Roseblood (32 page)

Whilst the wine and marzipan strips were served, the man who had been sitting quietly on the King’s left rose, stepped off the dais and, having smilingly clasped hands, introduced himself to Raphael. Edmund Beaufort, second Duke of Somerset, was a strikingly good-looking man. His blond hair was cropped close like that of a priest, whilst his face reminded Raphael of a painting of an archangel he had seen in the castle chapel at Dover: strong features, piercing blue eyes, full red lips and a strong chin. His nose was slightly twisted from a blow in battle; his skin was a light tawny colour. He was clean-shaven, his face glistening with perfumed oil. A falcon of a man, Raphael concluded, sharp-witted, possibly imperious, but, as now, devastatingly charming. He had the long legs and arms of a born horseman and swordsman, yet he was dressed like any court fop in a tawny quilted jerkin with puffed sleeves and a high gold-encrusted collar, tight deep-blue hose pushed into soft boots of the same colour as his jerkin. He was armed: a war belt of the costliest leather, stitched with silver thread, circled his slim waist, and he carried a jewel-hilted dagger in a gold-plated sheath. This concession was a sign of the Queen’s great confidence in him; very few were permitted to wear arms in the royal presence. Simon and Raphael had given their own war belts to the guards outside without a second thought, and even Master Bray had handed over his dagger.

Once the introductions were finished, Beaufort ordered the chapel to be cleared. He spoke quickly in Norman French, snapping his fingers, gesturing at the servants and guards to leave and close the door behind them. Once they were gone, he sat down beside the King, who still stared, eyes narrowed, as if searching for something. Raphael noticed how Henry’s hands were wreathed in Ave beads, and when his great cloak slipped, the mass of chains carrying miniature reliquaries slung around his neck could be clearly seen.

‘Your Grace.’ Margaret turned to grasp her husband’s hand.

‘I shall die here,’ the King declared loudly.

‘Nonsense, Your Grace.’ Beaufort’s voice was clipped; the duke stared despairingly across at his beloved Queen.

‘My father,’ the King continued, as if unaware of the interruption, ‘died screaming in the marshes outside Meaux, his bowels turned to a sludge of putrid matter and blood. He must have seen the ghosts of the myriads he had slain both in France and here. They would have gathered around his bed, bodies all rent and split, blood-caked mouths open in protest.’ He paused, ‘My father shouted that he was not lost, how his soul was with the Lord Jesus. When I die here, I wish to breathe my last with a similar prayer.’

Beaufort made to speak, but Henry raised his hand, and for just a few heartbeats Raphael glimpsed the steel in this strange king’s will. He recalled the stories of how Henry V, the King’s father, had been a bloodthirsty warrior, whilst his mother, Katherine of Valois, was of tainted stock.

‘Your Grace.’ The Queen’s voice thrilled with passion. ‘You have many years to reign, more sons to raise, a kingdom to rule.’

‘I will shed no man’s blood,’ snapped Henry, abruptly asserting himself. ‘I will not have the blood of my beloved cousin York – or indeed of anyone – on my hands. I have peered into the darkness of the night and seen visions.’ He rattled the rosary beads around his hands. ‘Our earth is soaked with innocent blood; this gives voice to countless calls for vengeance, so loud, so strident that they even drown that of our father Abel, whom Cain slew with the jaw bone of an ass.’

‘Your Grace,’ Beaufort pleaded. ‘We wish to live in peace too, but our spies and scouts have returned. York and his Neville allies are moving south with great force and banners raised.’ The duke gestured at Simon and Raphael. ‘Master Roseblood is no common taverner. He is a vintner and an alderman of the city; more importantly, he controls the streets and listens to the chatter of the marketplace. Sire, York’s minions plot our downfall only a bowshot from here. He intends war.’

‘Let him sit on the Council.’ The King smiled as if the idea was original.

‘Your Grace, York will not sit on the Council unless,’ Margaret gestured at Beaufort, ‘unless Edmund Beaufort, second Duke of Somerset, is surrendered into his care. Sweet husband,’ she insisted, ‘if Edmund is handed over, he will die, and whose hands will be stained with his blood?’

Henry closed his eyes and shook his head, unable to concentrate. Beaufort slipped to one knee from his stool.

