Rebellion (13 page)

For a moment the duke was puzzled.
Edward is not my king
, he thought. And he wasn't a thief – he'd taken
nothing. Then he understood that he'd taken the honours that Edward had heaped upon him,
his hospitality, affection and esteem.

He had nothing to say about that. But Lord
Montague was still looking at him; it seemed he was expected to say something. So he
said, ‘Tell your king that I am sorry I feigned my friendship.'

Lord Montague's face changed. His smile
vanished entirely and the duke thought he might spit.

‘Liar and coward,' he said, ‘you are lucky
you are not to be hanged, drawn and quartered. It is no more than you deserve.'

He looked as though he would say something
else, then he turned and walked sharply away.

The Duke of Somerset kept his gaze fixed
above Lord Montague's head, at the trees which were in perpetual motion, light rippling
through them as though blown by the breeze.

Then he saw that Lord Montague had stopped
by the stone they would use as a block. He spoke to a man, and the man held out his
sword.

The duke's nausea returned. He hoped, as he
could now remember hoping on the day of his first battle, that he would not be sick.

His shirt was already open at the neck.

Behind him, in the fields, were the corpses
of many men who had fought that day, who only that morning had lived and breathed, and
had plans, maybe, for their future lives. Now they lay on the earth with mouths and eyes
open to the sky; flies crawling in.

The man speaking to Lord Montague lifted his
sword and brought it down, testing it. The Duke of Somerset felt a twist of nausea
again. He closed his eyes in a reflex action, then thought
that maybe
he would keep them closed; he would see nothing as they led him to the block.

He tried to think the kind of thoughts that
might be appropriate to the situation – confessional, apologetic – but he could think of
nothing to say and no one to say it to. And this struck him as strange, that he had come
so far through life with nothing to say.

As if his mind had emptied suddenly like an
upturned bowl.

He wondered whether it would be over
quickly, with a single blow. He had seen executions before, of course, and had seen them
take several blows. He had seen severed heads with their lips still moving in prayer. He
wondered whether the mind went on thinking after the head was severed; what its last
thoughts were likely to be.

Try as he might, he could think of nothing
now that made sudden sense of his life, that told him he should have done this or that
thing differently, or that any of it had been worthwhile in the end. He had given his
allegiance, but he could no longer remember why. And this thing he'd had, almost without
knowing it – this thing called
life
– that was over now; completed like a poem
or a song.

When he opened his eyes he saw Lord Montague
straighten suddenly and motion to the guards to bring him forward.

His steps did not drag, but because the
ground was rutted they did not go smoothly; he could feel an uneven pressure between the
ball of his foot, the ankle and his heel; could feel it even in his knees and the
muscles of his thighs, which still ached from riding his horse so hard, and in the base
of his spine and further, even into his neck; though he thought with just a trace of
humour that this would not be a problem for long.

How strange that his last thoughts should be
of the balance and distribution of weight in his body.

Then a priest stepped forward and asked him
whether there was any last confession he wanted to make. He said there wasn't, though it
didn't seem to be quite the right answer. He was sure
there was
something he should say, that he had done what he'd had to do, perhaps, but his mind
wouldn't think clearly and he appeared to have forgotten everything he thought he
knew.

Someone pushed him and he was kneeling, the
priest intoning a prayer over him, and his head was pressed forward so that all he could
see was the uneven earth, bare between clumps of grass; tiny ants moving purposefully
along a crack. He had time to marvel at this other world that existed between the blades
of grass; unseen, insignificant, but of the utmost consequence, presumably, to its
participants, for whom the whole world consisted of grass and cracks. He wondered what
other worlds existed there and whether their God was in the shape of a human footprint,
stamping down. And he knew he should shut his eyes, as he'd decided earlier, and keep
them shut, but he found, after all, that he wanted to see.

Henry Duke of Somerset was beheaded
[on 15th May 1464] at Hexham.

Short English Chronicle

That same year the Earl of Warwick
was sent into France to look for a wife for the king … However, while the Earl
of Warwick was away [it transpired that] the king was married to Elizabeth
Woodville, a widow, whose husband, Sir John Grey, had been slain in battle on King
Henry's side …

Warkworth's Chronicle

The mood of the council was
self-congratulatory. Many speeches were made, thanking Lord Montague for his prompt
action and good leadership at Hexham, his thoroughness in pursuing and capturing so many
Lancastrian lords. Regrettably, he had not captured their king, who, one wit remarked,
had surprised them all by his horsemanship. Who would have thought the old king could
run away so fast?

It would have been preferable to have
captured the king, of course, but no one doubted that his cause was over. A king in
hiding with nowhere to go? And no one left to support him. And no money. A day or so
after the battle, Sir William Tailboys had been found hiding in a coal pit with bags of
money that should have funded the Lancastrian cause. But Tailboys had been executed and
the money redistributed, all thanks to the energy and diligence of Lord Montague.

If possible the council
owed his brother, the Earl of Warwick, an even greater debt. The two brothers had
marched from York, installing garrisons at Alnwick, Dunstanburgh and Bamburgh, so that
now only one castle, Harlech, remained Lancastrian. And then Warwick had gone to France,
where he had exercised all the diplomatic skills for which he was justly famous. Now, in
addition to the truce that had been made with the Scots, England was on the brink of a
great alliance with France.

