Revenge (18 page)

The citizens that packed the streets to witness York’s return from exile were astonished as they beheld the banners, and by the naked arrogance of the man mounted on a black destrier at the head of the procession. A herald carrying York’s great sword of state borne upright paced slowly before him. York kept his eyes fixed on the sword, drawing strength from his reflection in the polished steel.

I will be King
, the exultant thought revolved in his mind, drowning out the jeers and insults that many in the crowd flung at him.
King Richard the Third of England. Fortune’s wheel has turned again, and carried me to the heights.

He had timed his arrival in the capital to coincide with the sitting of Parliament, and now the enormous structure of Westminster Hall rose before him. Tearing his gaze away from the sword of state, York looked up at the ancient seat of royal power in England. He gave a little nod of satisfaction.

Just another fortress to be stormed.

Assured by the presence of hundreds of armed retainers at his back, he rode up to the door and dismounted. His sword-bearer went before him into the huge echoing cavern of the hall. Richard followed, revelling in the shocked faces and whispered murmurs of the assembled throng. York’s smile remained in place even as the rafters echoed to words like ‘treason’ and ‘usurper’.

Let them whisper. I know who my friends are, and I know my enemies even better. Take heed what you say, gentlemen. King Richard will not be so forgiving as King Henry.

He strode towards the dais at the far end of the hall, where the throne of England stood empty beneath a canopy of estate.

After their victory at Northampton, the Yorkists had brought the captive King to London, but Henry was not present to witness his cousin’s triumphal entry into the capital. York imagined he was probably praying somewhere.

After this day, he will have a great deal more leisure for prayer. Poor man, he will find it a great comfort to be relieved of the cares of State. I will put him away in a monastery somewhere, where he can be alone with God for the rest of his life.

With this happy thought, York climbed the steps of the dais, turned and bowed to the Lords, and placed his hand firmly on the throne. For a moment he considered sitting on it. His backside tingled with anticipation, but he restrained himself. Best to let the cheers of acclamation die down first.

There were no cheers. The sea of faces below him wore a mixture of disbelief, disgust and amusement. Silence reigned in the hall, and not one voice hailed York as the new King of England.

York’s complacency dissolved, replaced by mounting fury. It was only with difficulty that he suppressed an urge to call in his retainers and have the assembled lords and prelates put to the sword.

“I challenge and claim this realm of England,” he announced, painfully aware of how shrill and ridiculous his voice sounded, “as the true heir of King Richard the Second, and shall be crowned without delay on All Hallows Day.”

The words died away, swallowed up in the vastness of the hall. Still no-one cheered. Richard’s face burned with embarrassment and rage. He thought he heard someone snigger at the back.

Thomas Bourchier, the grey-haired Archbishop of Canterbury, gave a discreet little cough and stepped forward to the dais.

“Perhaps, Your Grace would like to meet with the King,” he said sombrely, “to discuss your claim to the throne in full.”

York looked angrily down at the Archbishop. “I know of no-one in the realm who would not more fitly come to me than I to him,” he replied proudly.

The Archbishop’s lips moved silently as he tried to make sense of York’s reply. A ripple of laughter passed through the crowd. York knew he had to act before the ripple became a deluge.

“Take me to him, then,” he said resignedly, stepping down from the dais and ignoring the complacent smirk on Bourchier’s face.

York’s retainers closed up around him as he followed the prelate out of the hall. Their armed presence restored his confidence a little as the procession made its way to the royal apartments.

The door to the King’s private chamber was guarded by two halberdiers in royal livery, but at a signal from the Archbishop they opened the door and stepped aside. York eagerly strode past him.

He stopped. Henry was standing calmly in the middle of the chamber beyond. He looked tired, and considerably older than the last time York saw him, many months ago. Much to York’s annoyance, he felt a pang of sympathy for the man.

He was born to a role he could not play. God is often cruel.

“Dear cousin,” said the King, stretching out his hand to be kissed, “we are glad to see you again.”

York searched the other man’s eyes, looking for any sign of madness. Henry appeared to be as lucid as he ever was.

“I am here,” York said uncertainly, resisting an instinctive urge to kneel before his sovereign, “to claim the throne of England.”

Henry remained impassive. “But, cousin,” he replied, and York thought he detected a faint tone of mockery, “the throne is already occupied. I sat on it only three days ago, at the opening of Parliament.”

The Archbishop had now entered the room, along with several of York’s retainers. They stood watching the interplay between the two men, the king and the pretender.

“You have no true right to it,” said York, his voice gathering strength. “Your grandfather, Henry of Lancaster, usurped the rightful King, from whom my descent is superior to yours. I have ordered a study made of the genealogies, and there is no doubt of my claim.”

“No doubt at all?” said the Archbishop, who was now openly grinning. “Extraordinary. No-one has thought to say so before. I would very much like to peruse the results of this study, Your Grace. So, I expect, will many others.”

York made the mistake of trying to dismiss the man with a burst of genealogy. “I am descended from Edward III’s second son, Lionel of Antwerp,” he said airily, “through the female line via Philippa of Clarence and Anne Mortimer.”

“Which makes Your Grace the heir general. Yes, I know,” replied the Archbishop, leaning nonchalantly against the wall and folding his arms in their heavy sleeves. “His Majesty is, however, descended in the male line from Edward III’s fourth son, Edmund of Langley, which makes him the heir male.”

He cocked his head to one side, still smiling and giving no sign of being intimidated by the Duke’s glowering retainers. “This brings us to a nice point of
primogeniture
—hereditary succession,” he explained patronisingly. “This is perhaps best demonstrated by a parable.”

“Oh for God’s sake,” muttered York, but Bourchier went on undeterred.

