Succession (34 page)

On 17th February the lords in King Harry’s party pitched a field and fortified it very strongly, but … before they were prepared for the battle the queen’s party was at hand with them in the town of St Albans, and then everything was out of order, for their scouts did not come back to tell them how close the queen was …

Gregory’s Chronicle

 

The northern men … were forced to turn back by a few archers who met them near the Great Cross, and to flee to the west end of the town where, entering a lane which leads from that end northwards as far as St Peter’s Street, they had a great fight with a certain band of men of the other army. Then, after not a few had been killed on both sides, going out to the heath called Barnet Heath, they fought a great battle with certain large forces, perhaps four to five thousand, of the vanguard of the king’s army … The southern men who were fiercer at the beginning were broken very quickly afterwards, and the more quickly because, looking back, they saw no one coming from the main body of the king’s army or preparing to bring them help, whereupon they turned their backs on the northern men and fled … The northern men, seeing this, pursued them very swiftly on horseback and, catching a good many, ran them through with their lances.

Whethamsted’s Register

 

And so [as night fell] the Duke of Norfolk and the Earl of Warwick fled and lost the field …

Brut Chronicle

 

They abandoned the king, who was then captured by the other lords.

John Benet’s Chronicle

 

The queen and her party had the victory and caused the Earl of Warwick and his men to flee, and King Henry was taken and brought to the queen his wife, with whom was the king’s only son, Prince Edward, a child of about seven years, and his father dubbed him knight …

Great Chronicle of London

 

After the king had knighted him, the young prince himself knighted thirty men, including Andrew Trollope, who knelt before him and said, ‘My lord, I have not deserved it, for I slew but fifteen men, and they came to me while I stood still in one place,’ and everyone laughed. Except for the prince, who stared solemnly forward with eyes fierce and bright as a kestrel’s.

Only once or twice the direction of his gaze wavered, seeking reassurance in his mother’s eyes. And she never took her gaze from him.

Then, after the ceremony of knighting, the prisoners were led forward. First came Lord Bonville and Sir Thomas Kyriell who had looked after the king during the fighting and had sworn that he would come to no harm. Everyone looked to the king, knowing that he had promised them mercy, and he smiled back feebly at them all.

So it was a surprise when the queen spoke. ‘Fair son,’ she said, ‘what deaths shall these knights die?’

He walked forward then, conscious of everyone’s eyes on him, on his soldier’s brigandine of purple velvet, his jewelled sword which he thrust before him, first at one man then another.

‘Let them have their heads taken off,’ he said.

There was a small ripple of unease, quickly suppressed. Everyone present expected the king to speak, but he remained sitting with two fingers pressed to his lips, while the queen glared triumphantly at the two astonished knights. As they were led roughly away, Lord Bonville could not prevent himself; he said, ‘May God destroy those who have taught thee this manner of speech!’

And the queen’s eyes flickered for a moment, but her virulent smile did not fade.

The Lord Bonville that came with King Harry would have withdrawn as other lords did and saved himself, but the king assured him that he should have no bodily harm. Nonetheless, notwithstanding that surety, at the insistence of the queen … he was beheaded at St Albans and with him a worthy knight called Sir Thomas Kyriell, by judgement of him that was called the prince – a child.

An English Chronicle

 

This battle was done on Shrove Tuesday in which were slain 9,000 persons.

An English Chronicle

 

And on Ash Wednesday the queen and her party sent to London for supplies …

Brut Chronicle

 

She sent a chaplain and a squire to the mayor of London, requesting money, but they came back empty-handed …

John Benet’s Chronicle

 

And great watch was made in the city of London for it was reported that the queen with the northern men would come down to the city and rob and destroy it utterly …

Great
Chronicle of London

 

When the news was known here, the mayor sent to the king and queen, it is supposed to offer obedience, provided they were assured that they would not be plundered or suffer violence. In the mean time they keep a good guard at the gates, which they keep closed, and … the shops are closed and nothing is done either by the tradespeople or by the merchants, and men do not stand in the streets or go far away from home …

Newsletter from London, 19 February 1461

 

The queen and her party sent [once again] to London for supplies which the mayor ordained, but when the carts came to Cripplegate the commons of the city would not let them pass …

Brut Chronicle

 

The mayor ordered bread and supplies to be sent to the queen and a certain sum of money. But the men of London took the carts and parted the bread among the commons … and as for the money I know not. I think the purse stole the money.

