Red Rose, White Rose (46 page)

‘Oh Edward, you are incorrigible! So like my father. He could always conjure me out of the grumps.’

‘That must be where my cousin Dick gets it from then. He is an ice-breaker. He can turn sour milk sweet in an instant. I swear men follow him just for the joy of his quips.’

‘He does not have your charm though, Edward.’ The few times I had been in Dick of Warwick’s company had not made me one of his admirers. I thought him clever and charismatic but could find no kindness in him.

‘Charm is for kings, not generals. Dick is the man I want beside me on the battlefield.’ Edward reined in his horse to a walk. His tone had grown suddenly serious.

‘
You
want on the battlefield,’ I echoed, slowing my palfrey’s trot. ‘I do not see your father putting you in a position of command.’

‘No, that is why I have chosen the Earl of Warwick to sponsor my knighthood. He is going to dub me as soon as he gets here. He understands, if my father does not, that I must be knighted if I am to take my rightful place at the forefront of any conflict with the Lancastrians.’

This conversation had taken an unexpected turn. It was suddenly apparent that both Richard and I had underestimated the maturity of our eldest son. He was not the uncontrolled youth Richard considered him to be, nor the swashbuckling young rake I admit I had briefly suspected him of being. Perhaps Richard had been misled by his experience with Harry of Exeter into believing all youths to be wild and undisciplined and I had indulged my own fancy that Edward was the reincarnation of my dashingly charismatic but undeniably selfish father, when he was actually shrewder and more tactical than either of us had realized.

I remained silent and reflective for a minute, carefully analysing my thoughts before responding to his remarkable announcement. ‘Well, you do not need me to tell you, Edward, that your lord father will not approve of that arrangement, or to remind you that you are still under age and therefore subject to his command,’ I said. ‘Besides which you must know that he will be hurt and angered by what he will consider unforgivable disloyalty.’

Edward hung his head, though I was to discover that it was not in shame but in cogitation. It was his turn to pause our conversation and when he spoke again it was with intense gravity. ‘My father must know that I hold him in the highest esteem but while he commands the present, I am the future of York. Just because the law deems me a minor does not mean I should play a minor role in our confrontation with Lancaster. Warwick understands this, and also the position we have reached. He thinks his uncle, my father, has not thought his strategy through to its logical conclusion. It is no longer possible to hold the king’s advisers to blame for the parlous state of England because the king now listens only to the queen. Therefore any confrontation with Lancaster is now a direct challenge on the king. To put it bluntly, it is treason. There is no dressing it in flowery language, claiming loyalty to the king whilst accusing his advisers. Warwick sees it clearly. If the Duke of York takes up arms against Lancaster, he takes up arms against the king. If he is defeated and lives, he loses his head. If he wins, he takes the throne. There is no alternative.’

By now Edward’s horse had halted, almost as if he understood the serious nature of his master’s words and my palfrey followed suit. I could hardly believe that the man before me was my son, the baby I had borne less than eighteen years before, the baby son I never believed I would have. Now he was telling me that his father was leading us all into a confrontation which would mean life and a crown, or death and damnation. And the worst of it was I could see that he was right.

I took a deep breath and looked around me. We were in a lush green basin surrounded by gently sloping hills. Ahead rose the grey stone cliffs of Wigmore Castle, hazy in the distance, while a row of alders marked the course of a narrow stream where it flowed down towards Ludlow. Behind us Cuthbert brought the cavalcade to a halt in a jangle of harness. It did not seem possible that in a matter of weeks this oasis of peace might be trampled by thousands of marching feet.

Edward leaned across the gap between our horses and took my hand from the reins. ‘Do not look so distressed, my lady mother. The path of life leads to a number of crossroads. Only God knows which one will mark the end. One thing is sure though; if you do become queen you will be a wise and beautiful queen and we shall all kneel at your feet.’

Then he smiled and kissed my hand and we rode on to Wigmore.

