Margaret of Anjou (19 page)

The men he had summoned to bear King Henry away to safety had remained by the abbey doors, preferring that quiet spot to any thought of heading back into danger. Edward of March stood awkwardly with them, his rank and youth too much of a barrier for him to overcome. The men stood to attention as York trudged toward them, bruised and battered soldiers who had already fought that day, yet still looked shamefaced at having been found away from the struggle. York barely noticed them, his mind on what he would find within the massive stone walls. The abbot was nowhere to be seen, but his abbey was holy ground nonetheless—sanctuary. York shuddered beneath his armor as his men pushed the great doors open and he passed across the threshold. His son took a step toward him then, his expression hopeful. York shook his head. He did not know what he would find in the abbey, nor what he would do.

“No, Edward. Stay here.” York crossed the entrance and waited while the doors were pulled shut behind him. He looked up.

A great blaze of color met his eyes on all sides, pressing for his attention in every painted column and wall. A huge image of Christ on the cross summoned his gaze, resplendent in reds and blues and golds so bright they could have been created just days before. Other scenes from the Bible combined to create a vast panoply of vivid hues, stretching away. It was overwhelming and York became aware that he stood in grimy armor, looking down the long nave ahead to the stone rood screen. An altar was before it, where the king lay like a broken doll. There were only two men with Henry, distant figures who turned white faces toward the man coming in like a wolf into the sheep pen.

York paused just beyond the threshold, leaning his shield against a stone column that soared to a ceiling impossibly high above his head. With aching hands, he unstrapped his sword and scabbard, placing the weapon by the shield and straightening. The head of the house of Lancaster lay helpless before him, a cousin descended from the same battle king of England and given the throne by the distance of one son. York raised his head, refusing to be intimidated by scenes of the damned falling into a fiery hell. His armor creaked and his steps sounded loud as he made his way down the length of the church, following the long line of the Latin cross.

He walked a hundred paces to reach the King of England. Henry was alive, his back to the altar as he sat on the cold stone floor with one leg raised and bent. York could see the king watching him approach, the younger man’s face so white and drained that his flesh looked like fine linen. Henry’s mail collar and shoulder pauldrons had been removed, so that bandages could be seen, tight around his neck and under one armpit. The surgeon, Scruton, stood away as York came close, bowing his head and clasping his hands in prayer.

On the short side of the altar, the Duke of Buckingham rested, close enough to Henry to reach out to him. The duke was breathing in short, hard gasps, in such terrible pain that he could do nothing but endure. York saw the man turn to watch his approach and he felt a shiver run through him at the seeping ruin of his mouth. Buckingham’s scorched red eyes still ran with tears and York did not know if the cause was his wound or the lost battle.

York halted, staring down on the men before him. Though he had left his sword behind, he still carried a dagger on his right hip, not quite forgotten. He knew if he made the decision to strike, none of those three could have stopped him.

He looked up for a moment, his attention drawn by some flutter of movement. He saw small birds flying across the vast open space above, the closest representation of the vault of heaven on earth. He crossed himself, reminded once again of the sacred ground on which he stood. He could feel the presence of God in that cold eternity around him, a subtle pressure that made him bow his head once more.

York went down on one knee before the king.

“Your Majesty, I grieve to see you hurt,” he said. “I ask your forgiveness for all I have done, your pardon.”

Henry struggled to sit straighter, pushing himself upright with his bare hands pressed white against the stone. His eyes seemed to wander in and out of focus, turning his head a fraction back and forth to peer at the man who had brought so much destruction.

“And if I do not grant what you ask?” he whispered.

York closed his eyes for a moment. When they opened again, his expression was stern and hard.

“Then I must demand it. Your free pardon for all that has happened today. For me, and every man with me. I have been called traitor, Your Grace. I will not be called that again.”

Henry slumped, his back-plate scratching the stone as he slipped back to where he had lain before. He knew his life hung by the thread of one man’s patience and his will faded, a rock swallowed by a rising sea.

“As you say then, Richard. I will not hold you guilty for anything you have done. You are right, of course. As you say.”

The king’s eyes fluttered closed and York sensed the surgeon edging closer. He held up his hand, staying the man. York reached out and laid his gauntlet against the king’s cheek.

Henry’s eyes snapped open once more at the touch of cold metal.

“Who is it?” he said. “Richard still? What do you want of me?”