Everyone looked towards the king, but Edward
sat impassively in his chair.

The two brothers were to be amply rewarded,
of course. All the wealth and possessions of the Duke of Somerset and the Earl of
Northumberland were to be redistributed. Lord Montague would receive the vast estates
belonging to the Percy family and was confirmed in his office of Warden of the East
March. Warwick had been made Captain of Calais, Keeper of the Seas, Constable of Dover,
Warden of the Cinque Ports, King's Lieutenant in the north, Warden of the West March and
Admiral of England. His income, it was rumoured, was greater than the king's. His
younger brother, George Neville, had been made Lord Chancellor of England and Archdeacon
of Carlisle, and would soon, it was said, be Archbishop of York, though still so
young.

Wealth and power had been redistributed many
times since the Battle of Towton, but now it could be seen to rest securely in the hands
of these Neville brothers.

No one raised any objection to this; in
fact, most were pleased that the nation's welfare rested in such capable hands. They had
brought the Lancastrian cause to its knees, prevented them from giving any more land
away to the Scots and consolidated England's position with both Burgundy and France.
They had saved England from the danger caused by the error of putting trust in certain
unsuitable persons
,
one man said; though he did not specifically
name the Duke of Somerset to the king.

The thanksgiving went on
for some time and then the Earl of Warwick was called upon to make a speech. He spoke
with all his customary eloquence and wit, outlining his many successes at the French
court and the policy he would pursue when the conference at St Omer was resumed that
October. And he spoke of King Louis' eagerness to ratify the new alliance by
marriage.

He looked towards the king at this point,
but King Edward did not appear to be looking his way. So he continued, saying that Louis
would have been pleased to offer his own daughter, but since she was only three years
old she could not be expected to produce an heir for many years. But he had been keen to
offer the hand of his sister-in-law, Bona of Savoy. And Lord Wenlock had met the lady
and been impressed by her beauty and wit.

It remained only for King Edward to give his
consent to this agreement.

Once more the conference looked towards the
king.

The king appeared to be studying his
hands.

When the silence went on the Speaker,
greatly daring, said, ‘Your majesty, we are, all of us, hoping to hear glad tidings of a
matrimonial alliance that will provide for the succession and secure the place of our
nation in Europe.

‘So handsome a monarch,' he went on archly,
when the king did not reply, ‘should not go long unwedded – or unbedded.' And there was
laughter at this, for who, among monarchs, was less likely to go unbedded than King
Edward?

But the king was not laughing. He had
glanced quickly at Warwick at the Speaker's words, then resumed his downward and inward
gaze.

The silence this time was laden with
expectation. And Warwick broke it first.

‘I know,' he said, ‘that there was some
consideration of Burgundy in your majesty's matrimonial plans. But now the three nations
have reached an agreement there can be no further obstacle, surely, to a marriage
alliance with France?'

At last the king looked up,
and everyone could see that his face was very pale. His eyes looked even smaller than
usual, as if he had not slept. He said:

‘I have listened to everything you have to
say, and you are certainly to be congratulated. I am fortunate indeed to have such
capable ministers at my disposal.'

He paused, and Warwick's gaze narrowed in
its focus like a cat's.

‘I would, if I
could
, agree to your
proposal – to secure the future of this nation is my dearest wish – a wish as close to
my heart – if not closer – than it is to yours.'

There was another brief, dense pause.

‘And to this end I have already acted,' he
said.

Now the silence had a baffled quality. No
one could imagine what the king could mean.

‘I cannot undertake to marry either France
or Burgundy, because I am already married.'

He sat back in his chair.

Warwick laughed.

No one else laughed. Now the silence was as
though all the air had been suddenly sucked from the room. When it broke it was with the
violence of a thunderclap. All the lords were clamouring at once. What did the king
mean? Who did the king mean? And how? And when? And where?

Their voices rose in a collective howl of
indignation until Warwick interrupted them. Holding his hand high, he said, ‘His majesty
is joking.'

And gradually the noise came to an uncertain
stop, like a carriage that has been driven too fast. But if it was a joke it was not
funny. The lords waited, eager as children, for it to be explained to them.

‘He is certainly not serious,' Warwick went
on, looking at the king. ‘He would not take such a momentous step without consulting one
of us. Surely.'

King Edward looked at
Warwick and everyone could see there was no humour in his gaze.

‘You need not speak as though I were not
here,' he said, and a rumble of consternation began again.

Warwick spoke with careful courtesy. ‘Then
tell us, majesty, what you mean.'

A faint sigh escaped the king's lips. ‘I
mean I am married,' he said. ‘And have been these past four months.'

There was a collective gasp, then a chorus
of
Who? Who is she? Where is she?

But the king would say only that she was a
gentlewoman, not from France or Burgundy but from this, their own fair nation. And he
loved her with all his heart. As he was sure they would come to love her too.

Then he rose as if to leave, but Warwick
said, ‘No, no – your majesty must tell us her name at least.'

The king's gaze locked into Warwick's and
neither gave. Then the king said distinctly, ‘I am married to Lady Elizabeth Grey, widow
of Sir John Grey of Groby, daughter of Lord Rivers.'

Everyone present tried to place this lady in
their memory. Only Warwick seemed to know who the king meant. He said, in a voice
saturated in disbelief, ‘You have married a
commoner
?'