Kingmaker: Winter Pilgrims (36 page)

Eventually ropes are tossed out and they make fast. Richard speaks to the guards and assures them of their bona fides while Thomas and Geoffrey help Sir John up over the side of the barge and then set him on the shore with tears of pain in his eyes.

‘That bastard Fournier,’ he murmurs. ‘A fee of two marks and he’s only made it worse, may the saints be my witnesses, and I feel as weak as a kitten. Here, help me, Thomas, will you?’

Thomas takes one arm over his shoulder, Geoffrey the other.

‘Not very dignified, but by Christ . . .’

Richard leads them hobbling through the gate and into a courtyard.

The palace is an intricate maze of buildings and precincts dominated by a bluff stone chapel and at every gate are more of York’s men, road-stained and bristling with spears and axes and swords, as if on the field of battle rather than in a royal palace.

They regard the red liveries of Sir John’s men with suspicion, but there are only ten of them, and at length they are let through to the New Palace Yard, where another mob mills around the doorway to the hall. On the steps there is some confusion among the royal heralds in their quartered livery coats, and there is trouble in the offing.

As they approach, William Hastings emerges from the throng. His face is pale with fatigue and there is a long stain on the sleeve of his blue vented jacket, but he is pleased to see them.

‘Day to you, sir,’ Sir John calls. ‘I’d shake your hand but I am encumbered as you see. Perhaps you will shake the hand of my man here, Thomas.’

‘I’d be glad to shake such a hand,’ Hastings says, removing his hat and taking Thomas’s hand, then the others in turn. ‘I’m sorry to see you in pain, Sir John, but it pleases me to see you here. We are in need of cool heads.’

‘When did the Duke arrive?’

‘Not half an hour ago. And look: there are his heralds now. Did you ever see such a thing?’

Hastings laughs. The heralds are pushing and shoving one another: one side belonging to King Henry, the other to Richard of York. They are indistinguishable except that the Duke of York’s heralds’ coats are the brighter for being the newer. It strikes Thomas that these men reflect what is happening across the country, and that if somehow the strife could be confined to these fellows, then much blood might yet go unspilled. He puts the thought aside.

‘So it is true?’ Sir John says. ‘We heard rumours but hoped them baseless.’

‘It is true, sad to say. My lord the Duke of York arrived with these fools sounding their clarions as if to wake the dead. Then he marched into the hall with his sword held upright before him, his men wearing the royal coat of arms, and he clapped his hand on the throne as if it were his. He turned to the lords expecting a cheer, but, you know, how could they? They renewed their vows to King Henry only months ago. And anyway, besides . . .’ Hastings wrinkles his nose.

‘Dear God,’ Sir John says. ‘He has been in Ireland too long. He has caught some native malaise. That is the only answer.’

Hastings laughs.

‘At any rate, he has gone to find King Henry. I should love to hear what they have to say to one another.’

‘And what of the Earl of Warwick?’ Sir John asks. ‘What has he to say on the matter?’

Hastings’s eyebrows shoot up.

‘Nothing yet,’ he says. ‘He is expected this evening.’

It is now late afternoon and men are leaving the courtyard in clusters, wrapping their cloaks about them and hurrying down to their barges to be taken back to the city, or out through the gates to the road that leads back through Newgate. The Duke of York’s men are left in the fading light looking ill at ease and out of place. It is impossible to know what they’ve been told to expect, but surely, Thomas thinks, it cannot have been this curious anti-climax?

‘We should go and find him,’ Richard says. ‘Appeal for his jurisdiction against Riven.’

‘Find who?’ Sir John asks.

‘The Duke of York.’

Sir John turns on him.

‘Have you lost your wits, my boy?’ he asks.

‘Not at all,’ Richard says. ‘If we appeal to him now, he will think we do so because we believe he is king. He will be flattered. He’ll look favourably on us.’

Sir John is taken aback. There is a pause. Then Hastings nods. It makes sense.

‘Well, I suppose we can but try,’ Sir John admits.

‘Quite,’ Hastings adds. ‘What’s the worst he can say? And I’ll come with you, if I may? We share a great-grandmother, the Duke and I.’

They look at him afresh.

‘Philippa of Clarence,’ he says, as if it is amusing, ‘daughter of Lionel, son to King Edward the Third. From there, we part company, though. This way.’

