Warwick: The Man Behind The Wars of the Roses Read online

  The elderly priest reverently placed Richard’s sword back on the altar and quietly withdrew, closing the heavy wooden door behind him with a dull thud and leaving Richard alone for his long vigil. The ancient stone chapel was cool and peaceful after the noise of the city streets. He said a prayer for his family, although he had never been devoutly religious and soon found his mind wandering.

  Richard remembered how he had discovered Anne standing patiently while two seamstresses worked on the expensive, long-sleeved, gold brocade dress she would wear at the coronation. She was determined to dress in the latest French fashion and had been pleased when he said he had never seen her looking more beautiful. Anne asked the seamstresses to leave and locked the door behind them, leaving no mystery of her intentions. She carefully removed the new dress while Richard watched.

  He wondered if they had finally made a son and his nagging concern at the back of his mind returned. His father had said nothing about their lack of a child, yet he surely would soon. Richard forced himself to think about how his life would change when he was a knight. His father had told him about life at the court of the last King Henry who was always absent, fighting a noble war in France. Men were rewarded with high office for fighting at his side or, like his father, helping to keep the Scots from crossing the northern border. Richard wondered if he would be able to dedicate himself to keeping the fragile truce with France. A peace brokered by the crowning of a new French Queen.

  When his long vigil was over Richard bathed in water so cold it took his breath away. He shaved his beard and had his hair neatly trimmed short before being dressed in a new shirt of crisp white linen, a symbol of knightly purity. He put on new black hose and shoes, then the bright scarlet robe, which was supposed to represent the blood he would shed as a knight. As he dressed in the ceremonial robe Richard wondered how long it might be before he would use his sword against another man.

  An usher led Richard into a stateroom, brightly lit with dozens of flickering candles. There in front of him was King Henry, regarding him without any sign of recognition. The king was pale and thin, and could easily have been mistaken for one of the courtiers except for his ermine edged robe and the gold chain around his neck. Richard had been expecting the king to be sitting on a throne, wearing his crown. Instead, he was standing, flanked by his ministers. William de La Pole, the Earl of Suffolk, studied Richard as if trying to assess his value then whispered something to the king, who remained impassive.

  Richard smiled as he saw Anne waiting to take her part in the ceremony at the side of his proud father. She looked strikingly beautiful in her new dress of deep red velvet, set off with a gold necklace studded with sparkling rubies. Anne caught his eye and smiled back. She seemed completely at home in such grand surroundings, as if she had never known anything different.

  One of the older knights, a stocky man with a barrel chest and a white beard, had the duty of introducing him to the king. He cleared his throat and approached the king reverently.

  ‘A candidate deemed worthy of elevation to the order of chivalry has been summoned, Your Grace.’

  Richard knelt before the king, as his father had told him he should do. Four of the older knights laboriously read the sermon of the duties of a knight. Richard waited in silence while each spoke in turn, the same words said to his father and grandfather. The whole ceremony had hardly changed since the order of mounted nobles of Roman times.

  The king studied Richard with new interest, as if seeing him for the first time. ‘For what purpose do you wish to join the order?’

  Richard replied as he had been instructed, for the first time looking King Henry directly in the eye. ‘I desire to be a knight that I might serve my God, my King and my lady wife,’ he paused to cast a glance to where Anne was watching, ‘to the best of my abilities.’

  This was the sign for Anne to come forward. She removed his scarlet robe and helped him put on a long-sleeved blue velvet houpelande, lined with white linen. Four knights each solemnly came forward and presented Richard with his white belt, chain of gold, spurs and sword.

  The king solemnly placed the flat of his sword on Richard’s shoulder. ‘In the name of God, St. Michael, and St George, I create thee knight.’ He placed the sword to Richard’s other shoulder. ‘Be thou valiant, fearless and loyal.’