“You are my king,” York said softly. “I ask only to stand at your side. You need good counsel, cousin. You need me.”

“As you say,” Henry replied, his voice little more than a breath as the terrible weariness in him stole away his will.

York nodded, satisfied. He rose to his feet, still unable to drag his gaze from the king.

Buckingham tried to speak then, his words a mush that caused fresh blood to run from his mouth.

“The king is a good man. Too good, Richard. I will call you traitor, if he will not.”

York could barely make out the man’s speech. He could have ignored the wounded duke, but he shook his head.

“Your words are wind and slush, Buckingham. You will be arrested. I suspect the bond you will pay for your release will cover my costs.”

Buckingham flushed around his wound and swollen flesh, struggling to speak clearly.

“What crime can you name for me, one who has served his king?”

“You stood against his loyal lords, Buckingham. You stood against York and against Salisbury, as we tried to save the king from poisonous counselors. You will not speak clearly again, I think. A split tongue is apt enough, but speak too harshly to me and it will not be the end of your suffering today.”

Buckingham tried to curse him, but fresh blood spattered from his torn palate and the words were unintelligible.

“The king lives, and will live,” York said loudly. “I am loyal to the house of Lancaster.”

He favored the spluttering Duke of Buckingham with a brittle smile, then turned on his heel to walk back down the nave, calling for his men.

—

S
TANDING AGA
INST
a pillar of the transept, Derry Brewer stared in grief. He had entered the abbey through a lesser door, slipping into a room where monks’ robes hung on pegs and deciding on the instant to fling one over his own clothes. After his experience with the Franciscans, a Benedictine robe held no mysteries.

As he’d turned to leave, he had been pulling up the hood to conceal his face when he heard York’s voice, one he knew as well as any other. Derry had watched the entire meeting from his hiding place, his fingers gripping his seax knife where it hung under the robe at his waist. He had thought for a time that he would be witness to Henry’s murder. Yet York had stayed his hand and Derry had watched the king’s humiliation in sorrow.

When York strode back down the nave, Derry knew at last that it was all in ruins. He’d seen Somerset fall, brought down in blood and violence. Derry had
tried
to stand with the king. He’d struggled to reach him against the tide of men. Seeing Somerset butchered had brought it home. The day was lost. The cause was lost. The king was lost. Blind with tears and mute with grief, Derry had run then for the abbey, thinking only of escape.

He pulled up the hood, his head bowed. York and Salisbury and Warwick had triumphed, gaining everything they wanted.

Derry felt a fresh prickling of his eyes and rubbed at them with the sleeve of the robe, angry at himself for his weakness. He clasped his hands in front of him and adopted the gliding steps of his disguise as he headed away from his fallen king.

L
ondon felt like the heart of the world. Those who had died were in the ground, and wounds had become scars for those who lived. The fears and dark memories were already fading, driven out and swept away in the roar of cheering throats.

Huge crowds had gathered from long before dawn for their one chance in a lifetime to see the king and queen of England. None of them had fought on the hill at St. Albans. Though the town was barely twenty miles from the city, the butchers and tanners and aldermen of London had not been there to see Henry fall, nor the barricades torn down. They knew only that the strife between houses was at an end, that peace had returned and King Henry had forgiven his rebellious lords.

The entire city seemed to have turned out along the route of the royal procession through the great, wide road of Cheapside, toward St. Paul’s. The mob heaved against lines of soldiers in bright colors, their faces strained with duty and irritation. There were a few scuffles—moments when a purse was cut, or screeching urchins ran wild through the throng—but for most the mood was light.

Rain had fallen the day before, washing much of the city cleaner than usual. That July morning had dawned clear and warm, with hundreds of carts rattling out with the sun to prepare the king’s route. From huge sheaves in the open backs, women had scattered clean, dry rushes where Henry and Margaret would walk later on. The wet muck underneath would seep again, but for a time, the road was clean and made new.

The treachery and bloodshed at St. Albans had been deliberately forgotten as the city prepared for the king and queen to walk among the people of the capital. There would be no more talk of traitors and civil war, not after that day. All the crowds saw was the triumphant parade through the heart of the city, led by fine destriers groomed and gleaming in perfect ranks. Banners of a dozen noble houses in support of the king were held high to flutter in the wind, overtopped by those of Lancaster and York, brought together in peace.

