Текст книги "The Red Rose of Anjou"

Автор книги: Jean Plaidy

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

She was half relieved, half angry.

I will do it, she thought. Brézé is too weak.

But that was unfair. He had shown himself a good friend to her. Their relationship had been an almost tender one. He admired her strength and her beauty and in a way was in love with her. His thoughts were for what would benefit her most.

For the time being she would shelve the matter and turn her attention to Mary of Gueldres.

Mary was sorry for her. She wanted to be of help; but naturally she must not be foolish, when her own position was so precarious. It was always dangerous when a King died leaving a young heir—a minor who must be surrounded by those who wished to govern for him.

In Lincluden Abbey where Mary had given Margaret apartments, the two women talked and bargained together– Margaret with a kind of feverish intensity, Mary more coldly, calculating each step before she made it, in contrast to Margaret’s impetuosity.

There was a fellow feeling between them. Both had young sons to protect. Mary was without a husband it was true but Margaret felt that hers could sometimes be an encumbrance rather than an asset.

‘It is only temporary help I need,’ Margaret explained fervently. ‘Once I have regained what is mine everything shall be repaid.’

‘I know it,’ replied Mary, ‘but conflicts go on for years before they are resolved and I have difficulties here. We have very unruly nobles in Scotland.’

‘They could not be more so than those of England. I often wish I could get rid of them all.’

‘Ah, we have to take care that they do not get rid of us.’

‘You and I should make a bargain. We should help each other. My dear cousin, give me men, give me arms and let our children marry. Let that be the bond between us. Your little Mary could be my Edward’s bride.’

It was tempting. The daughter of a Scottish king was not as desirable a parti as some might be. Her father was dead, her mother was struggling to keep the throne safe for her son—and if Margaret succeeded in defeating the rebels Edward would one day be King and little Mary of Scotland Queen of England.

It was a golden prospect if only the war could be won, if Edward was not to be ousted from the throne; but it seemed very likely that he would be, since after Northampton, Richard of York had been declared heir to the throne on the death of Henry.

Mary of Gueldres hesitated.

She knew how desperate Margaret was. She knew that she would do almost anything for help. She would consider nothing too high a price to be paid for what she wanted.

Mary of Gueldres said: ‘For myself I would agree willingly to this marriage, but it is those about me...I fear before they would be willing to help they would want something more...’

‘What?’ cried Margaret. ‘Tell me what?’

‘Berwick,’ said Mary quietly.

Berwick! That border town which was so important to the English.

Well, she had been ready to give Calais. Why hesitate at Berwick?

‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Berwick shall be yours...in exchange for an army which will help me destroy these rebels.’

###

Cecily Duchess of York had arrived in London in great style with three of her children—her daughter Margaret and her two youngest sons George and Richard.

They must all behave with the utmost dignity, she had told them. Their behaviour was of the utmost importance because they had become Princes. They had always been of the highest in the land—but then so had others; now they had stepped up with their father who when the King died would be King in his place. As for their brother Edward—anyone must realize just by looking at him that he was surely born for a crown.

Edward was the children’s god. He was always so dazzling to look at and stories of his adventures reached them; he was a great soldier, a great adventurer and he never seemed out of temper. He would be King one day, their mother told them, but not yet praise God because their noble father came first.

The Duke was coming from Ireland to join them and when he arrived it would be a great day of rejoicing for everybody. Cecily decided that it would be fitting for her to go to meet him and therefore the children would be left behind in the mansion in Southwark where they had been living since they came to London.

‘Your brother Edward will come often to see you,’ she told them. ‘But you must not expect too much attention from him. He has great affairs with which to concern himself and he will spend much time with the great Earl of Warwick. If the Earl should come here, make sure you treat him with the correct respect. Edward will notice if you don’t.’

They did not believe their big handsome brother would trouble very much about that. Life was exciting. And when their father came to London he would go to Parliament and after that nobody would be able to say they were not Princes.

The days passed. The children went riding through the city but they were too young to notice the tension in the streets. Northampton might have been a resounding victory but there were many lords who supported the red rose of Lancaster and when a King was in conflict with certain members of the nobility and when new rulers were going to replace old there was always acute danger. It was true that Henry was not fit to govern; it was true that many hated the Queen; but there was a young Prince at present with his mother and to accept the Duke of York in his place did not please everybody.

