Love's Will (30 page)

The problem now was to find Edward, but Father Anselm said that the thing to do was to ask at the best inn. ‘If Lord March isn’t lodging there, someone will know where he’ll be. Now sit up straight and don’t look about.’

The inn was not at all like our village alehouse. I looked in surprise at the handsome, spreading building with its timbered front. Light shone cheerfully from every window, and I heard singing and gales of laughter. We went into what the Father called ‘the ordinary’ – a room like a hall, with long tables and booths where men sat with more pretty ladies like those outside, and with the unexpectedly domestic touch of copper pans on the walls and settles pulled up to the fire. The entrance of a priest and a child brought a hush. Some hundred men stared blankly at us for a moment, and the ladies’ laughter stopped. A serving maid, her hands full of a dozen mugs, bobbed a curtsy, saying, ‘’help you, Father?’

‘I seek the Earl of March – the young Duke of York. Is he lodged here, or could someone tell me where to find him?’

A man who’d been warming his feet by the fire rose stiffly and came over to us. He wore a soldier’s leather jacket over a woollen jerkin bearing the York insignia. His face was square and kindly, and he looked as if he hadn’t slept for a week.

‘You want His Grace the Duke of York? May I ask your business?’

‘It is private business, sir; a family matter.’

The man’s eyes moved with impatient courtesy from Father Anselm to me. A frown pleated his brow, then he snapped his fingers as at a puzzle solved. ‘Surely you are Sir Martin Robsart’s son?’ All my life people had remarked on how much I resembled my father. I nodded. Father Anselm murmured something, and the man said, ‘Yes, Edward lodges here. Look, we’d better speak in private. I’m Hastings, by the way, William Hastings, a friend of His Grace’s as well as one of his captains. Come through.’ He led us out into a staircase passage, gesturing kindly for us to sit on a bench. ‘Now, what has happened? What is Sir Martin’s son doing here?’

Father Anselm told him, and his tired face took on deeper creases. ‘That whoreson Lancastrian bitch – saving your cloth, Father; my pardon – we’re hearing this tale from everywhere. The Queen’s letting her army run riot, she’s treating England like conquered territory. You’d think she
wanted
to turn people against her, and against the King in whose name these things are done. They have even sacked and despoiled churches!’ Father Anselm exclaimed in shock. ‘Oh yes, Father, nothing is safe, nothing is sacred. Women – women and children killed, houses burned, towns pillaged... Martin, you poor boy, you have my sympathy; I knew your father well, and I believe I once met your mother.

‘Now, Edward is lodging here, as I said, but whether he’s come in yet or is still at the camp... Wait here, please.’

Tired, and content to have reached journey’s end, I leaned against the priest, and he had to shake me awake when Hastings returned and bade us go upstairs.

The panelled bedchamber was full of light. Branched candlesticks stood everywhere, the light shining on the metal of armour, on the crimson-hung bed, on the golden hair of the man who rose to greet us. I had never seen him, but I knew him at once. He was just as I’d been told, his handsome face the image of his mother’s. He was the biggest man I had ever seen, a full hand-span more than two yards high, and with a deep, strong chest. We had interrupted his toilet, for servants were emptying a bathing tub, the ends of his hair were wet and he was fastening the buttons of a dark blue gown.

‘Your Grace – ’ Father Anselm began, but Edward hushed him with a gesture and knelt down in front of me. He put his hands on my shoulders, looking gently into my eyes. His were grey, with little golden flecks.

‘So you are Martin. Yes, you’ve a great look of both your parents, may God assoil them. Welcome, cousin.’ He kissed my cheek and then my mouth. And that did it – to my utter shame I burst into tears. Edward lifted me in his arms and sat down by the fire, cradling me on his lap. After a while he put a handkerchief into my hand, saying, ‘At Ludlow I had some practice looking after boys. Richard often spoke of you, he missed you when you left Fotheringhay. Do you remember him and George? And Margaret?’

‘Oh yes,’ I whooped. ‘I missed Richard too. All of them, but he was my special friend.’

‘So he told me. Come on, big blow then we’ll talk.’ I had a big blow, mopped my eyes, and babbled out the whole story. Edward had heard it from Hastings, of course, but he listened gravely, patting me from time to time.

