Margaret of Anjou (12 page)

“You cannot have expected more. He was made to abide in Pontefract at your order, Richard. Exeter will not forgive that, not easily. No, Exeter stands with the Percys—and they stand in the gutter. Yet you do have allies,” Salisbury replied. “I have promised my support. My name is linked to yours in all ways, so we rise or fall together. My son Warwick still comes to Ludlow, with more than a thousand men-at-arms from his estates.” Even in the stone heart of the fortress, Salisbury dropped his voice to little more than a murmur then. “We’ll have enough to take arms against them, if they make traitors of us.”

“By God,
no
, that’s not what I want,” York said. “You told me on my wedding day to Cecily that the Nevilles were with me, do you remember? You have kept your word when it mattered and I am grateful.” His hands tightened on the railing, the knuckles showing white. “My father was executed for treason, Richard. Can you understand I will not lightly walk his path? If the throne falls to me, I won’t refuse it, of course not! Yet I lived my entire childhood as a ward, with that stain on the honor of my house. Would you have the name of York burned black?” He leaned close, his voice a harsh whisper. “I tell you, I will not take up arms against him. I
cannot
, not as he is now. When Henry was ill and men said he would die, it was different. Now he has woken—and he is not the man he was. You were there, you saw him! Perhaps his spirit drank itself full while he slept, I don’t know. Perhaps God restored his wits to him in His infinite mercy.
Everything
has changed now the lamb has woken fully, now that he has returned as a man. Everything is new.”

On the yard, Edward of March was gathering his equipment to leave. He had removed his helmet and his hair was black and wet with sweat. Salisbury saw the boy look to the cloisters for his father’s approval, but York did not see him.

“If I could have just an hour with the king,” York went on in a rush, his hands twisting the railing as if he wanted to break it in two. “If I could be sure he read my letters, or if I could snatch away those whispering men, I could yet lance this boil. Somerset! Did you hear he has been made a duke now? And Captain of Calais?
My
title, gone! The man I imprisoned declared a “true and faithful subject” on every street corner of London, making mockery of me in turn. Somerset, Percy, Exeter, Buckingham, and Derry Brewer. While those men live and thrive like weeds, my king’s chance to live is stolen away. I tell you, he will drown again, with those men about him.”

Salisbury felt only irritation as York spoke. The man had been a rock to anchor Neville ambitions to before. One meeting with the woken king and the York stone seemed to have cracked to the heart. Salisbury allowed no sign of his disappointment to show as he replied.

“Whatever is said against us, no king can rule without his three strongest lords. Henry will see that in time, I am certain. But my friend, you know we cannot go before him without armed men, or we would be bound, caught like fish in a withy trap. With your soldiers and mine to guarantee our safety, King Henry will have to listen to our just complaints. I will not sit and wait for men like Earl Percy to have me declared an enemy of the Crown! Nor should you. We must act with resolution and force to make our case. By summer, this will be behind us and peace will be restored. Why not? Nothing has been done that cannot be undone. Not yet.” Salisbury felt his words were flung against a wall. York was not listening to him, hard and cold as he stood there, still angry with his wife.

“I am sorry to learn your son is . . . poorly formed,” Salisbury said.

York shrugged, shaking his head.

“I have buried children before. I will again. It doesn’t matter what happens to one sickly boy, though I fear for the strain on his mother.” He looked directly at his friend, pain written deep in his eyes. “Cecily has become obsessed with him. There are times when I just wish the little thing would . . . It doesn’t matter. Come, you must be hungry. Let my cook prepare something to please you. She can do wonders with a bit of poached fish.”

York clapped his friend on the shoulder and they moved off toward the banqueting hall, some of the strain easing in both men at the thought of a good meal.

A
fter the first cruel frosts, the winter had been almost mild that year. The royal apartments in the Tower were still heated by fires in every hearth, sometimes on both sides of the same room, all struggling to warm the ancient fortress against the chill and damp of the river running close by the walls.

Derry Brewer had replaced some of the flesh he’d lost. His hair had grown out and been trimmed by the king’s own barber and his skin had lost the waxy, sallow quality of too little food and too many worries. On the orders of doctors Hatclyf and Fauceby, he had filled his belly to bursting with bowls of beef broth and dark cabbage each morning, followed by three pints of small beer—almost the same diet as the king endured to restore his blood. Derry had grown heartily sick of cabbage, a vegetable which seemed to follow him like a ghost, even though he cleaned his mouth with French brandy from a flask. It pleased him to feel his strength coming back, like Samson when his hair grew.

The king too had a little color in his cheeks, Derry noted. Henry sat quietly enough, but his eyes were alert, his face no longer a slack mask. That simple interest was astonishing to those who had known him before the collapse. Sitting just a few feet across from the king, Derry had to struggle not to stare. The man he had known was just a shadow of the one who had come back, there was no other way to describe it. He knew Margaret felt there was a fragility in him still, as if Henry was a pot that could shatter at the lightest blow. Yet the great sleep had somehow restored the king, healing his broken will, for all the cracks that might have remained beneath the surface.