Gregory’s Chronicle

 

Then the northern men being foreriders of the queen’s host came to the gates of London and would have entered the city. But the mayor and the commons fearing they would fall to pillage … held them out.

Great Chronicle of London

 

The Duchess of York, being at London [then] sent over the sea her two youngest sons, George and Richard, which went to Utrecht.

Brut Chronicle

 

This same time the two brothers of the Earl of March, George and Richard, were sent to Philip Duke of Burgundy for safeguard of their persons, which were of the said duke notably received, cherished and honoured …

An English Chronicle

 

[Then the city of London] dreading the manners and malice of the queen, the Duke of Somerset and others, lest they would have plundered the city, sent the Duchess of Buckingham and knowledgeable men with her, to negotiate with them to show benevolence and goodwill to the city …

An English Chronicle

 

The night before she left the city the duchess had a dream, in which her dead husband was playing with their grandson. He had an elaborate toy, not unlike a convoluted abacus – although the beads were gold and silver and precious jewels – which he held out to the little boy, Henry, who pushed the beads carefully along one twisted pathway after another. There was hardly any light in the room and the beads shone.

They both seemed very absorbed in their task and didn’t look up as she entered. She had to say, ‘Humphrey –
there
you are!’ just as if she had mislaid him and had been looking for him all this time, before her husband saw her. And there appeared on his face an expression of infantile naughtiness, which was the expression he wore whenever he played with their grandson, egging him on to all kinds of mischief. ‘Sssh, don’t tell your grandmother,’ he would say, loud enough for her to hear, and the little boy, understanding that there was a conspiracy, would press his finger to his lips.

But the little boy didn’t look up, he just went back to his game.

She didn’t notice at first, so intent was she on her missing husband.

‘Humphrey, where have you
been
?’ she said, but the playfulness of his expression only intensified. He looked at the boy. And for the first time she noticed that their grandson was sitting on a throne; a small throne, adapted to his size. It gleamed dully in the gloom.

Also she saw that he didn’t resemble their grandson at all. He was smaller, for one thing, with reddish hair.

But the duchess was not going to be distracted, not after so many months of mourning.

‘Humphrey, I do wish you would tell me how these wars will end. And what should we do about the queen?’

But her husband only shook his head. His long nose seemed even longer in the half-light. He turned to their grandson. ‘Don’t tell your grandmother,’ he said.

At this the little boy finally looked up. He had a pale, thin face, not at all like her grandson’s, and he spoke to the duke clearly, in precise tones: ‘She is not my grandmother,’ he said.

The duchess turned back to her husband to ask who the little boy was, and what the duke was doing with him, but he had gone.

And the duchess woke, as she had done for many mornings, on the verge of tears. In the not quite light before dawn she lay in her bed, feeling weighed down, somehow, as if all the tears she had not cried had altered the composition of her body, making it heavier, and damp.

Certainly it was more prone to aches and pains.

She did not know why she was still grieving. She did not know that she had loved her husband so very much, only that he was a fact of her life, had been there for as long as she could remember, and was now gone.

She had to draw again the parameters of her life, and did not know how; that was it. Or maybe she was mourning the fact of mortality itself. And there was no cure for that, apart from the obvious.

The duchess shifted in her bed, then – feeling a certain resistance from her hip – lay still again, pondering the strangeness of her dream: the little boy, who was not her grandson, who had sat on a throne.

It was nonsense, of course. They had only the one grandson, after all these years, who was now Duke of Buckingham in his grandfather’s stead, at the tender age of five. Her second son, Henry, had as yet produced no children from his marriage to Margaret Beaufort. She had meant to speak to her daughter-in-law about it on their last visit, but something had held her back. Perhaps the suspicion that it might be the fault of her son, a thought which she did
not want to investigate. Her daughter-in-law Margaret already had a son, after all.