Coverdale, Yorkshire & Blore Heath, Shropshire,
June to September 1459

Cuthbert

I
n June Hilda and I returned once more to Coverdale. The masons had worked hard since our last visit and when we rode up the valley towards Coverham Abbey a fine sight greeted us at the edge of the Red Gill. Built of glittering newly cut limestone, an octagonal tower now rose at the south end of the old bastle, three stories high with glazed and shuttered windows and a pointed roof laid with stone tiles sturdy enough to withstand the fiercest winds the winter storms could hurl down the dale. I had not applied for permission to crenellate because it would have taken too long for the creaking wheels of government to grant it so although there was a parapet, from which missiles could be thrown in the event of an attack, it was not divided into merlons to make a battlement. Nevertheless the attic and upper floors of the tower would provide secure and comfortable accommodation for me and my family, leaving the ground floor cellars for storage and the old long chamber above the bastle byre for the use of my nephew Sam and his family, whom I now employed as my farm statesman or reeve. The ladder at the old main entrance had been replaced with a stone stair built against the wall and the door was now protected by an iron yett hung on a portcullis mechanism. An exterior stair-tower gave access to the new building, rising to a turret at roof-level for use as a watch-point. Its entrance was also protected by an iron yett. As I gazed proudly at what had once been a simple farm building, I decided it would not be pretentious to rename our new house a castle – Red Gill Castle.

To my everlasting joy a little sister had joined Aiden to complete our family. Dark-featured and bonny like her mother, she had been baptised Marie in gratitude to the Blessed Virgin and on our journey, despite her five-year-old protests that she was big enough to control her own mount, she rode behind me on a pillion seat. Aiden, now a lad of eight who showed unmistakable evidence of his Neville blood, being fair haired, long-boned and grey-eyed, sat easily on his sturdy fell pony for the long ride from Ludlow. In line with my new status as a landed knight, I had also acquired a burly squire called Joe Scrope, the teenage son of a Middleham horse-breeder, who was returning with us for extra protection on the road and to visit his family.

We arrived near sunset but the long summer twilight gave us time to inspect our new quarters, eat a meal and send Joe off on the three-mile ride to his home. When the two children were sleeping soundly in their new attic chamber, Hilda and I climbed up to the watch tower to view night fall over the dale. Directly below us the lichen-dappled walls of sheep folds made an irregular chequer-board pattern across the floor of the valley, while from our elevated position we could just make out the dark towers of Middleham castle dominating the rising ground on the far bank of the River Cover. The sky was inky blue, scattered with stars as bright as crystals winking in their celestial patterns. Other than the eternal sound of rushing water and the occasional bleat of a ewe calling to its lamb up on the fell pastures, the silence was all-enveloping, as if time had halted its inevitable progress.

‘It seems so peaceful up here,’ Hilda remarked. ‘It is hard to believe there will soon be war in the land.’

I was standing behind her, gently kneading her shoulders, guessing they would be stiff from the long ride north. ‘I fear it is inevitable,’ I said grimly. ‘But more immediately worrying for us is the fact that the Scots could swarm down over the border at any time, knowing that the fighting men of the March are mostly away, mustering south of the Humber. Tomorrow I will ride to Middleham Castle and speak to Hal. He may have information from his scouts.’

‘What shall we do it the news is bad? Can we withstand an attack?’ Hilda turned an anxious face up to me.

I shook my head. ‘I would not risk harm coming to the children but if we get due warning you could shelter with them in Middleham and from here Sam, Joe and I could easily see off a few reivers. It would be worse if it was an army but a mass of men would be more likely to cross over on the eastern march where the passes are easier.’

Hilda shivered and I knew it was not from cold. ‘Perhaps it would have been better to stay at Ludlow,’ she murmured, rubbing warmth into her upper arms with her hands. ‘But nowhere is really safe, is it?’

I did not respond immediately. She was right; the whole country was under the threat of violence, from French raiders on the Channel coast, from rebels in Wales, unrest in the West Country, riots in London and from the mobilised affinities of Lancaster and York tramping through the Midlands.

‘At least we have built ourselves a future here, if the Almighty permits,’ I said at length.

‘Does that mean you will stay?’ asked Hilda hopefully. ‘You are nearly fifty years old, Cuthbert. Surely you cannot serve Cicely forever. You deserve to make a life for yourself now and watch your children grow.’

