Jean Plaidy (2 page)

“The trouble is between the Houses of York and Lancaster,” he explained. “It would never have arisen if Henry the Sixth had been a real king. Kings must be strong like my brother. Henry is mad. It is not surprising. His French grandfather was mad and had to be put away for long periods. And the worst thing was that he married Margaret of Anjou. She is haughty, domineering and the people hate her. They do not like her two chief ministers—Suffolk and Somerset—either. And in '53, when Henry and Margaret had a son, it looked as though the Lancastrians would be on the throne for a very long time. It was not good. A mad king, an arrogant foreigner for a queen—and a child heir. Your father was against them. He was for the House of York. After all, we are related. Our mother is your father's aunt. She was one of twenty-three children…the youngest, you see. There is a family bond. It was natural that he should support the House of York. The Percys are for Lancaster and the Nevilles do not like the Percys. They both regard themselves as Lord of the North.”

“I am glad we are on your side, Richard,” I said. “I should not have liked to be with mad Henry and fierce Margaret.”

“It would have been the wrong side to be on, for we are the winners, and once the people realize what it is like to have Edward for a king they will want no other.”

“Sometimes the people cannot judge what is best for them, and sometimes they have to accept what king they are given.”

“That is true, but my brother and your father will see that they will accept the king they are given.”

“It is most exciting. I can see why you want to excel at all the things you have to do. They will be necessary if you have to go to war for your brother.”

He smiled. I had said exactly what was in his mind.

He grew animated talking about the battles. St. Albans, Blore Heath, Northampton. Wakefield made him both sad and angry. I ventured to put out a hand and touch his because I knew he was thinking of his father's death and the ignoble treatment he had received.

“Wakefield has been avenged,” he said. “And then…St. Albans.”

“Tell me about St. Albans.”

“This was the second battle that had taken place at St. Albans. It was truly brilliant strategy on the part of your father. His army was beaten in the field. Margaret thought she was secure. But your father joined up with my brother, and they decided that they would not accept defeat and would march to London and there proclaim my brother king.”

“But you said they had been beaten.”

“That was at St. Albans. But the Lancastrians were unpopular. It was not Henry whom they hated. He was a poor sad creature. It was his overbearing wife. And when the news of the defeat of St. Albans reached London the people were afraid of being in the hands of the Lancastrians. They knew what it would mean if the rough soldiers came to London. There would be trouble in the streets—houses would be ransacked, wives and daughters of the citizens misused. They were burying their valuables and were in a state of great anxiety. So your father decided to get to London first to save the city from the Lancastrian soldiers—many of whom were mercenaries intent on gaining spoils for their efforts. It was a clever idea. Your father with my brother marched on the capital. They persuaded the people that they came in peace to save them from inevitable pillage and to ask them if they would accept Edward of York as their king.”

“And they were welcomed,” I cried, having heard something of this from Isabel.

“It is true. The important citizens were called together and asked if they thought Henry and Margaret fit to rule them. At this there was an immediate response in the negative. And would they take Edward of York to be their king? They cried, ‘Yea, yea, yea.' Oh, how I wish I had been there!”

“Where were you?” I asked.

“I, with my mother and my brother George and sister Margaret, were all on a ship bound for the Low Countries. When my mother heard about the defeat at St. Albans she had thought she must get us out of the country. Of course, I was not old enough then to fight for my brother, but now I am older I shall soon be able to. As soon as we heard the news that my brother was the accepted king we returned home.”

I listened enthralled—proud that I was the daughter of the man who had made this glorious victory possible. My father and Richard's brother stood together. No wonder Richard and I were friends.

He seemed to share that thought for he turned to me and smiled warmly.

“Of course,” he went on, “there had to be a lot of fighting after that. Margaret had really won the battle of St. Albans. It was just clever strategy that had won the day for us. There had to be the battle of Towton where we finally beat them and after that there was no doubt that my brother was truly king.”

“With my father helping him to rule.”

“They are kinsmen and allies.”

“As we are. Let us always remember that.”

“Yes,” he said. “Let us always remember.”

         

It was October. The leaves of the trees were already turned to bronze and there was a strong smell of autumn in the air.

I loved such days. Isabel and I often rode out with some of the boys and I usually found myself with Richard. He was looking better; he was becoming very skillful in all the martial arts, and I admired him more than ever because I knew he had to make an extra effort to equal the others. He did tell me once, in a rare moment of confidence, that sometimes his shoulder was painful after the exercises. But when I asked afterward if it were better, he frowned and I knew he did not like me to refer to it, so I did not ask again. I knew he was regretting mentioning it to me in the first place.

Returning to the castle one day, we found great activity. I knew at once by the number of men in the courtyard and about the castle that my father had come home.

My mother hurried to us as we arrived.

She said, “Your father is here. There is bad news. The enemy has landed at Bamborough.”

She looked very grave.

“There will be fighting,” she went on. “We have had a comparatively long respite but it seems that is over and we are to start again. Is there to be no end of it?”

