Succession (32 page)

She felt an intense, frightening joy.

It threatened to rip her open, burst her apart.

She walked to the window and stood with her hands clasped as though praying, but she was not praying. Her heart was pounding quite irregularly, pummelling the inside of her chest. But by the time she turned back to the messenger and to Mary of Gueldres, widow of the Scottish king, she had established a degree of control.

‘God has done this,’ she said, nodding, and there was only a small catch in her voice. ‘God would not permit my son to be disinherited and dispossessed.’ She advanced towards them, still nodding. ‘He would not have my line destroyed – my son murdered in his bed. He has granted me this victory.’

Mary of Gueldres, who had learned to be more circumspect about the will of God, did not say that to her knowledge no one had threatened to murder the prince.

‘You will be leaving us then,’ she said as a beatific smile spread over the Queen of England’s face.

York
, she was thinking.
York is dead.
Tears came into her eyes.

‘Yes,’ she said faintly, ‘I must rejoin my men.’ She wiped her eyes quickly, surreptitiously. ‘I will need more men,’ she said. ‘And horses – and supplies.’

Mary of Gueldres was one of those women who did not need to say much. Slight shifts of her face conveyed what she meant. Now she did not say that the Queen of England had no money.

‘We must come to some agreement,’ Queen Margaret said, beginning to pace. ‘I owe you a great deal already, and I will
pay – everything – once my kingdom is restored. But I must go to London – I must rescue my husband the king from the hands of his enemies and have that monstrous act revoked and destroyed!’

Queen Mary’s eyelids drooped as though in acknowledgement that she understood Queen Margaret’s position – she herself would be doing the same. Still, there was the little matter of funding so great a journey.

‘I have no money,’ Queen Margaret said, ‘but when all England is restored to me I promise you will not regret your kindness and generosity.’

Queen Mary did not say that promises did not feed an army. Queen Margaret had half turned away from her, and it was clear that she was thinking.

‘My son, the prince,’ she said, ‘will marry one of your daughters – we have discussed it already.’

One of Queen Mary’s eyebrows moved fractionally.

‘And – Berwick,’ Queen Margaret said, as if to herself. Then she turned back to the other queen. ‘You may have the town and fortress of Berwick for Scotland,’ she said.

Queen Mary’s smile was full and broad. ‘We must draw up the agreements,’ she said.

And so Queen Margaret travelled south that January in some style, wearing clothes given to her by Queen Mary – a long black gown and a black bonnet with a silver plume, accompanied by a handsome retinue. She rode hard through the bald landscape, im-patient of all delays caused by the weather or by ice, so that the Scottish lords were impressed with her stamina and zeal. And her English companions could hardly get her to pause to listen to them.

When they reminded her, for instance, that there was not enough money to pay her troops, or to supply so great an army with food all the way to London, she replied that they could plunder and loot – that was what armies were for. And since they would be travelling through territory that belonged to her enemies, that was a good thing – they should know they were destroyed.

And when they suggested that perhaps she should not have given
up Berwick, that contested territory which had for so long belonged to the English crown, she replied that it did not signify – her son was going to marry a Scottish princess and all the territories of England and France would one day revert to him.

The little prince rode with her, or on his own horse when he was able, or in a small carriage, his pale face looking out on to the frozen land that would be his with eyes as bright and unblinking as a bird’s.

I have heard it said that the northern lords will be here sooner than men expected, I have heard within three weeks … in this southern country every man is very willing to go with the lords here and I hope God will help them, for the people in the north rob and steal and be agreed to pillage all this country …

Paston Letters

 

Something odd had happened to her breathing, something that disturbed the action of her lungs, so that each breath was quite different and distinct from the next: this one retaining the air too long; the next one interrupted on the in-breath, shaky on the out.

It was as though she had forgotten how to breathe.

Or as though she were attempting to breathe in a place where no air was; at any rate, she was peculiarly aware of the labouring of her lungs. And her heart – her heart was struggling like some wild thing that had been buried alive.

In the days after hearing the news she felt as if she were warding off some terrible thing, some vast danger or calamity – as though there could be a worse calamity, as though her life were not already in a state of collapse. She could not see or think or plan ahead more than a few moments into the future. Because now that future seemed to her like a wall with no point of entry, or a blankness in her mind.