She had left off her coif and I bent to kiss her throat, where the delicate shoulder bone formed a hollow beneath her chin. ‘A knight’s vow lasts for a lifetime, sweetheart. Until I cannot set one foot before the other, I am bound to offer my service to my sister, to honour the vow I made to her father.’

‘But are you honour-bound to die in her service if you have a wife and children who love you? We were not party to that vow.’

‘Who says I am going to die in Cicely’s service?’ I asked, affecting indignation at the thought. ‘I have no intention of doing so.’

‘Lancaster and York will do battle, you know they will, and you will be in the thick of it. What man-at-arms dares boast that he will die in his bed?’

‘A knight who is champion of the Northern March, that is who dares. Why do you doubt me?’

‘I do not doubt you against the bare-legged Scots but the battle between York and Lancaster will involve many armoured knights like yourself. It will be bloody and brutal and you cannot choose your opponent. How does a knight of fifty fare against one half his age?’

‘He uses his cunning and experience that is how. Have no fear, beautiful Hilda, I will come back here to you and my children.’

‘So you will leave us here at and go back to Ludlow alone?’ Her voice rose in alarm.

I put my arms around her and pulled her into my embrace. ‘I cannot take you. Supposing there is a battle at Ludlow and York loses? The castle and the town will be overrun. I cannot bear to think what would happen then to you and the children. Here my family will protect you. When a soldier flees a battlefield it is better to be a lone wolf; easier to hide, easier to ride, easier to find the way home without hindrance.’

She was silent for several minutes, her forehead resting on my shoulder. I feared for a moment that she might break into sobs but instead she lifted her chin and gazed into my eyes, challenging me. ‘You had better be right, Cuthbert of Middleham! Just remember when you are gone that if I hear news of a battle I will come up here every evening and look for you riding up the track, so do not let me down by coming back dead.’

I spent three glorious months with Hilda and the children, working through hay-making, sheep-shearing and harvesting; our wool fetched a good price through the monks’ agents at Coverham Abbey and it looked as if there would be plenty of grain and fodder to see the winter through. Having been whisked off to military training at Raby by my father at the age of ten I had never been a farmer but my mother’s blood must have flowed more freely during that time at Red Gill Castle because the tasks of field and byre seemed to come naturally and the sunlit sight of Hilda in a straw hat binding hay stooks with her skirts kilted up was enough to make me wish I might never leave Coverdale again.

Then at the beginning of September news came to Middleham that Warwick was starting embarkation at Calais. The Earl of Salisbury sent out his captains to round up their recruits from the dales and villages and bring them to Middleham. We would march on the feast of St Ninian, the sixteenth of September. I had recruited twenty young men from Coverdale to form a troop and we had trained once a week at Red Gill, a process which had fascinated young Aiden, who was soon wielding a wooden sword and mimicking the thrusts and feints I taught my novice swordsmen. Some of them were already good archers, having practiced regularly at the butts in Middleham provided by Hal against the time when bowmen would be needed but I feared for their lives when I first saw their ineptitude with a blade. Skill with a scythe did not transfer easily to a straight weapon. After two months under my instruction, however, I felt there was a reasonable hope of sending most of them back alive from any battle they might face.

I would not let Hilda bring the children to Middleham to watch Salisbury’s army march away because I preferred to say goodbye to them in the privacy of our own home. I remembered Hilda’s words to me on our first night in the tower and I wanted to hold in my mind the picture of them waving from the roof so that I could set myself the target of seeing it again. There were no tears, at least not while I was looking, and for that I was grateful, making it possible to contain my own.

The weather was set fine so we took the high route from Middleham, marching up Wensleydale then turning south, tramping through Widdale over the wild moors and fell passes before heading down the spine of England, always keeping to the hill country where population was sparse and we could avoid lands held by Lancastrian overlords. With Hal marched his two younger sons, Sir Thomas and Sir John Neville; when we finally met up with Dick of Warwick my brother would have all his sons committed to the York cause save George, who as bishop of Exeter did not carry arms. It was a heavy investment for a prudent man and he carried the worry of it in his hooded eyes. Hal was ten years older than me, entering the twilight years of a man’s life, should he be lucky enough to stay alive.