But it was no time to brood on such a question. We were surrounded by my father's followers. When he was home the number of people in the castle was great. When I was older I understood how he boosted his popularity with his extreme wealth. He used his money to create an image of power wherever he went. When we were in Warwick Court in London his followers thronged the streets; they were in all the taverns and market places so that everyone should know great Warwick was in town. In the kitchens of Warwick Court oxen, pigs, and lambs were roasted whole, and any man was welcome to take away as much meat as he could carry on his knife. So it was not surprising that people rejoiced to see Warwick in town, and my father evidently considered it a small price to pay for his popularity and to hear the shouts of “A Warwick” every time the emblem of the Ragged Staff was seen; and whenever the great man himself appeared, it was as though he were indeed the king. My father was a vain man. His great ambition was to rule the country, and as this could never be acceptable because he was not royal, he would do it through the king of his choice. He appeared not to realize that his power came through his vast wealth—much of which had been brought to him by his wife—and not because of his wisdom and achievement.

But at this time he was at the height of his glory. The king he had made was on the throne and there seemed every indication that, pleasure-loving as the young king was, my father had every chance of fulfilling his ambitions.

Now he must bring all his efforts to defeating the invading forces of Margaret. Henry did not count; he was a poor, half-mad puppet. Margaret was the enemy. It was a pity Henry had married such a forceful woman.

The great news was that the king would be coming to Middleham to join my father for the march to Bamborough.

I had never seen Richard so excited.

I said to him, “I am longing to see the king. I want to see for myself that he is all you say he is.”

“He is all of that—and more. Whatever I said of him could not be praise enough. He will be going into battle. How I wish I could go with him.”

“One day you will,” I replied, and he nodded happily.

My father wanted the most lavish feast prepared—something to outshine even Warwick's standards. The king would be at the castle only one night, for the next day at dawn he and my father, with their armies, would be marching to Bamborough.

Servants dashed hither and thither; my mother gave orders in the kitchens; and Isabel and I were instructed how to behave. We must be a credit to our father.

“I long to see the king,” said Isabel. “They say he is the most handsome man in the kingdom.”

We heard his approach when he must have been some distance away, and Isabel and I were in the turret with some of the ladies waiting. And then we saw the cavalcade and the king was riding at the head of it.

Reports of him had not been exaggerated. He was magnificent. Our mother, who joined us, said, “We must go down there to greet the king,” and with her we went down to the courtyard. Our father was at the gate of the castle and we joined him there.

The king had leaped from his horse and advanced toward us. I had never seen such a good-looking man. He was very tall and there was an immense vitality about him; his features were clear cut and perfectly formed; but his greatest charm was that air of affability, his warm, friendly smile—and I discovered that was for everyone, even the humblest; he looked on all men as though they were his friends and all women as though he longed to be their lover. It was what is called charm, and it would always bring people to his side.

“Ah, friend Warwick!” He beamed on my father and I glowed with pride. That look conveyed love and reliance; and I could see that my father was greatly gratified. Later I realized that he regarded the king as his creature, the puppet to do his will; handsome, gracious, made to be loved by the people; the façade behind which lurked the true ruler of the country, for the king, given what he wanted—a life of luxury, easy living, and above all women—would be content for the Earl of Warwick to rule England. That was what my father thought at the time.

“My gracious lord,” he said, “may I present my lady wife.”

“Countess,” murmured the king.

My mother was about to kneel but he had caught her and, putting his hands on her shoulders, kissed her on the lips.

“Your pardon, Warwick,” went on the king. “Temptation was too great.”

And there was my mother blushing, smiling, a victim of his enchantment.

“My daughters, Isabel and Anne, my lord.”

“Charming, charming.” And before Isabel could kneel, he had taken her hand and was kissing it. Then he turned and did the same to me.

He said something about my father's being the most fortunate of men and from that moment we were all caught up in his spell. I understood how he had enslaved Richard.

There was feasting in the great hall, but my father was grave, no doubt thinking of Queen Margaret and wondering how many men had landed with her and whether they should leave immediately for Bamborough. The king showed little concern and none would have believed from his demeanor that he might be on the point of losing his kingdom.

When the meal was over my father conducted the king to the bedchamber that had been prepared for him. They would be leaving at dawn for Bamborough.

I was awakened in the early morning by the clattering of horses' hoofs and voices below. And then all was quiet.

They were anxious days. My mother talked to us about the state of affairs in the country more than she ever had before. I think it was because she was afraid. With a Yorkist king on the throne we were all safe, but that could change suddenly. When I was very young, there had been an occasion when we had all had to leave with great speed for Calais, of which town my father held the captaincy. That was when, briefly, Henry was king again.

Now I was eight years old and Isabel thirteen—of an age, I suppose, to understand a little of what was going on around us. Perhaps my mother thought that she should prepare us for a possible change in our fortunes.

“It is Margaret,” she said, as we sat over our needlework. “She is a persistent woman, and now she has a son who, she hopes, will inherit the throne one day and she is determined that he should do so.”

“My father will never allow that,” said Isabel.

“It might be beyond his control. There will be battles…and if it should go against him…oh, how I wish we could all be at peace!”

“We were until this woman landed,” said Isabel.

“She is the kind of woman who will never give up. She knows what she wants and is determined to get it—and that is the throne of England.”

“To get it she will have to beat our father and that she can never do,” said Isabel firmly.