That the Duke and Duchess of York already regarded themselves as the rulers was obvious. When the Duchess had left London on her way to meet her husband she had travelled in a chariot decorated with blue velvet and drawn by four pairs of the finest horses. Margaret of Anjou had never travelled more royally. The Duke was a more able administrator than Henry, that was true; but it seemed that Proud Cis would be every bit as overbearing as Margaret.

In due course York came riding into London. With Cecily in her velvet-covered chariot it was a very grand procession, but there was a notable lack of enthusiasm among the people.

The Duke cared nothing for that. He lost no time in presenting himself to the Parliament and on his way there had one of his men ride ahead of him carrying a sword—a custom which implied that he was already the King.

The people watched in silence and later, when presenting himself in Parliament, he insisted on the lords listening to an account of his pedigree which showed that he had more right to the throne than Henry. Henry’s grandfather had usurped the throne, he declared. Others had come before him. Therefore he, York, was the rightful King.

There was great consternation throughout the House and the lords were uncertain how to act. They accepted the pedigree, on the other hand Henry was their crowned King. At length one of them suggested that as the matter was so complicated it should be put before judges. It was a matter of law and for them to decide.

When York returned to Southwark it was to find Warwick there with Edward.

They immediately retired to an apartment where the three of them might talk in earnest.

It was clear that Warwick did not approve of York’s action in going to the Parliament. ‘The time is not ripe,’ said Warwick; and he was regretting that York stood before his son. How much easier it would be to handle Edward!

‘We have delayed long enough,’ said York. ‘It is time we let the people see what we stand for. We want Henry deposed and we have to let Margaret know that she has not a chance.’

‘It’s true,’ said Warwick, ‘but we should tread with more care. There is hostile feeling all around us, and it will need little to turn that into active support for Henry.’

‘Henry is hopeless and all know it.’

‘He still retains their affection. Well, we have gone so far, we must see what the judges make of it.’

The judges very quickly let them know. ‘This matter is too difficult for us to decide,’ was their verdict. ‘It is above our knowledge of the law and learning.’

It was fortunate that Warwick’s brother, George Neville, had been made Chancellor. He declared that it was clear that the King’s health prevented him from ruling. Let the decision remain to let him wear the crown until he died and then let it go to York.

There were some who thought this would shorten Henry’s life because there would most certainly be those who would want to be rid of him.

George Neville then said that if Henry died mysteriously they would not rest until they had found his murderer and no matter how high in the land that person was he should suffer the traitor’s death. Moreover, the Duke of York was considerably older than Henry. It seemed very likely that Henry would live longer.

So it was stated that York was officially to be declared heir to the throne.

When Henry was approached he buried his head in his hands. ‘I only ask to be left in peace,’ he said.

‘The Duke of York and his heirs will have the throne after you.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said the King wearily.

They were amazed. Had he forgotten the boy of whom he and Margaret had been so proud?

‘I want peace,’ cried Henry. ‘My country wants peace. Forsooth and forsooth, let us have peace and pay the price for it if we must.’

So York was declared heir to the throne. But there was no rejoicing in the streets.

Warwick shook his head apprehensively. ‘It was wrong. The people don’t like it. One always needs the people with one particularly in a situation like this which could be unpopular. No, you should not have done this. You should have waited until by very force of arms we could have deposed Henry and set you up.’

‘I agree with that,’ said Edward.

York looked sadly at his eldest son. Edward seemed to be all Warwick’s now. Rutland was his dear faithful son. Rutland would never question any moves he made.

Even as they talked together messengers were arriving. Margaret was gathering forces. She had the Tudors building up an army in Wales. Exeter was doing the same in the North as she herself was in Scotland.

‘No time for complacency,’ said Warwick. ‘Edward and I will remain in London to keep watch over the King and build up an army. You should go to York and muster as many men as you can. We may have to fight. It is hardly likely that Margaret will quietly accept this.’

The Duke of York agreed and left London for Yorkshire where he would amass an army to fight with him and retain his new title.