They leave the others in the courtyard and pass through a gateway into the palace courtyard, where the concentration of the Duke of York’s troops becomes only denser, and here they see that Richard is not the only man to have had the idea of seeking an interview with their commander. The stairs leading up to his apartments are choked with men waiting for the self-same thing.

‘It’ll be a long wait,’ Hastings supposes. They stand on the twisting stone steps for more than an hour, unable to proceed upwards, and soon unable to reverse thanks to the press of those who’ve come after them. Sir John begins to flag. Thomas passes him a wineskin. Candles are lit. They can smell the kitchen fires. At last they arrive on a landing. Here are the tapestries depicting Judgement Day and some scenes from the life of Solomon and Nebuchadnezzar. Beyond a barrier of five more guards across the doorway is a clear corridor and beyond that, a solar in which Thomas can see more men in the light of a fire. Stewards in plaincloth pass by, bearing trays of fragrant pies and ewers of wine.

Thomas’s mouth waters. None of them have eaten since the morning and to think of pigeon pie and a jug of ale is to think of heaven. He is regretting wearing the plate on his legs.

But then there is a disturbance behind them. There is a surge. Men are shouting on the stairs. A punch is thrown. They are shunted against the five guards; Thomas is nose to nose with a bearded captain of foot in a breastplate and helmet.

‘For the love of God step back,’ he says. ‘Can’t you see he is wounded?’

The guard looks at Sir John.

‘All right, let him through. You’re not to go into the solar though. Stand to one side.’

The guards let them through. They carry Sir John down the short gloomy corridor and into the hall. It is crowded with men but instantly Thomas’s eye is drawn to Edward of March, who stands staring into the fire with a cup of wine in one hand, gently scratching his cheek with the long fingers of his other. He is apparently listening to a man dressed in blue, but his attention seems elsewhere and just then a disturbance reaches the landing behind them and March looks up at the noise and catches sight of Hastings.

‘William!’ he calls, summoning him over. ‘Come in, come in! I commend myself to you! But for the love of all that’s holy how do you find yourself here?’

They kiss one another. March is taller than Hastings, but not by much, and Thomas wonders if he can see the common ancestor in their faces. No. March is wearing a flamboyant green velvet jacket, with vast shoulders tapering to his waist, cut short to expose his buttocks and the messy bulge of his cock and balls. The toes of his leather boots are extravagantly pointed.

‘I am waiting with Sir John Fakenham,’ Hastings tells March, ‘here to beg the indulgence of a word with your good father.’

March’s eye settles on Sir John and then flicks to Thomas.

‘By God! You again. Thomas Something! Saviour of Newnham and slayer of my lord the Earl of Shrewsbury.’

Thomas bows his head.

‘My lord,’ he says.

‘Our paths seem entwined, and every time you are near me, something beneficial comes my way. I hope to God you bring good luck tonight, for I believe we’ll need it. Is that my cousin I hear coming?’

They turn and see that the disturbance on the steps was the arrival of the Earl of Warwick.

‘Oh, saints above,’ March murmurs. ‘Did you ever see a man so enraged?’

All talk falters and the room seems to draw breath as Warwick stalks into the solar. He pauses, his face pinched. He is looking for someone and everyone knows whom. A path seems to open up between him and the Duke of York, who is leaning against a sideboard with a cup of wine in his hand. He is pretending he has not noticed Warwick, and is talking too animatedly to a youth with long blond hair spilling from under a dark cap.

The Duke of York is a head shorter than his son the Earl of March, and older than Thomas had supposed, about fifty perhaps, with a thin grey beard and a slight and shrunken body. No one is deceived by his show of nonchalance, especially not Warwick, who now strides towards him as if he means to strike him.

‘By what right do you choose now to claim the crown of England?’ Warwick demands. He raises his voice, broadcasting his fury. The Duke of York turns and affects to notice him.

‘My lord of Warwick!’ he says as if pleased to see him. His lips are very red and wet and he licks them, but he does not have the stomach to lean forward and kiss Warwick as he might have in other circumstances.

‘I demand an answer,’ Warwick continues. ‘By what right do you now claim the throne of England?’

The Duke of York hesitates, glances at the blond boy, and then finds his voice.