  Richard swore an oath to defend King Henry, braving death to preserve his brethren. His voice carried well and as he spoke he looked around at the faces of those present. Anne had returned to his father’s side and Richard felt a surge of pride as he saw them. He was a knight of the realm at the age of seventeen. A whole new life at the royal court was now open to him.

  Soldiers in the livery of the king’s guard armed with sharply pointed halberds made a wide cordon in front of Westminster Abbey, holding back the cheering crowds as Richard and Anne arrived. There was a real sense of occasion as they joined the long row of nobles lining each side of the entrance to the Abbey. There were so many Richard realised every lord and lady of note must have been summoned to witness the coronation.

  The new queen’s escort arrived, mounted on horseback, colourfully dressed with scarlet costumes for the officers and blue tunics with gold embroidered sleeves for the guards. The clattering hooves of over a hundred horses on the cobbled streets drowned conversation amongst the waiting crowds, then a cacophony of trumpets announced the arrival of the young wife of the king.

  She rode in a golden coach drawn by two horses caparisoned with white damask glittering with gold. As soon as Richard saw Margaret of Anjou he sensed disappointment. Her auburn hair flowed over her shoulders and the bright spring sunshine flashed on her gold coronet, studded with large white pearls. She looked like a queen, yet through all the pageantry Richard could see she was a nervous young woman, little more than a year younger than himself, playing the role of the new queen as she had been instructed to.

  As she came closer he saw her face was set in a fixed smile. There was a shout from the crowd and her eyes darted around, as if on the lookout for a hidden assassin. Richard realised he was looking at an uncertain future for the throne of England and also saw opportunity. Queen Margaret would have no shortage of advisors and supporters, yet she would always need people she could rely on.

  Margaret stepped from her coach and was escorted by a procession of royal guards, expensively dressed noblewomen and senior clergymen. She turned her head in Richard’s direction as she passed the spot where he was standing with Anne and his father. Their eyes met only for the briefest moment. Richard realised he had been mistaken. There was a glint of triumph in her eye. She was missing no detail of her coronation day. Margaret of Anjou held his gaze for one second and was gone, leaving Richard in no doubt he should not underestimate the new queen, even though she was only fifteen years old.

  Richard and Anne followed the procession, behind his mother and father, through the high arched doorway into the Abbey and took their places. They watched as Margaret of Anjou made her way up the nave to music played by minstrels provided by her proud father, Rene, Duke of Anjou and King of Naples, with the Duke of Milan, two of the many heads of state in attendance to witness the crowning ceremony.

  The one head of state conspicuously absent was King Henry. Richard had heard that the king was likely to be watching the ceremony from a secret vantage-point. He scanned the high vaulted galleries of the Abbey and realised there were many places for people to hide if they wished. It seemed odd to him that the king was not present, although his father had explained the tradition went back since before records began.

  When Margaret reached the altar, she knelt in prayer then prostrated herself to show her humility. The Archbishop of Canterbury led her behind the red velvet curtains for the anointing and placed St Edward’s crown on her head, the same crown that has been used since the coronation of William the Conqueror nearly four hundred years earlier.

  As the new queen made her slow procession back past the watching nobles, Richard studied those closest
to her and noted Sir William de la Pole, the Marquis of Suffolk, who he had seen whispering to the king at his coronation, was proudly carrying the queen’s sceptre.

  Richard was curious and whispered to his father. ‘How does Suffolk have such a role?’

  His father was also watching de la Pole. ‘Watch and learn, Richard. This is the man who brokered the marriage of Margaret to the king.’ He looked disapproving. ‘And he has established his wife as the new queen’s closest companion.’

  Richard looked more closely at William de la Pole. ‘A useful man to know.’

  His father frowned. ‘Or a dangerous enemy.’

  Richard pondered those words as he watched the next pair of riders prepare for the joust. The spacious courtyard of Westminster Abbey was transformed for the event, overlooked by high wooden stands specially erected to seat the royal hosts and invited guests. The brightly painted tilt rail was thirty yards long, with turning areas nearly as long again at each end. These were surrounded by the clusters of colourful tents where the jousters waited and prepared with their squires.