###

Christmas would soon come. Through the cold winds of winter York marched with his men. He would do little until the spring; it was never wise to make battle in the depths of winter.

He did not believe Henry would live long. There might be some who would make it their duty to see that he did not. And then...the crown would be his. Edward would be a worthy heir for all that he had become Warwick’s man rather than his father’s. Never mind. They were all on the same side and Edward was a son to be proud of.

They had come to the town of Worksop and as they were marching out of the town they were unaware of the ambush and Somerset’s troops were upon them before they could make ready to return the attack.

The fighting was fierce and the losses on both sides great.

They must get to York, thought the Duke. They must get to the castle of Sandal at least. That was within a mile or so of Wakefield.

He rallied his forces and cried out to them that they must leave the field and make with all speed for Sandal.

He was relieved when the grey stone castle rose up before him, a mighty fortress on the left bank of the River Calder.

He glanced at his son Rutland who was riding beside him. His favourite of late, one who had adhered to his father and resisted the wiles of the hero Warwick. Foolish to feel that envy but under Warwick’s influence Edward had changed towards him. They had been critical of him in London; they had made him feel that he was no longer the leader. Warwick was like that. Whenever he was present, one felt that though he might not be in command in the flesh he was in spirit.

‘We will show them, my son,’ he said to Rutland.

‘We will. Father,’ replied the boy.

They had not realized the size of the army which was approaching. Exeter with Clifford had done well in raising such an army for Margaret.

Salisbury who had accompanied them said that they were safe in the castle. He had sent messengers to Warwick and Edward to let them know how things stood. They need not worry. They could hold out until Warwick or Edward came to relieve them.

The Duke was frustrated. To be besieged in a castle waiting for Warwick and his son, it was too much to be borne. They criticized him enough already.

It was all very well to wait. He could imagine the day Warwick arrived, scattering the enemy, proudly riding into the city; and there would be Edward beside him, admiring, hanging on his words, pitying his father because he had had the ill luck—mismanagement they might say—to get himself besieged in Sandal Castle.

‘I shall not wait for relief,’ said York. T shall go out among them. I shall reduce their ranks. I will cripple this army so that it cannot come against me again.’

‘Is this wise?’ asked Salisbury. ‘We are outnumbered.’

‘We are not outclassed,’ said the Duke. ‘I can fight battles without Warwick and my eldest son.’

‘ ‘Tis so,’ agreed Salisbury. ‘But their help would be useful.’

‘Where are the enemy now?’

‘Encamped at Wakefield.’

‘A mile or so away. Then we will prepare to attack.’

###

Thus was fought the battle of Wakefield. It was folly from the start to have attempted it. The Yorkists were completely outnumbered. Many were slain on that field including the Duke of York and his son Rutland.

It was with great exultation that the Lancastrians discovered the dead body of the Duke. They cut off his head and sent it to York to be stuck on the walls of the city and someone had placed a paper crown on his head.

Salisbury was captured but they would not allow him to live. He was too dangerous. His head was displayed on the walls of York beside that of his friend and ally.

It was defeat. York was dead. When Margaret heard the news she was almost wild with joy.

‘The tide has turned,’ she cried. ‘This is our greatest victory. We are going to win back what is ours and the fate of every traitor in England shall be as that of the Duke of York.’

MARGARET’S TRIUMPH

Edward was at Gloucester when he heard the news of his father’s defeat and death. He was completely stunned. He could not believe this was possible. He stared blankly at the messenger and then a terrible grief overcame him.

He wanted to be alone, to think of his father. He had always admired him so much, always looked up to him, seen him as a King, invincible. And now…defeated…dead, and his head on the walls of York surmounted by a paper crown. The ultimate mockery.

A great rage overtook him then. Those who had jeered at his father should pay dearly for their mirth.

‘What are we doing waiting here?’ he cried. ‘We must march…march against them. We must inflict such slaughter upon them that they scream for mercy.’

He thought of Warwick, his hero. Where was he now? Still in London. Warwick would say: Be calm. Do not scream Revenge! just for the sake of revenge. Let it be revenge tempered with reason. They shall pay, yes, but in a manner best suited to our cause.