‘I am Richard, Duke of York,’ he says. ‘I am son to Anne who was daughter of Roger Mortimer, Earl of March, who was son and heir to Philippa, who in her turn was daughter and heir to Lionel, the third but second surviving son of King Edward the Third.’

It is a rehearsed speech that becomes steadily more fluent.

‘Through this line I claim the right, title, royal dignity and estate of the crowns of the realms of England and France and the lordship of Ireland, by right, law and custom before any issue of John of Gaunt, the fourth son of the same King Edward.’

Warwick stares at him.

‘This I know,’ he says. ‘This we all know. What I do not understand is why you make the claim now?’

‘It is my right,’ York replies. ‘I have set it aside till now. But it has not died. It has not rotted away.’

‘Can you not see that we all love our King Henry?’ Warwick goes on, raising his voice again for all to hear. ‘And that none of the lords or the people of this country wish him any harm?’

The Duke’s eyes bulge and glisten like polished glass. The blond boy steps forward and addresses Warwick with a misplaced wave of his hand.

‘Fair cousin,’ he says, ‘don’t be angry. You know that it is our right to have the crown. It belongs to my father here, and he will have it whatever anyone may say.’

Warwick stares at the boy. Thomas thinks he might even kill him.

‘Oh lord. My brother Rutland,’ March breathes. He hurries forward, his large feet making the fresh reeds squeak, and steps between Warwick and Rutland. He puts a hand on his brother’s shoulder. ‘Brother,’ he says. ‘Don’t say another word.’

Rutland starts, looks up at March, and flushes. He is so young, too young to know what he is doing. March turns and puts an arm across Warwick’s shoulder and guides him away and towards the door.

Warwick is stiff-backed with anger, his face blotched, and March soothes him in a low voice, urging some future plan perhaps, as he guides him back through the throng and out on to the corridor.

The Duke of York turns back to Rutland and continues talking as if nothing has happened, but even Thomas can see his hands are trembling, and his brittle smile reveals two crooked front teeth. After a moment, the Duke and Rutland leave the room, and as they go the murmur of conversation flares behind them.

‘Well,’ Hastings says after a moment, ‘that went as well as anyone could hope.’ He taps his front teeth with his forefinger, and it is hard to know if he is joking or not.

They spend that first week in London at the Bull Inn on Bishopsgate and every morning they hear Mass at a different chapel before taking a barge to Westminster to attempt an audience with the Duke of York. Every evening they return unsuccessful. By the third day Thomas stops bothering with his leg armour and by the fifth they are all bored.

Sir John and Richard may discuss the events of state as they unfold, but Thomas knows they have no power to influence them, and so they too are condemned to sit idle. Nor does he see William Hastings again, though other lords come and go and meet for long hours in Westminster Hall, each bringing with them their retinues of liveried men, who play dice, practise their drills and drink ale to while away the time.

‘It all hinges on whether the right to the crown can pass through a woman,’ Sir John is saying. ‘If it can, then the Duke of York’s claim is superior to the King’s, even though the King’s father and his father’s father sat on the throne before him.’

‘Course it shouldn’t pass through a bloody woman,’ Walter offers.

‘But why not?’ Sir John counters in the spirit of discussion.

‘Why not? Because women are women.’

‘But look at the Earl of Warwick. How did he become the Earl of Warwick? He married Anne Beauchamp, Countess of Warwick. So he got the title and the estates through his wife. Why shouldn’t the crown pass so?’

‘Because it’s the crown,’ Walter says.

‘Well, there you have it,’ Sir John says. ‘I don’t suppose the lords are arguing it any more clearly in there.’ He gestures to the hall. ‘But it is a shame,’ he goes on, ‘because on this question men will lose their lives.’

‘Lost ’em before; ’ll lose ’em still.’

Sir John sighs.

‘Thank you, Walter. Of course that’s true. But this will divide families. Brother against brother, father against son. That sort of thing. I hope it does not, of course, but whether or not a man has the right to call himself King of England raises dangerous passions that can only lead to more blood being shed.’

The discussion rumbles on all morning, until Katherine can stand it no longer.

‘I think I’ll take a walk,’ she says.

Thomas joins her. The others stay in the square where Sir John labours his points again and again.

‘Sir John seems better,’ Thomas says.

‘Only because he is out of the range of Fournier,’ she snorts.