Her husband, whom she had loved … but she couldn’t finish the thought. It was as though there was nothing left to think.

She could not remember a time when she had not loved him. Before him, there was nothing; after him, that nothingness was threatening to engulf her.

In the moments when she was not thinking, he was with her. She thought she heard him once reciting the names of all their children who had died.

They’d had together thirteen children.

In other moments she thought that she felt something – almost
intangible, but still a feeling – as though her second son, Edmund, had slipped his hand into hers, the way he used to as a child, sucking the thumb of his other hand. He was always more affectionate, more companionable, than her other sons; always a little overshadowed by his older brother. And then it threatened to undo her: she could feel a trembling inside, could not release the muscles of her jaw for such trembling, or rise for the weakness in her legs.

And so she remained in her room, awaiting news of her eldest son.

The Earl of March [when he heard the news of] the death of his father and loving brother was wonderfully amazed with grief, but he removed to Shrewsbury and other towns on the River Severn, declaring to them the murder of his father and his own jeopardy and the ruin of the realm. The people on the Marches of Wales, which above measure favoured the lineage of Mortimer, gladly offered him their assistance, so that he had a puissant army of 23,000 ready to fight against the queen. But when he was setting off news was brought to him that Jasper, Earl of Pembroke, and James Butler, Earl of Wiltshire, had assembled a great number of Welsh and Irish people to take him captive to the queen …

Hall’s Chronicle

 

The Earl of March desired assistance of the town for to avenge his father’s death, and from thence went towards Wales, where at Candlemas he had a battle at Mortimer’s Cross against the Earls of Pembroke and Wiltshire …

Brut Chronicle

 

[And so] the Earl of March met with his enemies on a fair plain near to Mortimer’s Cross on Candlemas day in the morning, at which time there appeared three suns and suddenly all joined together in one.

Hall’s Chronicle

 

The noble Earl of March fought the Welshmen beside Wigmore in Wales, whose captains were the Earl of Pembroke and the Earl of Wiltshire … and before the battle, about ten o’clock before noon, were seen three suns in the firmament, shining full clear, whereof the people had great marvel and thereof were aghast. The noble Earl Edward them comforted and said, ‘Be of good comfort and dread not – this is a good sign, for these three suns betoken the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, and therefore let us have good hearts and in the name of Almighty God go against our enemies.’

An English Chronicle

 

It was so beautiful that for several moments he could hardly breathe or speak.

Two lesser suns accompanied the main one on either side, connected by a luminous ring or halo. As though the sky were so pure, a crystalline blue, that it had become mirror-like in its purity, reflecting the sun to either side.

His father, he thought, and his uncle, and his brother, translated into a triptych of celestial light. Tears stung his eyes as he contemplated the burning sky; its fierce, cold beauty.

But he was aware of a rising moan from his men, almost a wail of distress, and several of them bowed over, hiding their eyes. They could not see what he saw.

In a moment he had spurred on his horse and was riding among them.

‘Good people,’ he called. ‘Brave men and warriors – don’t be afraid. This is a good sign – a great sign of God’s favour.’

He did not stop until they had all turned towards him; and he stationed himself so that the light of three suns shone on his armour.

‘These three suns – come this day, before this battle – are the three sons remaining to the House of York.’ He beat his hand against his breastplate. ‘Myself and my two brothers will carry on the cause and the name of York, and we will, all three, be gloriously reunited before long. Like the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.’

He did not mention his murdered father, his uncle or his brother. They did not need a vision of the dead, but of the living.

‘So be heartened by this vision God has sent you,’ he cried, ‘and let us go before our enemies in God’s name!’

There was a short, absolute silence, then a wave-like movement began through the ranks of men, and in one line after another they sank to their knees in prayer, until the whole army was kneeling on the frosted earth.

Edward, Earl of March, sat on his horse and watched over them, thinking about his father, that dour and dogged man, whose mission he would now fulfil. The light of three suns was reflected in his narrowed eyes.

[Edward of York] was very tall of personage, exceeding the stature of almost all others, of comely visage, pleasant look and broad-breasted … [in the field he was] earnest and horrible to the enemy, and fortunate in all his wars.

Polydore Vergil