  From one of these tents Richard saw the queen sitting high in the centre of the grandstand with King Henry to one side and her father to the other. He knew the queen’s father was passionate about the sport of jousting and had brought some of the finest jousters in France across to London for the celebration contest, which was to run for three days. The French riders and their supporters were there in great numbers, their banners and pennants flying in the light breeze like alongside the more familiar colours of the English noble families.

  Riding in the joust had been on Richard’s mind ever since his father first told him he had been entered in the rolls. He had become expert at tilting at the quatrain, a deceptively simple target which would swing violently when struck, bringing a weighted sack around to hit the unwary. Jousting was dangerous and unpredictable. A horse could falter or a lance could miss its mark at the moment of impact. Good men had been known to die at the joust, like John Hastings, the Earl of Pembroke, who had been Richard’s age when he was killed.

  The prospect of being unhorsed on his first ride in such a public gathering troubled Richard. He could not afford to fail in front of the king and his new queen. As he entered the banquet the previous night the queen hardly glanced in his direction. She was the centre of attention, dressed entirely in cloth of gold sparkling with jewels. Because of the joust he had to remain sober, despite the fine wine flowing freely. Most of the riders were much more experienced than him, so Richard knew he would need more than a little luck and would have to keep his wits about him.

  Somewhere in the stands were Anne and his parents, although he couldn’t see them from his position at the far end of the square. Before they parted Richard’s father had turned to him.

  ‘You will remember what I told you?’

  ‘Of course, Father.’ Even as he answered Richard wondered if he would be able to hold his nerve when it mattered. He had a habit of raising his lance a little early, giving his opponent the chance to attack rather than defend. He didn’t want to disappoint Anne. Her father had been one of the finest jousters in the country and had even tried to teach the king. Anne often came to watch him at jousting practice and was a skilled horsewoman herself.

  Luke Tully interrupted his thoughts. ‘Time to be putting your armour on now, my lord.’ He had been polishing the new breastplate until it shone.

  Richard held the breastplate in place while Tully fastened the leather straps to the silver buckles on his backplate. The elbow and knee caps on the vambraces to protect his arms and cuisses on his legs had to be loose enough to give him freedom of movement. As Tully expertly adjusted the straps holding the armour in place Richard spotted his groom waiting in the shadows with Samson. His horse was also wearing plates to protect his head and chest and was resplendent in the Neville colours.

  Richard tried on his jousting helmet to make sure of a comfortable fit. He’d worn it many times in practice and had extra padding fitted inside, although he found it cut down his field of view more than he would have liked.

  Tully lifted the visor. ‘How does it feel?’

  ‘Hot and heavy!’ Richard shook his head to check the helmet wasn’t loose.

  Tully pulled a face. ‘Rather you than me, my lord!’

  ‘Help me take it off. I’ll leave it until I’m mounted.’

  Tully carefully removed the helmet and offered Richard a cup of bitter ale. Richard drank it gratefully and peered out through the flap in the tent. The next riders were about to take their turn. He watched as they made a measuring pass, saluting one another, then gave the sign they were ready. Their horses launched into a fast gallop and in an instant there was the clash of lances striking armour. Richard strained to see from his position, although the cheer from the crowd told him what he needed to know.

  His own turn soon came. As there were so many knights in the list each rider was only having two passes. His groom led Samson to the tent and Tully helped Richard into the saddle. He patted the richly decorated horse affectionately.

  ‘Samson will do you proud, my lord.’

  Richard looked down to the other end of the tilt rail where his opponent was also making ready. He had been drawn against one of the French riders who seemed about his own age. Richard silently thanked God he hadn’t been pitted against one of the battle hardened chevaliers he had seen strutting around the banqueting hall.

  ‘What do you make of the Frenchman, Tully?’

  ‘His horse has seen better days.’