“Let us imagine a king,” he said, “who has a daughter and a brother. The daughter has a son. Now, our imaginary king is imprudent enough to die without a son. Does his kingdom descend to his daughter, or to his grandson, or to his brother? One might argue that woman is subject to man, according to God’s law, and is therefore not fit to rule or pass on a claim. After all, was not Adam superior to Eve? Therefore, if such is the truth, then the brother of our dead king must succeed to the kingdom.”

“You damned old fox!” York shouted. “Will you stand there and lecture me? I tell you my claim is true and just, and I am the rightful King of England!”

“Such a claim, Your Grace,” the Archbishop said gravely, “must be submitted for judgment to the Lords in Parliament. No-one, not even the mighty Duke of York, has the right to seize the crown from an anointed king by armed force alone.”

York paused, aware that he had reached a crossroads. The temptation to thrust aside the objections of Parliament and smug politicos like Bourchier was almost overwhelming.

Be calm
, he reminded himself.
This is a dance, and you cannot afford to make a wrong step
.

His supporters controlled London and the person of the King, but the rest of the country was rotten with unrest and rumours of invasion. Wales and the north were swarming with Lancastrians, Somerset was poised just across the Channel, there was discontent in the south-west, and Queen Margaret and the Prince of Wales had succeeded in escaping to Scotland, where the widow of the late King, James II, had made them welcome. York was fully aware that Margaret would never accept the deposition of her husband and subsequent disinheritance of her son.

“Curse the woman,” he said aloud, earning a look of mild reproof from Henry.

York rolled his eyes. You could slaughter Henry’s friends, march into his capital and proclaim your intention to depose him, and still he would greet you with a friendly smile. But God forbid you should blaspheme in his presence.

“Your Grace has pushed matters too far, and too quickly,” said Bourchier. “Without the support of the Lords, you cannot hope to gain the throne.”

“Then I shall submit my claim to Parliament,” said York, regarding the Archbishop with loathing, “and let them judge the right of it. No man shall call me usurper.”

And let Parliament remember that I have ten thousand armed men in the city,
he thought as he strode out,
and the life of the King in my hands.

That evening, after York had retired to his own lodging in Westminster, the Earl of Warwick and his brother, Thomas Neville, came in search of him. They found him staring out of a window at the sluggish flow of the Thames with his arm resting on a sideboard. York’s eldest son, the giant Edward of March, stood next to his father.

Warwick stalked over to them, shoving aside one of York’s armed retainers. The room was full of them.

“What was the meaning of that farce earlier?” the Earl demanded. York didn’t even turn to look at him.

“The meaning of it could not be plainer,” he replied blandly. “I have the true right to the crown.”

The sight of Warwick in a rage made him feel a little better. He was greatly beholden to the younger man for successfully holding Calais, defeating the King’s army at Northampton and seizing London, and disliked being so. Warwick’s insufferable vanity and self-regard were beginning to grate on his nerves.

“So you mean to take it,” said Warwick, “without even consulting me or my father? Have you run mad? We have always talked of reform, never of deposing the King and setting you up in his place!”

“Calm down, Richard,” said his brother, placing a hand on Warwick’s shoulder. “The soldiers are listening.”

Warwick shrugged him off. “Damn the soldiers,” he cried. “What is the point of secrecy now? We have no secrets, not since our leader decided to stand up on his hind legs in front of Parliament and bark out his true ambitions!”

“Fair sir,” said young Edmund of Rutland, York’s second son, who had just appeared in a doorway, “do not be so angry. The world shall soon know that we have the true right to the crown, and that my father must be King.”

“Go to hell, you watery little pimp,” Warwick snapped, and threw up his hands. “We are all undone! Parliament will throw out this ridiculous claim, and many of those lords that supported our desire for reform will turn back to Lancaster. God help us when the Queen marches south. The entire country shall rise in support of her. My lords, our fat is tossed in the fire, and I can already smell the burning.”

“Save your heat,” said York, unimpressed by Warwick’s outburst. “We mean to press our right, with your support or without. As for the Queen, let her scrape together a rabble in the north. They shall be dealt with in due course.”

“The
rabble
you dismiss so easily will be an army of Scottish mercenaries,” Warwick threw back, “complemented by levies from Northumberland and Lancashire. And while we’re dealing with that rabble, others will be mustering in Wales and the south-west.”

“I am still your father’s friend,” he said to March, pointedly turning his back on York, “but only if he understands that none of my family will support his bid for the throne.”

“You must do as your conscience bids,” March replied, glancing uncertainly at his father. Warwick gave them both a hostile look and stormed out of the room. His brother gave an apologetic shrug and went after him.

“That was a near thing,” said March as the door closed behind them. “We came close to losing our most valuable ally.”

“Never,” York said confidently. “What is Warwick without us? A friendless traitor. He cannot go back to the King, and the Queen wants his innards for supper. He has no choice but to cleave to us, even if I declared myself Holy Roman Emperor. No, he was angry because I didn’t consult him. Perhaps this will teach him a bit of humility.”

Six days later York sat on the throne in Westminster before the re-assembled magnates and formally announced his claim to the throne of England by right of inheritance. One of his heralds stepped forward with a great roll of vellum that purported to be York’s genealogy showing his true descent from Henry III, and submitted it to John Fortescue, the Lord Chief Justice. Fortescue, a devoted supporter of the King, accepted it with a bad grace.

York had hoped that this display would impress the Lords with the seriousness of his claim. He was disappointed.

“One is still inclined to wonder,” remarked the Archbishop of Canterbury, who had been appointed the unofficial spokesman of the Lords, “why Your Grace has not put forward this claim before.”