‘A horrible thing,’ he said at last. ‘Never before in England have innocent people had to pay the price of great men’s quarrels. I’m sorry, Martin. There’s nothing I can say – except that your mother is in God’s keeping. Cling to that.’

‘Yes. Yes. But... Your Grace? Edward?’

‘Yes?’

‘Why did Mother say to the soldiers, ‘Not in front of the boy’? They took her inside then, what did they do?’

Hastings made a sound in his throat, but Edward said flatly, ‘Those men weren’t soldiers, Martin, except in name. They were cowardly brutes, they were scum who’d run from an armed man but can be very brave with a woman and a child. They wanted to rob your house, loot it and burn it. Your mother didn’t want you to see that.’

‘Oh, I see. Yes. Edward, I mean Your Grace, sir – ’

‘Oh no, cousins need not be formal, you shall call me Edward. What is it?’

‘The Queen’s men said my father was dead, and the Duke, your father... ’

I knew, of course; there was no hope left to die when he said gently, ‘Yes, I’m afraid it is true. They were up at Sandal Castle, near Wakefield, you know? There was some sort of Christmas truce agreed between the Queen’s force and my father’s, but the Lancastrians swooped down on the castle when our men were out gathering firewood or something. Your father died with mine, fighting bravely like the good soldier he was. He is buried at Wakefield with all honour, that I do know.’ He swallowed, and tears filmed his eyes. ‘My father was killed, and my brother Edmund, and my uncle Lord Salisbury and his son Thomas. A royal fellowship of death.’

Greatly daring, I put my arms around his neck and kissed him. He returned the hug, holding me tightly, then set me on my feet.

‘You were right to come to me, and I thank this good Father for seeing you safely here. But I’m moving south tomorrow, the enemy army is reported not far away – I think I had better send you to my mother, hadn’t I?’

‘Oh yes please, Edward. If Her Grace won’t mind? I’ve no one else now, you see.’

‘Of course she won’t mind! Had she known, she would have sent for you; you’re our kinsman and your home is with us now. Well, let’s see. I’ll dispatch you tomorrow, with a troop to see you safe. And you, Father? Are you for London too, or will you return home?’ The priest looked wistful for a moment, but said he had to go home. ‘Tomorrow, then, and be sure I’ll send you with an escort. And I’ll take it kindly if you’ll allow me to make some small gift to your church? Excellent! Now, you’ll sup with me? It’s almost time.’

In fact the servants were carrying the meal in as he spoke, and with greedy eyes I watched the damask cloth being spread and the bread cut for trenchers. Despite winter shortages the town was doing its ducal guest well: there was a big raised pie, an almond soup, winter salad, fritters, a whole baked fish, braised beef, wafers, cheese. I hadn’t tasted demain bread, fresh and white, since I left Fotheringhay. I could have wolfed the lot, but for Mother’s sake I was careful about my manners, using my knife daintily and taking care not to drip juices in the spice-dishes. After one incredulous look at the food, Father Anselm too cast the sin of gluttony into the category of tomorrow’s penance and ate till his ribs squeaked.

