I walk out. The guard outside is holding my horse, but already a crowd has gathered and is murmuring against them. ‘You two, come with me,’ I say. ‘You two, go in and set it to rights.’
I snap my fingers and one of the guard helps me into the saddle. ‘Go quickly,’ I urge him, under my breath. ‘Into the saddle and onwards.’
He does as I bid him and we are away from the courtyard and some distance from my house before anyone knows we are gone. I don’t look back. But I remember, as I ride down the road, the dark smear of the smoke stain in the hall of my house, and my realisation that the people had come into my house and taken what they wanted, and done just what they wished.
‘To Westminster Palace,’ I say. I want to be with the court, behind the walls of the palace, guarded by the royal guard. London no longer feels safe for me. I have become like the queen – a woman uneasy in the heart of her own home.
We round a corner and suddenly we are swirled into a mob of people, dancing laughing cheering people, a great joyous May Day crowd. Someone gets hold of my bridle, and I clench my hand on my whip, but the face that turns up towards me is beaming. ‘Easy!’ I say quickly to the guard at my side who is spurring forwards, his hand on his sword.
‘God be praised, we have our champion!’ the woman says, sharing her happiness with me. ‘He is coming, God bless him! He is coming, and he wil petition for our rights and the good times will come again!’
‘Hurrah!’ shout half a dozen people in earshot, and I smile as if I know what is happening.
‘Good woman,’ I say. ‘I have to get through, let me go, I have to meet my husband. Let me go.’
Someone laughs. ‘You’ll get nowhere till he has come! The streets are packed with people like pilchards in a barrel. There is no going through nor going round.’
‘But won’t you come and see him? He is coming over the bridge.’
‘Oh, come,’ somebody else says. ‘You will never see the like of this again, this is the greatest thing to ever happen in our lifetime, in any lifetime.’
I look around for my two men but they cannot keep their place at my side. They are separated from me by a dozen merrymakers, we are totally outnumbered. I wave to one. ‘Go your ways,’ I call. ‘I am safe enough. You know where we will meet.’ Clearly, there is no point trying to resist this crowd and our safest way is to join with them. One of my men jumps from his horse and pushes his way through to come alongside me.
‘Steady on!’ someone says. ‘No shoving. Whose livery are you wearing?’
‘Leave me,’ I whisper. ‘Meet me later. You know where. Don’t upset them.’
It is the safest way, but I see him struggle to obey the order.
‘High and mighty!’ someone complains. ‘The sort that should be brought down.’
‘Are you a king’s man?’ someone demands. ‘Think you should have everything and care nothing for the poor man?’
At last, he takes his cue. ‘Not I!’ he says cheerfully. ‘I am with you all!’
I nod at him, and the movement of the crowd takes him from me, almost at once. I let my horse walk with them. Familiarly, a woman rests her hand on my horse’s neck. ‘So where are we going?’ I ask her.
‘To the bridge, to see him come across the bridge!’ she says exultantly. ‘I see you are a lady but you will not be ashamed of the company he keeps. He has gentry and squires with him, knights and lords. He is a man for all the people, of all degree.’
‘And what will he do for us when he comes?’
‘You don’t know? Where have you been?’
Smiling, I shake my head. ‘I have been in the country, all this is a surprise to me.’
‘Then you have come back to the City at the very hour of its joy. He will speak for us at last. He will tell the king that we cannot bear the taxation, that the fat lords will ruin us all. He will order the king to ignore the French slut, his wife, and take good advice from the good duke.’
‘The good duke?’ I query. ‘Who do you call the good duke now?’
‘Richard Duke of York, of course. He will tell the king to lie with his worthless wife and get us a son and heir, to take our lands in France back again, to send away the wcked men who steal the wealth of the country and do nothing but make their own fortunes and fight among themselves. He will make this king as great as the king before and we will be happy again.’
‘Can one man do all this?’ I ask.
‘He has raised an army and defeated the king’s men already,’ she says delightedly. ‘They chased after him to Sevenoaks and he struck them down. This is our champion. He has defeated the royal army and now he takes the City.’