Henry sensed Derry’s silent scrutiny and looked up in question, just as his spymaster dropped his gaze to his boots. Derry had seen madness before, in many forms, brought on by rage or grief, or drink, or just come from nowhere on the summer wind. He knew the mind was its own world, all the stars and planets no more complicated than a man’s thoughts. Whatever devil or infirmity had sucked the king’s will and made him a child, it was gone from him. The man beneath could speak at last.

Derry breathed out, feeling his eyes spring with tears, surprising himself. With his head down, he wiped them away before anyone else could see, thinking instead of his work, with all its petty irritations. He had already been forced to quash rumors that the king’s spirit had been tainted in some other place. Londoners had a talent for whispers, he sometimes thought. Given the slightest opportunity, they would hide their mouths behind hands and hiss about devils or bastards or secret Jews in high office. He had begun a few lies of that sort himself and it was much harder to deflect them. Sometimes, Derry thought idly, people needed either a good shepherd or a good kick up the backside.

As Derry sat with his head hanging low, Somerset paced up and down the room, his nervous energy some consequence of his captivity. Edmund Beaufort had spent many months as a prisoner in the Tower, though his rank meant he’d been confined to two large rooms, with a soft bed, a writing desk, and servants to attend him. Derry looked up to observe the man’s twitching tension with some interest, seeing how the calm center of Somerset had vanished despite all the comforts of his imprisonment. At least the man’s enmity toward York was certain. It gave Derry some pleasure to hear that name blackened and maligned without fear of reprisal. Somerset had been given a dukedom for his support and loyalty, a sign of the king’s support that would not be lost on those who favored York and Salisbury. Derry smiled to himself at the thought.

“Your Highness,” Somerset said, “I have judges and their staffs filling the rooms of every tavern in the city. The Tower itself is stuffed full of men-at-arms, the best guardsmen to accompany Your Highness north. We are waiting now for just a handful of names—Henry Holland, Duke of Exeter, the most prominent among them.”

“Cousin Exeter had four hundred men, before,” King Henry said softly. “Before” had come to mean the period before he had fallen into a dreaming state. “A firebrand, I remember, young Holland. He has received my messenger?”

“Of a certainty, Your Highness,” Somerset replied. “The scroll was placed into his hand. I believe he was much weakened during his imprisonment in Wales, but he gives his oath he will come. He has no love of York.”

“He is married to York’s daughter, even so,” Margaret said. She sat at her husband’s side, claiming him with her closeness. Derry looked up as she spoke. “That alliance may yet pull him apart.”

“No,” Henry replied. “York punished him for siding with the Percys. Exeter’s loyalty is set. Everything he is comes from my hand. I will not doubt the man for his Plantagenet wife, any more than I doubt Earl Percy for his Neville one. Yet I will not wait for him. What else?”

Somerset turned to track another line along the rug before the fire. Given the chance, Derry chose to answer the king’s question.

“Your Highness, it worries me still that we have made no approach to York or Salisbury. Somerset and I may have our grievances against those men, but if they are not brought into London to give an oath of fealty, I fear their armies. With young Warwick, they have more land and men than any other faction beyond the royal house itself. York on his own is the richest lord in England, Your Highness. Can such a man be ignored?”

In previous years, Derry knew the king would have been nodding by the end of his words, saying, “As you say, Derry,” almost before he could finish speaking. It was oddly discomforting to see the man weigh a contribution instead of blurting out his agreement. Yet it was Margaret who spoke first, before her husband.

“We are private here, Master Brewer, are we not?”

“Of course, Your Highness. I have my most trusted men around this room. No one can overhear a single word.”

“Then I will say aloud what has long been in my thoughts. There will be no peace while York lives. He covets my husband’s throne and he will take it, if we give him any chance at all. We have called this great gathering a Judicial Progress, and so it is, but it is also a show of strength. The lords who go north with their king will see how many others stand in support of the house of Lancaster. They will see the king is restored to rule, made whole by the Grace of God. If York and Salisbury challenge us then, they will be met by armies, by thousands, who will stand in their way. At least then the issue will be settled.”

Derry frowned as he listened.

“My lady, if York and Salisbury turn traitor, if they raise banners against the King of England, I do not believe the outcome is certain—with stakes too high to miss a step. York and Salisbury have their enemies, of course, but there are too many others who whisper that they have been poorly served for their loyalty. I cannot know the secret hearts of all the lords, Your Highness, only that some of them still feel sympathy for those two men. I do know there are some who would rather they were cosseted and brought back, even rewarded for their good service.”

He lowered his head once more as Margaret’s gaze sharpened, looking away from her into the fire.

“My lady, I would be content to hear our intention is to strike against Ludlow, to lay siege to it and starve York out or break down his walls. This other business, this Royal Progress north is merely a distraction, with no good outcome assured. York is a subtle man, Your Highness, a subtle, vengeful man with both wealth and soldiers at his call. I would rather see him broken than ignored.”