Behind six dozen ranks of knights came hundreds of royal retainers in their most colorful garb, throwing flowers or even coins into the crowd from baskets at their sides. Imploring hands reached out to them and the women blew kisses to handsome men. Their passing brought the greatest sound and then, following, each section of the crowd seemed to draw a breath, a long moment of whispering awe, before the applause and cheering crashed out once more, enough to make the houses tremble on either side.

King Henry of England walked alone on white rushes. He wore a cloak, tunic, and hose in darkest blue, almost black, his chest embroidered with three gold lions “passant guardant,” lying still but ready. The cloak was held by a silver clasp.

He looked neither left nor right as he walked in the path of hundreds before him, nor took care to step around the steaming heaps of manure left by the warhorses gone ahead. For those who could see through tears of joy, the king was very pale, but his back was straight and his head held up. News of the battle at St. Albans had taken wing around the country. Rumors had flown of Henry’s wound, even of his death, as they were built and embroidered into fantastical tales. He needed to be seen alive and strong, at York’s order. The king had already opened the Parliament that morning, sitting through fresh oaths of allegiance to him, led by Richard of York as his most ardent supporter. Lords spiritual and temporal had come to kneel and take Henry’s hand and swear their lives and honor over to the king. He looked around him with blank eyes, following those ahead.

Behind Henry, Queen Margaret walked with the Duke of York, his chest puffed out with pleasure as he gripped her hand and would not let it go. In his private thoughts, York wished Henry would acknowledge the crowd. There was something discomforting about the white-faced king stiffly following the route they had laid out, as if no mortal spark animated him at all. York and Margaret were three paces back, too far from him to exchange even a word. Instead, York raised his left hand to the passing rows of faces, jammed together and hanging from every high window. He saw flowers trampled into the rushes as the crowds pushed and heaved against the ranks of soldiers. Some of his men joined their staffs across at waist height, making a barrier of them as the Londoners grew frantic to see and hold a memory they could cherish for the rest of their lives.

“See how they love the king,” York said, turning to Margaret. She made no response and he leaned closer to her, so that his lips brushed her ear. “They love your husband!” he shouted over the roar.

Margaret looked up at him then, her eyes so cold that he broke the gaze even as it began, looking back to the cheering people. The grand procession through London had been Salisbury’s idea, now walking some way behind with his two sons. Perhaps the suggestion had been some recompense for the angry words they had exchanged in the marketplace of St. Albans, York didn’t know. The people of London would see the house of York was restored to the very heart of royal favor. There would be no more whispers about his name or line. York felt the queen’s hand move in his own, both their palms sweat-slick after so long pressed together. He tightened his grip, fearing she might pull away. He did not see her wince, nor the way she carefully ordered her expression to blankness once more.

This was York’s day, Margaret could not doubt it. Her husband walked like a prisoner ahead of his executioners and she ached to go forward and stand with him. She had no choice but to walk behind, staring at Henry’s back as if she could reach out and comfort him with her love and thoughts alone.

St. Paul’s lay ahead of them, that ancient cathedral where an even larger crowd had gathered from long before dawn to see the king accept his crown from York’s hands. No greater symbol of power existed, and York felt his spirits soar higher as the massive building came into view. God and good luck had been with him and with his house. If Henry’s wound had been just a fraction closer to his throat, Prince Edward would have become king. As things stood, King Henry lived, but York would rule. He gave thanks to God for that, recalling that he had services being said day and night in gratitude for his good fortune.

Warwick had been given the Captaincy of Calais, that wealthy port, in return for his part in the action to save the king at St. Albans. Salisbury was once more the king’s lord chancellor, though his reward was truly in the death of Earl Percy and his triumph in the feud between his family and Northumberland. York had asked for and been given the title of Constable of England, with powers to command in the king’s name. Perhaps most importantly of all, Henry had meekly signed the pardons for all men involved in the battle, absolving them of all guilt or stains on their honor. The houses of York and Lancaster were reborn, together, on a summer’s day of blue skies.

Margaret looked up at the man she hated hard enough to curdle milk. When the farce was over, with its mummer’s games of crowns handed to the king from unworthy hands, she would see who still stood with her and with Henry. When the crowd were back in their homes and there was silence, she would see. She had learned a great deal since coming to England as a girl. She would not move quickly, nor rashly. But when the time came, she
would
move.

York sensed her gaze on him. When he glanced down at the queen walking at his side, he was relieved to see Margaret was smiling.