I can feel a pain hammering in my head. ‘He destroyed the king’s army?’
‘Led them on, turned on them and struck them down,’ she says. ‘Half of them ran away, half of them joined him. He is our hero!’
‘And what of the lords who led the men?’
‘Dead! All dead!’
Richard, I think to myself in silence. Surely the two of us did not come so far, and risk so much, for Richard to be ambushed by a hedge-sparrow commander at the head of patchwork rebels, and killed outside Sevenoaks? Surely I would know if he were injured or dead? Surely I would have heard Melusina sing or felt the very spheres dance sorrowfully one with another, to mourn him? Surely the man that I have loved for all my adult life, loved with a passion that I did not even know was possible, could not, cannot be dead in a Kentish ditch, and I not know?
‘Are you ill, mistress?’ she asks. ‘You’ve gone white as my washing.’
‘Who commanded the royal army?’ I ask; though I know it was him. Who else would they send but Richard? Who has more experience, who is more reliable? Who is more loyal and honourable than my husband? Who would they choose if not my beloved?
‘Ah, now that I don’t know,’ she says cheerfully. ‘All I know is that he is dead now, for sure. Are you taken ill?’
‘No, no,’ I say. My lips are numb. All I can say is the one word. ‘No. No.’
We crowd together through the narrow streets. I cannot get away now; even if I could get the horse out of the crowd I don’t think I could ride. I am limp with fear, quite unable to take up the reins, even if the crowd would let me. And then, at last, we are at Bridgegate and the crowd thickens and pushes. My horse becomes anxious at being so crowded, her ears flicker and she shifts from one leg to another; but we are hemmed in so fast that she cannot move and I cannot dismount. I can see the Lord Mayor of the City as he leaps up on a milestone, balancing with a hand on the broad shoulder of one of the City’s guard, and shouts to the crowd, ‘I take it it is your will that Captain Mortimer and his men enter the City?’
‘Yea!’ comes the roar. ‘Open the gates!’
I can see that one of the aldermen is arguing, and the Lord Mayor gestures that he shall be roughly taken away. The guards throw open the gate and we look out through the gateway beyond the drawbridge. On the south side, there is a small army waiting, standards furled. As I watch, they see the gate flung open, they hear the encouraging bellow of the crowd, see the red of the mayor’s robe, and they unfurl their banners, fall into ranks and march briskly along the road. People are throwing flowers from the upper storeys of the buildings, waving flagee the reering: this is the procession of a hero. The drawbridge is dropped before them and the clang as it goes down is like the clash of cymbals for a conqueror. The captain at the head of the men turns and, using a great sword, slices through the ropes of the bridge, so that it cannot ever be raised against him. Everyone around me is shouting a welcome, the women are blowing kisses and screaming. The captain marches before his army, his helmet under his arm, his golden spurs sparkling at his boots, a beautiful cape of deep blue velvet rippling from his shoulders, his armour shining. Before him comes his squire, holding a great sword before him, as if he is leading a king, entering into his kingdom.
I cannot tell if it is Richard’s sword, I don’t know if this man is wearing my husband’s
hard-won spurs. I close my eyes and feel the coldness of the sweat under my hat. Could he be dead without my knowing it? When I get to the palace will the queen herself comfort me, another widow at court, like Alice de la Pole?
The Lord Mayor steps forwards, the keys to the City on a scarlet cushion, and bows his head to the conqueror, and hands him the keys. From all around, crowds of men are spilling out of the City gate to fall in with the soldiers behind the captain and they are greeted by his army with slaps on the back and settled into rough ranks that march past us, waving at the girls and grinning at the cheers, like an army of liberation, come at last.
The crowd follows him. I swear if he marches on Westminster at the head of such a crowd, he can seat himself on the king’s marble throne, this is a man with the City in his hand. But he leads the way to Candlewick Street where the London stone stands proudly in the street to mark the very heart of the City. He strikes the stone with his sword and at the ringing sound the crowd bellows in exultation. ‘Now is Mortimer the lord of this city!’ he shouts, and stands by the stone, holding his shield in one hand and his sword over his head, while the men cheer him.