If the little boy in her dream was not her grandson, then who was he? It must have been her grandson. People often did not look like themselves in dreams. What was her husband trying to tell her – that their grandson would be king?

It was only a dream, and it was just as well. As if there were not enough contenders for the throne in this land.

The duchess made a more concentrated effort to move from her bed, tentatively testing her hip; whether it would stand if she got out of bed on the usual side, or whether she had better try the other leg first.

He had left her to old age and rheumatism, that was it.

But she would have to get up somehow, for that day she had to travel to the queen. Who seemed likely to besiege the city, and whose men were ravaging all the countryside about. The mayor and aldermen had pleaded with her to go, to exercise what influence she had, which was little enough, God knew, as she had told them. But they had said that the queen would listen to her, because both her husband and her eldest son had died fighting for the king.
Only you can save the city
, they had said.

What would she say to the queen?
Your majesty, you must moderate your men.
As if that would work. She was as likely to influence the weather.

Which had been atrocious lately. Freezing rain and snow falling in equal amounts, turning all the roads to slush. Even on the main road from London there would be cracks and great pools, and all the rivers were in flood. Why could people not wage war after Easter, as the Irish were said to do? Even if they were not attacked by the queen’s men, who were running riot, it was said, they might not reach St Albans that day.

Still, she had promised to try. She would travel in a carriage bearing the queen’s insignia, together with the Duchess of Bedford (who had been married to the king’s uncle) and four of the aldermen. To ask the queen to be
pitiful and clement
in her dealings with the city.

Four anxious aldermen
, her husband’s voice said,
accompanying Duchess Anne.

How he had loved his word games.

She hoped the queen would understand that she could not curtsy as well as she used to.

Making a concentrated effort, she managed to reach her bell and summon her maid, who helped her to get out of her bed and dress in her warmest clothes, her winter ermine, gathering up her grey hair into a hood. The maid held up a copper plate to her as a mirror, but the duchess barely glanced at it. She looked old, old before her time, but that did not matter, so long as she looked respectable. Because who knew the outcome of that day? If her husband knew, she thought, sitting down again with a grimace, he had not told her.

Which was just like him, she thought.

The journey was as bad as anticipated, though at least they were not attacked. And the queen’s humour was, if anything, worse.

‘The city of London has turned traitor,’ she said. ‘It has stolen our food and locked its gates. Against me, its queen.’

The two duchesses and the four aldermen remained on their knees; the queen had not given them permission to rise. The queen, on the other hand, was pacing about.

‘How dare they?’ she demanded. ‘By what licence or law do they act in this way?’

Behind the duchess, one of the oldest aldermen began a quavering speech.

‘Your majesty,’ he said, ‘it is only that the people are afraid.’

The queen whipped round at once.

‘They
should
be afraid,’ she said, ‘but they are not. If they were truly afraid they would open the gates. They are defiant. Do they want my men to lay siege to the city?’

Duchess Anne did not know how much longer she could cope with the pain in her knees, her hip.

‘Your majesty would have the right,’ she said faintly. ‘No one
could blame you.’ Her voice seemed to be getting fainter. The queen looked at her.

‘Are you not well?’ she asked, rather sharply.

‘It is nothing, your majesty. Only my hip. And old age, I suppose. And – widowhood.’ She managed a brave smile. And could sense a change in the queen’s mood as she looked at her.

‘Be seated, all of you,’ she said peremptorily, and with a series of minor groans and creaking movements, the four aldermen and the other duchess rose gratefully from their knees and took seats at the table. Duchess Anne tried and failed to move, and the queen held out her hand. ‘My lady,’ she said.

The duchess took the queen’s hand. Very small and frail it looked, quite belying her character. The duchess hoped profoundly that her weight would not pull the queen over, but pushing at a pillar with her other hand, she somehow struggled to her feet.

‘You are in pain,’ said the queen.

‘My hip,’ the duchess replied with a little gasp. ‘It does not like the weather, your majesty.’