After the meal Edward had the bathing-tub brought back, and I bathed there before his fire; long overdue, I may say, for I’d had no more than a cat-lick wash since Mother died. I had no clean clothes, but the squires wrapped me in one of Edward’s shirts, which came down to my ankles, and lent me a warm furry gown. Edward had carefully given me two cups of wine with supper, and I was sleepy and content when at last he rose saying he had to meet with some of his commanders. I managed to thank Father Anselm (both of him; perhaps I should have watered the wine), and say farewell to him properly and then the squires pulled out the truckle bed and I knew nothing more till morning.

~~~

The next day I was despatched to London, riding lordly with a guard of a dozen men in York livery. Travelling at cavalry pace – walk a mile, canter one, gallop three, then canter and walk again – meant that the journey wasn’t too long or too miserable, but despite seeing country new to me I was bored by the time we reached London.

I loved that city from first sight. That Scottish rhymester, Dunbar, who visits me to punish the wine, hit it off when he wrote, ‘London, thou art the flower of Cities all’. The city holds some fifty thousand people, and it seemed they were all out in the streets, and all talking at the tops of their voices. They’re a confident lot, the Londoners, and they swing boldly along in their fine clothes. They wouldn’t call the king their cousin, as the saying goes. The houses are jammed in higgledy-piggledy, their upper storeys leaning out over the narrow streets; fine, big houses, many of them, for London is the richest city in Christendom. I’d never seen such shops, the great, opulent shops of the mercers and grocers and gold- and silver-smiths. And the people, surely they were all courtiers, earls at least, in their furs and jewels and gold – but no, these were quite ordinary folk, rich citizens of a rich town. Of course there were poorer people, and noisome warrens where you wouldn’t keep a dog, but even they were gilded with London glamour in my eyes.

One thing there was no ignoring was the smell. London stinks. Well, all big towns do, but London has the extra, and fortunately unique, smell of the Thames. Night-soil, stagnant water, animal dung; the stench of tanneries, of hogs being scalded, of the shambles, of the flocks of sheep and cows being driven through the city to the markets; of unwashed humans, of mud. And, more pleasantly, the smells of spices, pepper, herbs, turpentine, cooking food; scent from a passing lady.

And the noise. Church bells, pealing all day long for the Offices, for month-minds and year-minds; passing bells, bells for warning or for celebration. Street cries: ‘What d’ye lack? Cherry ripe! Get your strawberries! Fresh fish here, selling now, no better food than here!’ Shouts of ‘Make way, there!’ as some important person tries to force a path. Arguments and brawls, news being shouted the length of the street. The bleat of sheep, the lowing of cattle, the squealing of pigs, the gabble of strange languages, the clank of weapons and the thud of marching feet as a troop of soldiers passes.

I longed to see it all right then and there, but the day was drawing in and the sergeant made haste for Baynard’s Castle. This stands right on the river, its feet in the water as they say, but of course we approached it from the city side, riding from Thames Street into a rather grim courtyard. This was bustling with men in scarlet livery with the Bear and Ragged Staff badge; I’d seen such uniforms all through the city, and knew these for the Earl of Warwick’s men. Edward had explained that while he was raising troops in the west his cousin Warwick was holding London; the capital is a great prize, and the Queen was expected to attack at any moment. I might in fact have been safer staying with Edward, not that I thought of that.

An outrider had come on ahead, so the Duchess’s steward awaited us on the castle steps. At once I was whisked inside, my cloak taken, and I was conducted upstairs to the solar.

Here everything was gay with colour and beautifully warm. Familiar tapestries covered the walls, the Duchess’s precious Indian carpets the floor. Familiar too was the smell, the rose pot-pourri we children used to help make. A fair lady sat on the window-seat, sewing by the light of a branch of candles. A blonde girl of about my age was inexpertly playing a lute. Watched by another blonde little girl, George and Richard lay before the fire playing chess. And, coming to greet me, their arms outstretched, were the Duchess and Margaret. In truth, I knew it was Margaret only from her pale auburn hair, so much had she changed in the past two years; she was fourteen now, grown up and remarkably tidied. To my embarrassment she had bosoms now. The women were in mourning, and the Duchess wore the widow’s barb and wimple covering her chin as a sign of her rank. Black suited her, but I missed the pretty clothes I remembered. She had favoured blue, which made her eyes the colour of sapphires, and once I had seen her dressed for a grand party in cloth-of-gold and ermine with her hair in a pearled net, and I had thought that the Queen of Heaven must look like that.

She said, ‘Martin, my dear boy!’ and put her arms around me and kissed me, and I knew I was safe. I had prepared a little speech of thanks and condolence, but the words dried on my lips, for what could I, a little boy, say to a woman who had lost husband, son, brother, and nephew in one fell swoop? And words didn’t matter; as I fought back my tears the Duchess laid her finger across my lips and said, ‘You are truly well come, Martin. We are your family now, and we are united in grief. Edward sent a letter, and his man has told me everything. Martin, your mother was my dear friend as well as my cousin, and your father my husband’s trusted companion. You know our hearts are with you.’ She gave me another gentle kiss. ‘Now, greet your friends, Richard’s been anxious to see you.’

Richard hugged me. ‘Martin, I’m glad you have come, I’ve missed you. I am so sorry about your parents. But I’m glad you are here. Are you well?’