‘To dine!’ he declares, and they all move with him to Guildhall, where the Lord Mayor will spread a dinner for him and his officers. As the crowd goes with him, eager for the off-cuts of beef and the broken baskets of bread, I slip from my horse, take hold of her reins, and lead her carefully out of the crowd, hoping to creep away unnoticed.
I edge down a side road, and then into a smaller alley. I am almost lost but I climb on a step and struggle up into the saddle and turn east, letting the slope of the street take me towards the river. I remember when I was a girl on my way to England, I was lost in the forest and Richard found me. I cannot believe that he will not come looking for me again. It does not seem possible that I should have touched him for the last time, kissed him for the last time; and now I cannot remember the last words I said to him. At least we parted lovingly, I know that. I cannot remember the words that we said nor how we looked; but I know that we parted tenderly, because we always parted tenderly. We used to kiss each other goodnight, we would kiss each other at breakfast. He was always loving to me, even when he should not have thought of me as anything but his lady. Even when I trapped him into giving me our child, and insisted on a secret marriage. For fourteen years he has been lover and husband, and now I am afraid that he is lost to me.
I give my horse her head and let her pick her way through the maze of dirty streets. She knows well enough where the Westminster stables are, and I do not care. When I think of Richard dead in a ditch in Kent, I want to lie down in the gutter and die myself. I put my hand on my belly and think of the child who will never know her father. How can it be that I shall not show Richard his new baby?
It is growing dark as we come to one of the many back gates to the rambling palace. I am surprised to find no-one on sentry duty. I would have expected the gates to be closed and manned with a double guard; but it is like the king to be careless, and without my husband who would command the guard?
‘Hi!’ I shout as I come close. ‘Holla! Open the gate!’
Silence. Silence where there are usually scores of people coming and going. Silence where I would have expected a shouted challenge. I rein the horse in, remembering that, when you feel that something is wrong, it is because something is wrong. ‘Open the lantern gate!’ I shout, readying myself to turn the horse and spur her away if we are attacked. ‘Open the lantern gate for the Duchess of Bedford!’ Slowly, the small door in the great gate creaks open, and a stable lad peers nervously out.
‘The Duchess of Bedford?’
I pull down my hood so he can see my face. ‘Myself. Where is everybody?’
His pinched white face looks up at me. ‘Run away,’ he says. ‘Everyone but me and I couldn’t go because my dog is sick, and I didn’t want to leave him. Had I better come with you?’
‘Run where?’
He shrugs. ‘Run away from Captain Mortimer and his army. Some of them ran to join him, some of them ran away.’
I shake my head. I cannot understand this. ‘Where is the king, and the queen?’
‘Run away too,’ he says.
‘For God’s sake! Where are they, boy?’
‘Run away to Kenilworth,’ he whispers. ‘But I was told to tell no-one.’
I grip onto my horse’s mane with cold hands as my heart thuds. ‘What? They have abandoned the City?’
‘They sent out an army to chase Mortimer back to Kent, but Mortimer turned on them and beat them good. The royal commanders were all killed, the army ran back to London except for those that joined Mortimer. Half of them joined Mortimer. I wish I had gone.’
‘Who were the commanders that were killed?’ I ask quietly. My voice is steady, and I am pleased at that.
He shrugs. ‘All the king’s lords, I don’t know: Lord Northumberland, Baron Rivers . . . ’
‘They are dead? All of them?’
‘They didn’t come back, at any rate.’
‘The king?’
‘The king wouldn’t go to war,’ he says contemptuously. ‘He went out with his standard but he wouldn’t go to war. He kept half his army back and sent out the lords with the other half. And when what was left of them came running back and said they had lost, he and the queen ran off to Kenilworth, the Duke of Somerset, Edmund Beaufort, with them, and Lord Scales went to the Tower.’
‘Is Scales there now? Has he fortified the Tower?’
He shrugs. ‘I dunno. What’s going to happen to me?’ he asks.