He thought of his mother, proud Cis, who was certain that before long she would be Queen of England and the boys too…the Princes. And what of Rutland?...dead with his father. Father and brother slain on one field. He could almost hear the quiet tones of Warwick: ‘Alas, my lord, that is war.’

Then the understanding came to him in a blinding realization of what this would mean to him. When he contemplated it he could for a few moments, in spite of his grief, think of nothing else.

He, Edward, no longer merely Earl of March but Duke of York, could be King of England.

That was something to fight for...to live for. My God, he thought, they will not long be laughing at my father’s head. King Edward! It would come. Something within himself assured him of that.

Even as he mourned several of his friends came to him to tell him that they could no longer stay in Gloucester. They were Humphrey Stafford, Walter Devereux and Devereux’ son-in-law Herbert of Raglan.

They knew he was staggering under the terrible blow the revelation of his father’s death had been; they were aware that the defeat at Wakefield was the most significant setback the Yorkists had suffered as yet—but the result of it was to place a heavy burden on Edward’s young shoulders and into their manner there had crept a certain respect which had not been there before.

Even through his grief Edward was aware of it and exulted in it.

‘Friends have come in with news from the Marches,’ said Devereux. ‘Jasper Tudor is in England and has brought with him French Bretons and Irish, enemies all. He is preparing to march against us. And Margaret when she hears of what has happened at Wakefield will be marching south.’

‘Let them come,’ cried Edward. ‘The .sooner the better. Praise God we have an army of stalwart men. I yearn for battle. I swear by God it will not be long before the blood of my father and my brother are avenged.’

‘Amen,’ murmured the others.

‘Then why do we wait? Let us prepare now to march.’

Edward’s mood communicated itself to all those about him. Men looked at him and saw in him the leader which his father had never somehow managed to be. Edward was so tall, so handsome, so Plantagenet, that men said it was as though Edward Longshanks walked again. He looked invincible. The determination to avenge his father was clear to all who beheld him.

He halted his army at Wigmore where he had his own castle. Here he saw that the men were adequately lodged and fed. They

would go into battle fighting fit; and the memory of Wakefield was with them every inch of the way.

Between the valleys of Brecon and Hay came Jasper Tudor, with his father, Owen Tudor, riding beside him. This was a great day for the House of Lancaster. The Duke of York was dead. What better news could there be? The throne had been saved for Owen Tudor’s half-brother Henry. Owen was confident that now the Yorkists would accept defeat.

‘There is still Edward of York,’ Jasper reminded him.

‘A braggart boy.’

Jasper was not so sanguinary. He had seen Edward. There was a certain regality about him. ‘He has the look of a King.’ he said.

‘Oh, you are bemused by the height of him, by those golden good looks. I’ve heard they’ll be the death of him. He is too fond of good living.’

‘Kings often are,’ said Jasper.

‘Jasper, my son, what has possessed you this day? I tell you we are riding high. Imagine that head on the walls of York. A paper crown, ha ha.’

‘I am imagining it,’ said Jasper. ‘I doubt not Edward is too.’

‘It will unnerve the boy,’ said Owen.

Jasper did not answer. He marvelled at his father. He was a man of great charm and good looks, a man who walked through life without seeing the dangers. Perhaps that was what had brought him through a dangerous marriage with a Queen, which had endured for several years, escape from the Tower, and living a dangerous life in the Welsh mountains to serve his half-brother. Sometimes it seemed to Jasper that Owen Tudor did not see the realities of life. Fortune had favoured him, had brought him through danger time and time again so that he believed she always would.

The two armies were close now. Edward had the advantage because he knew the ground so well and he was impelled by such an urgent desire for revenge that he knew he could not fail.

He was going to avenge his father or die in the attempt; and he was as certain in his own heart that he was going to live to be King of England.

He had decided that the battle should take place at Mortimer’s Cross and there he camped his army round about the village of Kingsland.

It was Candlemas Day and about ten o’clock in the morning when there was a sudden shout from one of the soldiers. He was standing as though struck dumb, staring up at the sky. Everyone looked up and there was a shocked and terrible silence. Above them was not one sun but three. None of them had ever seen such a rare phenomenon as a parhelion before, and they did not know that it was caused by the formation of ice or snow crystals in the atmosphere and being hexagonal in shape produced a double refraction which took the form of a halo.