‘Sire, I beg you, unfurl the royal standard. Order the heralds of your household to proclaim the King’s peace. Instruct all sheriffs and bailiffs that anyone, and I repeat, sire, anyone who then advances against your royal banner be regarded as a traitor guilty of high treason, so forfeiting life and goods.’

Beaufort’s plea echoed like a funeral knell around that ghostly chapel. Queen Margaret clutched her husband’s wrist, but he gently loosened her grip.

‘I will die here,’ he declared in a ringing voice. ‘I, the lamb, will break the seal of God’s vengeance and justice.’ He struck his breast three times. ‘
Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa
– through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault. My blood will atone for that of King Richard, foully slain by my grandfather at Pontefract Castle.’ He raised his hands like a priest at mass. ‘
Ecce Agnus Dei, ecce qui tollit peccata mundi
,’ he intoned. ‘Behold the Lamb of God, behold him who takes away the sins of the world.’ His sorrowful voice filled that ancient chapel. ‘I shall atone for the rivers of blood created by my grandfather and sire, from the royal blood of Pontefract to that of the saintly Joan the Maid.’ He paused, head down, then struck his breast again and mumbled the ‘I confess’ before falling silent.

An eerie hush descended. A draught from somewhere made the torchlight dance, and for a brief while, the candlelight seemed to turn a pale blue. Raphael shivered and recalled the ancient tale about how ghosts turned all flames blue. Some men said Henry was a saint, others a fool. Raphael could sense the King’s obduracy as well as the sheer desperation of Beaufort. He glanced swiftly at Simon, but he sat, hands on knees, staring fixedly at the King. Was Henry really mad, Raphael wondered, or was he secretly pursuing vengeance against not York but Edmund Beaufort, second Duke of Somerset, alleged lover of the Queen and, as some evil tongues wagged, the true father of Margaret’s only son? He reflected on the present danger: if the King would not move, Beaufort would fall and the consequences for the Rosebloods might be devastating.

‘We shall go to meet Cousin York,’ Henry murmured. ‘I have already asked the Franciscan, Friar Aelred, to take messages of peace to Duke Richard.’ For the first time the King seemed to notice Raphael and Simon. He glanced at them and smiled, which transformed his pallid, narrow face. ‘I understand, Master Roseblood, that one of your sons will be part of that Franciscan delegation?’

‘Indeed two, sire,’ Raphael replied quickly. ‘I have also been asked to join them in their quest for peace.’

‘Good, good,’ murmured the King. ‘Tomorrow you will leave.’

‘But sire,’ Beaufort, who had been communicating with the Queen with his eyes, spoke up, ‘the Rosebloods are here to advise you about York’s great treachery, his alliance with enemies of this realm.’ And before the King could object, he ordered Simon to give his news. He did so, swift and succinct, describing York’s meddling in the city, the presence of Sevigny, the duplicity of Sheriff Malpas, the attempt to rob the silver and above all, the presence of LeCorbeil and what they intended. Raphael watched the royal party and felt a sharp spurt of fear. Beaufort was truly whistling into the dark; the King still wanted peace. Despite Simon’s stark description of the threat LeCorbeil posed, Henry was not moved.

‘We will order the Sheriff of Essex,’ he declared, ‘to ensure the village of Cottesloe is cleared. We shall search for these hidden pits, and my lord of Beaufort will send a war cog to stand off the mouth of the Orwell.’

Simon pressed on. He described the scurrilous writing of Argentine. How he had closed that physician’s filthy mouth once and for ever and destroyed his chronicle. Again the King was impassive. Once Simon had finished, Henry thanked him graciously and invited both father and son to kiss his hands. The meeting ended in an atmosphere of deep exasperation. Henry rose and wandered down the nave to stare at a wall painting depicting St John on the island of Patmos. Queen Margaret rose and collapsed quietly sobbing into the arms of Beaufort.

‘
Nous sommes tous perdus
,’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘We are all lost.’

Beaufort tried to comfort her, then beckoned Bray, Simon and Raphael to join him in the aisle. Once assembled, the duke stood drumming his fingers against his dagger hilt, watching narrow-eyed as the Queen went to join her husband at the far end of the chapel.