  Richard looked again at his rival’s steed. He couldn’t make any judgement about the Frenchman’s horse, caparisoned with a brightly coloured cape, richly decorated with gold fleurs-de-lis reaching almost to the ground. He realised Tully was trying to be encouraging.

  ‘Hand me my helm, Tully.’ Richard put it on, then his new steel plated gauntlets, and waited for the marshal’s command. The marshal was an officious looking Frenchman, from the Duke of Anjou’s retinue. Richard wondered if he would be truly impartial.

  ‘Servez lances!’ The marshal’s strongly accented voice echoed through the courtyard of Westminster.

  Tully handed Richard his lance. Lighter than he had been used to, the final three feet at the tip were painted white, made to shatter if he could strike the target on his opponent’s armour. The lance felt well balanced as he braced it under his arm and raised and lowered it experimentally.

  ‘A volonte!’ The marshal signalled for the riders to show they were ready.

  Richard raised his lance and moved Samson closer towards the tilt rail. Silence fell over the watching crowd. He was already feeling hot inside the helmet and had to turn his head to see if he could find Anne or his father. The narrow slot over his eyes obscured his view.

  Taking a deep breath and leaning forward as he had been trained, Richard urged the heavy horse into a gallop as they had practiced together so many times at Middleham Castle. Samson lunged forward with all his strength. Both horses covered the short distance in seconds and he felt the bone-jarring shock of the impact through his armour as the Frenchman’s lance shattered on contact.

  Richard began to slide from his saddle with the momentum of the blow. He remembered his father’s warning about the point of no return and threw his lance to the side as he’d been trained to do, heaving with all his strength to pull himself back upright. He didn’t even know if he had scored a hit on the Frenchman. Richard pulled up and turned to where Tully was waiting with a fresh lance.

  ‘Did I get a clean strike?’

  ‘You did, my lord. Well done.’

  Richard took the new lance and held it firmly, sighting down the long straight line of the tilt rail. This was his last chance. The Frenchman at the other end made the sign he was ready and the crowd fell silent again. Both horses charged and this time the Frenchman missed. Richard’s lance hit him square on, bending with the force and lifting him almost out of his saddle.

  Time seemed to pass in slow
motion. The Frenchman’s lance clattered to the ground as he started falling backwards. His gauntleted hands grabbed helplessly at the air as he fell, his armour clattering on the hard cobble-stones of the courtyard. The crowd gasped, many standing to have a better view.

  Richard pulled up and turned to watch as the marshal made his ruling. He gave the sign for a win and Richard felt a sudden mixture of elation and relief. He passed what was left of his lance to a grinning Tully and pushed up his visor to survey the cheering crowd. He still couldn’t spot Anne or his parents, although he saw the queen. She was standing now. There was no sign of a smile as she raised a hand in acknowledgement of his victory over the Frenchman.

  Chapter 5 - Winter 1448

  Thick blue ice formed on the moat at Middleham Castle and heavy snow showers turned the bleak Yorkshire landscape white during one of the coldest winters anyone could remember. Guards were always posted on lookout duty despite the freezing weather, more to warn of approaching visitors than through the danger of attack. The sentries were glad to have something to relieve their boredom as they watched a lone rider picking his way down the slippery track leading from the village.

  As he came closer one of the guards shouted down to him. He called back that he’d travelled a great distance with an important message from Duchess Cecily of Warwick. His tired horse was taken to the stables and the messenger was led to see Richard, who had already been told of his arrival. The man made no excuses for his dishevelled appearance and damp clothes. He simply produced a folded parchment, neatly sealed with red wax.

  Richard thanked the messenger, handing him a silver coin and sent him to the kitchens for something to eat. He also sent for Anne and studied the seal on the letter while he waited for her to arrive. The seal was the bear and ragged staff of the house of Warwick. Anne’s brother Henry had died in a hunting accident two years before, leaving Richard’s older sister Cecily to look after their daughter, who had inherited the title.