The queen nodded once. ‘None of us like the weather,’ she said. ‘My men have travelled from the far north of this country, through drenching rain and snow. They have fought a great battle to save you all from murderous rebels and traitors. They are exhausted and starving, and how are they paid? By being locked out of the city they have defended with their lives.’

She was addressing them all, but none of them replied.

‘You have travelled this day only from London,’ she went on, ‘and already you are tired and hungry, no doubt. I would offer you refreshments, but as you see,’ she held out her hands, ‘I have nothing to offer.’

Various appeasing noises came from the aldermen – it did not matter – they did not expect – it was too good of her majesty – but abruptly the queen’s mood seemed to shift again.

‘Come, my lady,’ she said, ‘let us sit together.’

Ignoring a glare from the Duchess of Bedford, who, as widow of the king’s uncle, should have taken precedence, Duchess
Anne manoeuvred herself into a chair that was next to the queen and a little way from the rest of the group, so that when the queen spoke it seemed as though she were speaking to the duchess alone.

‘I feel your loss very deeply,’ she said, fixing her great dark eyes on the duchess’s face. ‘Your husband was one of our greatest friends.’

Unexpectedly, the duchess felt almost tearful. ‘Ah, my lady,’ she said.

‘He gave his life to our cause.’

And my son
, the duchess thought. Her eldest son – the light of her eyes. He, too, had died in these unending wars.

‘We have both suffered,’ the queen said. ‘We both know what it is to be alone.’

She spoke as if she too had lost her husband, the duchess thought.

‘We are women alone,’ repeated the queen. ‘Who is there to help us? Who will take our hand in our hour of darkness, or accompany us into the valley of the shadow of death?’

Well, about half of England in your case
, the duchess thought, yet at the same time she was strangely moved by the queen’s words, as if they had found a corresponding echo in her own heart.

Also she was aware of a sense of pressure from the aldermen and the other duchess.
Speak
, they were saying to her silently.

‘Your majesty has many loyal subjects in the city,’ she began.

‘It does not seem like it,’ said the queen.

‘Oh, your majesty – they are as loyal to you as they have ever been – but they are afraid.’

‘You said that before,’ said the queen. ‘Why should they be afraid?’

Of the great mob you have let loose across the countryside
, no one said,
cutting a swathe of destruction thirty miles wide.

‘They seek your assurance,’ the Duchess of Bedford said, evidently tired of being left out, ‘that if you come to the city there will be no plunder or looting.’

And one of the aldermen said, ‘If we have your solemn assurance, majesty, we will open the gates.’

‘Do you bargain with me?’ the queen demanded.

‘No, no,’ said Duchess Anne, almost laughing. ‘We are begging for your grace.’

The queen looked at her and her sudden anger seemed to drain away again.

‘What do you think I should do?’ she said.

Aware of the full force of the Duchess of Bedford’s glare upon her, Duchess Anne spoke almost timidly.

‘If they could have some reassurance from you, your majesty – some words of comfort and hope – that we could take back to them, saying that you pardon them for their crimes against you, perhaps – and that they will not be harmed.’

‘That your men will comport themselves with discipline and respect,’ put in one of the aldermen.

‘That people will not lose their livelihoods or their homes,’ said another.

‘And there will be no riots or burnings,’ added a third.

The queen looked from one to the other. ‘They have listened to rumours and lies,’ she said.

Duchess Anne said, ‘Then tell them, your majesty – tell them in your own words, that you, their beloved queen, will protect them like a mother.’

For a long moment the queen was silent. Then she said, ‘They should take it for granted that I will protect them. Why do they doubt me – and not my enemies?’

‘They have not heard you, my lady,’ said Duchess Anne. ‘They must hear your own words.’

The queen rose and walked to the back of the room, gazing at the tall windows. The four aldermen looked at one another, and towards the Duchess Anne. The Duchess of Bedford also seemed to be trying to catch her eye, but Duchess Anne gazed downwards, at the fine-grained wood of the table. Finally the queen spoke.

‘They should not need my assurance,’ she said, without turning. ‘They should obey me, without requiring any proof.’