‘We will march north,’ he whispered. ‘We have troops enough. Raphael, go with the Franciscans, let us know what happens.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Master Bray, you will stay with me. Before we leave London, destroy any document that may prove dangerous. Simon, summon your levies and march with us. I want you to organise a cohort of bowmen to protect me.’ He gnawed the corner of his lip as he stared down the nave at the King and Queen. ‘It has begun,’ he whispered. ‘Remember this day, this meeting; this is where it all began. The kingdom will be torn apart. Mark this well; look to yourselves also, for the very Devil is loose.’

St Albans, 22 May 1455

A
madeus Sevigny crossed himself, unbuckled his war belt, laid it beside his gauntlets on the small table and knelt down on a flock-filled cushion before Richard, Duke of York. Sevigny was here for the diffidatio, the solemn refutation of allegiance to his seigneur. He stared into his lord’s blood-flecked light green eyes, noting the grey in the once silver hair and freshly clipped moustache and beard, the deep furrows of care around the duke’s eyes and down his cheeks.

They were alone in this strange six-sided exorcist’s chamber built into the north wall, close to the Devil’s door of St Swithin’s church, which served the hamlet of Key Field, close to St Albans, where the royal forces had set up camp. Sevigny had arrived the night before, and in whispered conversations had informed York about Malpas, the situation in London and, above all, the alleged prophecies of Ravenspur. He had kept silent about Katherine Roseblood and his own secret meetings with her father and family.

York had been taciturn, distracted, more interested in Ravenspur’s prophecies than anything else, asking Sevigny to repeat them time and again. Sevigny had decided to keep his own counsel. Soon York would no longer be his lord, and if the duke wished to dabble in sorcery, then he must pay the consequences. If he patronised LeCorbeil, that too would demand a price. Sevigny had informed York, without giving precise details, how LeCorbeil, although acting as mercenaries, were certainly in the pay of the French Crown and might even be planning to aid a landing by their countrymen along the deserted coast of Essex. York had been dismissive about that; he would, he claimed, use LeCorbeil to win his rightful place on the Council of the King and provide strong government. Only in this way could England be defended from outside attack. Sevigny had accepted this in silence. There was much left unsaid. Both he and York knew that the good duke and his family were intent not just on controlling the royal Council but on seizing the crown itself. Eventually York had dismissed him, but told him to meet him here in this eerie chamber just before dawn. Outside, in St Swithin’s spacious graveyard, the duke’s retainers were preparing for York to meet the Franciscan envoys.

‘So, Amadeus, you have come to bid farewell.’ York’s voice was soft, and Sevigny, for all his mistrust, caught a genuine sadness in the duke’s eyes.

‘I have come,’ Sevigny half smiled, ‘to formally withdraw from your household and service.’

‘My clerk has destroyed the indenture,’ York agreed. ‘And now,’ he stretched out his hands, and Sevigny gripped them in the solemn clasp of farewell, ‘I withdraw my protection from you, Amadeus Sevigny. You are no longer in my love, but I shall do nothing to hurt you.’

‘Or to help me,’ Sevigny broke in. ‘Bardolph the bowman was no assistance.’

‘I know, I know.’ York glanced away; when he looked back, tears laced his eyes. ‘I have always loved you, Amadeus. I saw you as a son, a skilled clerk, a true warrior, but above all, a man of good heart.’ He paused. Sevigny guessed what he was going to say next; no wonder he had insisted that all his servants and henchmen leave the church. ‘My wife Cecily, the duchess…’ He glanced up. ‘I love her, Amadeus.’

‘And you need her kinsmen, the Nevilles?’

‘Yes, yes, I do.’ York balled his fingers into a fist and gently beat against Sevigny’s shoulder. ‘Amadeus, you heard Ravenspur’s prophecies. Richard II was deposed by the House of Lancaster. The House of York has a better claim. The crown is our destiny, our right.’

‘Ravenspur is a witch, a warlock, a traitor. He may help you,’ Sevigny lifted one hand, as if taking an oath, ‘but, I swear in this holy place, once he has inflicted vengeance on Beaufort, he will turn his fighting dogs on you. Moreover, if he had found Argentine’s chronicle—’