More and more men came out to gaze up at the sky and when Edward came out and looked he was filled with dismay but even more so to see the effect it was having on his men. He looked up defiantly to the sky.

‘Yes,’ he cried, ‘it is an omen. It indicates that the Trinity is with us, God the Father, God the Son and the Holy Ghost will be beside us this day.’

It was amazing how words spoken by a strong man in such tones of authority could have such an effect on an army. They now looked up at the sky and they marvelled. Edward had convinced them that there would be victory this day.

Jasper’s troops had arrived and the battle began. Edward was in the thick of it, remembering all that he had learned from his father and particularly from Warwick. ‘The Trinity is with us,’ he cried. ‘Revenge for Wakefield.’

He had taken on a new stature. He was the King already. It was as though Edward Longshanks had come back to earth. The result seemed inevitable. They were gaining ascendancy over the enemy.

‘Spare the commoners, kill the leaders,’ he cried. Warwick had taught him that. It was the leaders they must rout out.

Jasper was dismayed. He could see defeat staring them in the face. This Edward was a new leader to conjure with. He had ceased to be a boy when his father died.

The Earl of Wiltshire was beside Jasper. ‘It is time to get away...’ cried the Earl. ‘It is either flight or death. Come...if you want to live to fight another day. There’ll be no mercy for us if we are captured.’

It was true. All hope was gone. The battle of Mortimer Cross had been fought and won by Edward and the Yorkists.

‘Where is my father?’ said Jasper.

‘He will defend himself. He always had the luck.’

‘I would like to know that he is safe.’

‘You cannot turn back. Come, Jasper, is it to be retreat and fight another day for us or certain death?’

Jasper saw the wisdom of flight. His father would take care of himself.

At that moment when Jasper with Wiltshire was riding with all speed into the Welsh mountains, Owen Tudor was surrounded by soldiers. His horse had been wounded and was lying beside him, and Owen knew that this time his luck had failed him.

He was brought to Edward, who studied him sardonically.

‘Well, Owen Tudor, you have not been so fortunate this time!’

Owen smiled that smile which was still attractive enough to charm. ‘My lord, the fortunes of war are unpredictable.’

‘Perhaps your fate is far from unpredictable.’

Owen felt a tremor of dismay. Was Edward telling him that he would have his head?

‘You took up arms against my father,’ said Edward.

‘My lord, I took up arms for my brother, the King.’

‘Ah, Tudor, you are very proud of the connection.’

‘My lord, are you not proud of your connections with Kings? Is that not what this war is all about?’

‘It is to set the rightful King on the throne and to put an end to bad government.’

‘And to uphold the rights of the true King.’

Owen was too sure of himself.

‘Take him away,’ said Edward.

They marched to Hereford where the people gave a welcome to the victorious army. People came out of their houses to see Edward of whom they had heard so much. How the women loved him! He exulted in their admiration. They wanted a King Like him—a virile adventurer, a handsome charmer; they might admire Henry for a saint but he was not the man to enchant them.

They would give up Henry tomorrow—these people of Hereford—for the sake of this tall, handsome Plantagenet King.

The prisoners marched with them. He noticed the looks which Owen Tudor attracted. He had an indefinable charm which was there even though he had left his youth behind him. He must have been an extremely handsome man for Queen Katherine to forget her royalty for him.

But it must be the end of him. There should be no mercy shown to any of those who had stood against the White Rose of York.

He himself would witness the execution and when it was done

there should be fresh heads to set on the walls of York and those already there should be taken down and most reverently buried.

Owen did not believe that he was going to die. He knew that the people were gathering in the market square. He knew that they had been promised a spectacle. But he believed something would happen at the last moment to save him. It always had. He had lived a charmed life ever since Queen Katherine had noticed him in her household and had fallen in love with him. The memory of those days would live with him forever. Sometimes he believed that Katherine watched over him from Heaven...him and their children. Those long days of secret happiness now seemed as real as they ever had.