I look at him, my face as blank as his own. ‘I don’t know. You’d better look out for yourself.’
I turn my horse from the stable gate of Westminster, since there is no safety there for either of us. I think I had better get to the Tower before nightfall. She steps out bravely enough but we are both weary, and on every street corner there is a brazier and someone roasting meat, and men drinking ale and swearing that the good times have come and that Mortimer will advise the king and there will be no more taxation and no more cheating of the poor and the bad advisors will be driven away. They call me to join them, and they curse me when I shake my head. In the end I have to throw a coin and wish them well, and for the last few streets I pull my hood over my face and sit low in the saddle and hope to sidle by, like a thief in my own city.
I get to the gate of the Tower at last. There are sentries on every wall and they shout down at me, as soon as they see me, ‘Halt! Who’s there? Stand where you are!’
‘The Duchess of Bedford!’ I call back, showing them my face. ‘Let me in.’
‘Your husband the baron has been searching for you all evening,’ the young guardsman says as he throws open the gate, comes out to take my bridle, and help me down from the horse. ‘Your men came in and said they had lost you. He was afraid you had been captured by the mob. He said he would see them swing for treason if so much of a hair of your head was hurt. He told them! I have never heard such language.’
‘My husband?’ I ask, suddenly dizzy with hope. ‘Did you say my husband was looking for me?’
‘Like a madman . . . ’ he starts, then he turns to listen, as we both hear the clatter of hooves on the cobbles. He shouts, ‘Horses! Close the gate!’ and we rush inside as the gates creak behind us and then I hear Richard shout, ‘Rivers! Open up!’ and they fling open the double gates and his little band of men rides in like thunder, and he sees me in a moment and jumps down from his horse and catches me up in his arms and kisses me as if we were a squire and his lady once more, and could not bear to part.
‘Dear God, I have ridden all round London looking for you,’ he gasps. ‘I was so afraid they had taken you. Cutler at the house said you were going to Westminster, and the boy at Westminster knew nothing.’
I shake my head, tears running down my face, laughing at the sight of him. ‘I’m safe! I’m safe! I got caught up in the crowd and separated from our men. Richard, I thought you were dead. I th
ought you had been killed in an ambush in Kent.’
‘Not I. Poor Stafford was killed, and his brother, but not I. Are you safe? Do you feel well? How did you get here?’
‘I got swept up in the crowd. I saw him enter London.’
‘Jack Cade?’
‘The captain? He is John Mortimer.’
‘Jack Cade is his name but he’s calling himself Mortimer, and John Amend-All, and all sorts of names. The name Mortimer brings out the supporters of Richard of York for him, it’s York’s family name. Cade is borrowing it or worseuke is lending it. Either way it means more trouble. Where did you see him?’
‘Crossing the bridge, and getting the keys of the City.’
‘Getting the keys?’ my husband demands, dumbfounded.
‘They greeted him as a hero, all the common people and the mayor and the aldermen too. He was dressed like a nobleman coming to rule.’
He lets out a whistle. ‘God save the king. You’d better tell Lord Scales, he’s in command here.’
He tucks his hand under my elbow and leads me to the White Tower. ‘Are you tired, beloved?’
‘A little.’
‘And you feel well? The baby?’
‘All right, I think. All well.’
‘Were you frightened?’
‘A little. My love, I thought you were dead.’
‘Not I.’
I hesitate. ‘You have seen our house?’
‘Nothing that we can’t repair when this is over.’
I glance at him. ‘They walked in through the door and took what they wanted. It will be hard to repair that.’
He nods. ‘I know. But we will do it. Now, I’ll get you some wine and some meat as soon as we find Scales. He’ll need to know where Cade is tonight.’
‘Dining with the Lord Mayor, I think.’
Richard pauses and looks at me. ‘A man who has brought an army out of Kent and defeated the king’s men has the keys to the City of London and is dining with the Lord Mayor?’
I nod. ‘They greeted him like he was freeing them from a tyrant. The Lord Mayor and all the aldermen welcomed him to the City like a hero.’