“I know him rather better than you, Master Brewer,” King Henry said from his musings. “Though I cannot know his ‘secret heart,’ Richard of York cannot be restored to favor with gifts and promises—as you say, he can hardly be raised further, with all his titles and his wealth. If I summoned him, it would be to hold a viper to my breast, with soft entreaties that he not sink his teeth into me. No, my wife has the right of it, Master Brewer. A loyal army fills London and I will ride north to Leicester with them. If York can blacken his soul beyond redemption, if he can break oath and accept certain damnation, I will answer him . . .” The king’s words drifted away and he stared into nothingness while the others waited, growing anxious. At last Henry shook his head, looking confused as a deep flush spread across his face. “What was I saying?”

“York, Your Highness,” Somerset said uncomfortably. The duke had paled, his expression reflected in both the queen and Derry Brewer as they feared for Henry’s burdened spirit. Derry repressed a shudder at the thought of the king’s weakness returning, still curled like a dark vine in the young man he followed.

“York . . . yes,” Henry went on. “If he brings his followers against me, the country will rise at his treachery. Every one of my companion earls, every duke, every baron, every knight and man-at-arms will take up swords and bows and lances against him. Every village, every town, every city! The king may not be touched, Somerset. The king is inviolate, anointed by God. Any man who stands against me shall burn in hellfire. That is the answer to men like York and Salisbury. I shall go north in peace, but I shall answer him with war if he stirs one step from his fortresses.” King Henry stopped to knuckle pain from his temples, closing his eyes. “Margaret, would you be so good as to summon Hatclyf? He makes an excellent draft for pain, and my head is split apart.”

“Of course,” Margaret said, rising. Derry stood with her and she chivvied the men from the room to tend her husband, calling beyond the open door for the doctor’s presence. A servant rushed away to fetch him.

As the door closed at his back, Derry found himself in a much colder corridor, glancing briefly at Somerset and seeing his own worry reflected in the man’s face. Neither of them would mention the king’s sudden lapse, he was certain. The thought that Henry might have only a brief time before he was pulled back into his dreaming madness was too awful to contemplate, a horror that made Derry shudder and feel ill. To put words to that fear was to make it real. With silence, they could both tell themselves they had imagined it.

“Can we avoid a war, Brewer?” Somerset said suddenly.

“Of course, my lord. The question is,
should
we avoid it? I’m half convinced our angry young queen is right. Perhaps we should tear down the false garments of this Judicial Progress and march the king’s armies against York. Part of any victory is choosing the moment to attack. I do not want to miss the best chance we might ever see.”

Somerset was watching him closely as Derry spoke.

“But . . .” he prompted.

Derry’s mouth quirked.

“But—oh, there are a hundred ‘buts’, my lord. ‘But’ Queen Margaret is right that the king needs to be seen after so long absent from the realm. ‘But’ York is not yet a traitor, for all the queen detests him. God knows I am no friend of his, but he made Margaret’s son the Prince of Wales and ruled with diplomacy and skill while he had the right. I would not trust Salisbury within a hundred miles of Earl Percy, mind you. They hate each other. York though? I cannot see him laying a hand on the throne. For all I dislike the man, he is yet too full of his own prickly honor. And if it does come to swords and bows and axes, we could still lose, my lord, with no second chance to come back to this day and choose a better path.”

“Queen Margaret sees York as a threat to her husband and son,” Somerset said. “I do not think she will be satisfied with any solution that does not mean his head on a spike.”

“And she has the king’s ear,” Derry said, looking away in thought. “Men like me—men like you or Earl Percy—can shout and argue from dawn till dusk, and she will still be there that night to murmur to him.” Derry sighed aloud. “If we could put a wedge between York and Salisbury, or Salisbury and his son, we might lose only one and keep two, restored to the king’s good graces. I know Queen Margaret admires young Warwick and would not willingly see him brought down with his father. I could write to him, my lord, if I could find the right words. The right words are always there, if a man’s sharp enough to see them.”

“Earl Percy was saying we should consider York’s son, Edward of March,” Somerset said softly. “He wonders aloud whether York’s death from illness or misadventure might bring an end to all these threats.”

Derry looked into the other man’s eyes, seeing the tension.

“And how did you answer him, my lord?”

“Why, I told him to go to the devil, Brewer. I hope you would say the same, if he mentioned such a foul thing to you.”

Derry felt some part of him unclench in relief. He liked Somerset, a man who saw no shades of gray at all in his judgments. He inclined his head.

Master Hatclyf came rushing along the corridor then, pink and perspiring from running the length of the Tower grounds.

“Excuse me, my lord, Master Brewer,” he said. “The king has called for my presence.”

Both men stepped aside and the doctor bustled in, closing the door firmly behind him.

Derry turned back to Somerset when the man had gone.

“York writes letters, my lord. I have seen some of them, copied out for me by those who distrust him.”

“Treason?” the duke demanded, his eyes brightening.