being trained to impersonate him.
Warwick looked harassed, but smiled thinly when he recognised Martin. “Bolton, come forward,” he said, raising his voice and waving away a stout burgher in a floppy hat who kept waving a sheet of vellum under his nose. “I can only spare you a moment, mind.”
“Thank you, lord,” Martin said gratefully, “I do not mean to take up your time. I merely request leave to return home to Staffordshire, to set my affairs in order.”
Warwick’s smile vanished. “I am not concerned with your affairs. I need every available sword here in London, or helping to guard the coasts.”