He had never ceased to love her. He had worshipped her, revered her and had taught their children to do the same. Edmund was dead now, but how proud she would have been of little Henry, her grandson! Owen had taught the child to love her too.

Oh Katherine, he thought, I cannot die yet. There is much to be done. Something will happen at the last moment. I shall go out there to my execution but there will be some miracle. I know it.

The crowds were filling the square. So it had got as far as that. Something will happen, he thought. My time has not yet come.

He was led out into the square with others. There was a hush in the crowd when they saw him. They knew him well. He was the romantic Owen Tudor who had married Queen Katherine, who had loved her and sired her children and in the end she had been snatched from him and died of a broken heart, they said, for love of him.

The women were sad. He was a romantic figure even now that he had lost his youth.

One came forward and cried in a shrill voice: ‘Save Owen Tudor. He is too beautiful to die.’

She was dragged away—poor mad creature, they said.

Even now he could not believe it. Even though he saw the block and the axe and the executioner standing there.

Something will happen. There will be a sign from Heaven. Edward is just allowing this to happen to show me how near I came to losing my head.

There would be a messenger. Stop the execution of Owen Tudor. It would be romantic, dramatic as his life had been since he loved Katherine the Queen.

They were urging him forward. He was now stepping up to the block.

Hurry, hurry or they would be too late.

But no one was coming. There was no one to save Owen Tudor now. He must accept his fate. At last it had come then. Someone had put up a hand and torn off the collar of his red velvet doublet. Now there was no help for it. He must lay his head on the block.

He smiled whimsically at the crowd on whom a great silence had fallen.

‘Ah, my friends,’ he said in a firm voice. ‘This head which you will now see placed on this block at one time was wont to lie in the lap of Queen Katherine.’

The silence was deep. He was urged forward. Then quietly, realizing that this was indeed the end, he laid his head on the block.

###

‘So he is dead,’ said Edward. ‘So perish all traitors. Though he was a man who supported what he believed to be right. No matter. He fought on the wrong side and at Mortimer’s Cross he met his deserts. Let his head be placed on the Market Cross that all may see it.’

So that head which he had in his last breath boasted had rested in Queen Katherine’s lap was placed on the Market Cross. In the morning people were surprised for they found the mad woman they had seen on the previous day seated at the foot of the cross. She had combed Owen’s hair and washed the blood from his face and about the Cross she had set up a hundred lighted candles while she chanted prayers for his soul.

‘There was a man who attracted women to him,’ said Edward musingly. He did himself, but perhaps differently. He wondered fleetingly who would light candles to his memory. But he had his whole life before him and it would be glorious.

He ordered that the woman should not be turned away and the candles should be left burning.

Let Owen go out as he had lived...romantically. He could rejoice in the end of the Tudor but there was still Jasper and he was a man to reckon with.

He was sorry Jasper had escaped. Never mind, one day he would have Jasper’s head where it belonged and that would be the end of these upstart Tudors.

He remembered fleetingly that there was another—a child somewhere. Yes, he had heard of a young Henry Tudor. A baby...nothing more.

He must get Jasper and when he had he could forget that there was a little Henry Tudor somewhere in Wales.

###

Margaret was marching down from the North. She had a mighty army with her. It was true they were undisciplined and that they followed her not so much because they believed in her cause but because she had promised them they would be allowed to loot the towns through which they passed; to march with Margaret meant for Scotsmen that with luck they could carry off a good deal of English valuables over the Border when the fighting was over.

It was the only way that Margaret could amass an army and she had never been very scrupulous about the means.

With her was her little son, Edward—eight years old now and on whom all her hope rested. She was going to bring him up to be a man; he must not be weak and vacillating like his father, but able to win his rights and hold them.

There might be some who criticized her for taking a child with her at such times. But he was going to learn how to fight from childhood; he was going to be a great and ruthless King, for Margaret was sure that ruthlessness was necessary to rule well.

She kept him with her. She taught him herself He was the whole meaning of life to her; she had long ago decided that Henry could never be made into the man she wanted. Therefore it would have to be Edward. Henry was now in the hands of her enemies. That was not such a tragedy as it would have been but for Edward. Edward was the important one; he was her future King; and he was also her very own child. Dearly she loved him; everything she did was for his sake.