We both laughed, but my laughter, I think, was truer. There was a moment when we looked at each other. I held my eyes steady. He looked down. I think it was only then that he realized he had made me his master.
As if to restrain me, he said, “We’ll continue your lessons, but starting tomorrow you’ll walk through town at least once a day.”
“Why?”
“You heard Lincoln. You must be seen so people will know you as the true claimant to the throne.”
“Brother, he knows who I am, but I don’t think he likes me.”
The friar’s look turned dark. “You’d best keep that to yourself.”
“Why?”
“He’s your protector.”
“Should I be afraid of him?”
“Lincoln is my lord, but it’s you who are going to be king.”
“I want to be,” I said, sparking with the night’s success.
“But you’re still a boy.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’ll need advice.”
“From you, of course,” I said, mockingly.
He would not smile. “The Earl of Lincoln is my lord.”
“And I told you,” I said, raising my voice, “I don’t like him.”
The friar put a hand on my shoulder, making me look up at him. “My lord, here’s as important a lesson as I can give you: The man who is close enough to help you up is near enough to push you down. Now go to sleep.”
In my room, I reminded myself it had been my finest day. Yet, now that I was alone, I was edged by unease. I knew why Brother Simonds wished me to succeed. But the Earl of Lincoln hardly needed a place in court. What did he want of me? It had to be something beyond my looks.
TWENTY-FOUR
EACH DAY DURING the next week, I returned to Lincoln’s great hall. I went openly, dressed in different clothing—all costly—supplied by Lincoln. At my side, Brother Simonds. Armed soldiers, in the earl’s colors, walked before and behind. “Make way for the Earl of Warwick!” they called.
What sport it was to see people on the streets stop and show their respect for me by doffing caps and bowing. I even heard someone shout, “Long live the Earl of Warwick!” People truly believed I was Warwick. I waved my hand to thank them like a lofty lord.
Let me make one thing certain: From this time on, as far as I was concerned, I was the Earl of Warwick. All I did, thought, and said was shaped by being him. Never again would I be called a nobody. I was heir to the throne of England. I was Edward, the royal prince!
At Lincoln’s court, there was music—trumpets, lutes, rebecs, and sackbuts such as I had never heard before. I mingled with powerful people, adults, elegant lords and ladies, people whose names I didn’t know. They bowed to me, fawned on me, brought me dainty food and drink, asked me questions, most of which, thanks to Brother Simonds’s teaching, I answered with ease. When I couldn’t answer, he, always by my side, might say something like, “My lord, I think you must have forgotten . . .” and provided an answer. I’d remember those responses, so when asked again, I had his words like arrows in my quiver, and if required, I could send them home.
How delightful it was to have so many mighty people treat me with such respect. How pleasing to be the center of everyone’s attention. To have my every request fulfilled. I was loved by everyone. Or almost.
At these gatherings, I would be in the middle of a flattering crowd, enjoying the attention of all. Then I’d notice Lovell and Lincoln at the edges of the room, standing apart, Lincoln watching me closely with his large, dark eyes, stroking his ruddy beard, as if amused.
They never talked to me. Never engaged with me. Enough, or so it seemed, simply to have me there. It was as if my person brought them to the edge of something that I didn’t know about and was not to be told.
Then I learned some of those things.
Brother Simonds and I were coming home from the earl’s court. It being night, torchbearers were with us, as were soldiers.
“Will I keep doing this?” I asked the friar.
“Next week we go to Ireland.”
“Where is that?”
“Across the Irish Sea.”
“A sea!” That stirred me. “How will we get there?”
“By ship. We need to reach the city of Dublin, where your father—the Duke of Clarence—was born. You’ll find many friends.”
“What am I to do there?”
He smiled down at me. “You’ll be crowned king of England.”
“Truly?” I cried, greatly excited. “With a real crown?”
“It shall happen.”
As we walked on, I kept asking the friar how my crowning would be done. When? What ceremony? What place? Though he wasn’t sure about details, he was happy to join in my elation.
But then that other worry came back. “Brother, do . . . do Lincoln and Lovell truly want me to be crowned?”
“They want justice to be done,” he said, which I thought somewhat slippery.
“What will happen to them when I become king?”
He didn’t answer.
Trying to tease out an answer, I said, “They’re always watching me. We never speak. They seem to be waiting. For what?”
“To make you king.”
“Brother, when I am king will I be able to tell them to go away?”
The friar glowered. “Why would you do that?”
“I told you. I don’t like them.”
The friar abruptly stopped, reached out, and as he used to do, gripped my shoulders tightly. Speaking in a low but urgent voice, he said, “I’ve warned you, never say that.”
His fierceness startled me. “Why?”
“Without them you are nobody,” he whispered. “It’s they who will determine your future.”
His change of manner, his alarm, his words, made me look up at him. “Brother, are you the Earl of Lincoln’s friend or mine?”
He turned away and stared into the air as if trying to find an answer. When he did speak, all he said was, “No more empty talk.” He started to walk fast, as if to leave my question—which he had never answered—behind.
We went on in silence until a new thought came. “Brother,” I said, “that false king, the one called Henry, what about him? Am I allowed to say he’s my enemy?”
“Absolutely. You must.”
“Will he honor me?”
The friar snorted. “He’d much rather kill you.”
“Kill me?” I cried, coming to another halt. The thought had never occurred to me. “But why?”
“I’ve told you. There can’t be two kings. If you are the Earl of Warwick, the true king, Henry Tudor cannot be England’s king. Besides, as king, you will decree who the traitors are.”
“Would he truly . . . kill me?”
The friar nodded.
A shudder swept through me. “But . . . but then . . . what am I to do about him?”
“You need to kill him first.”
I stood there, astounded. “How could I ever do that?”
“You’ll send your army to fight him.”
My head was whirling “Army? What army?”
“The army the earl is gathering for you in Ireland.”
“He is?”
“An army of thousands.”
“What are . . . thousands?”
“As many people as live in Oxford.”
I looked at him with disbelief.
“That’s what it will take.”
“You are teasing me,” I said. “None of this is true.”
“More than true,” he answered. “Necessary. What’s more, you’re going to lead that army back to England, to oppose Henry.”
“I am?” I said, increasingly mazed. “Lead an army?”
“It must be done. Before Henry kills you.”
Thoroughly alarmed by such talk, I just stood there, studying the friar’s face to see if he was in earnest. He seemed to be.
It was great sport to be the Earl of Warwick . . . but killing . .
. being killed. That frightened me.
“Brother,” I said, “didn’t you once tell me that King Richard had decided that, if he died, the Earl of Lincoln, his nephew, should become king?”
“I may have.”
“But . . . King Richard did die.”
“Henry took the crown.”
“But when I use my army to kill Henry, I, not Lincoln, will be king. Is that right?”
Once again, the friar did not reply. All he said was, “We need to go home.”
I held him by his sleeve. “Brother, you never told me that being the Earl of Warwick meant a lot of killing.”
He said nothing, but walked on.
I came along, but now I was terrified. It was as if I were back in the time when Brother Simonds took me from Tackleys. No, not the same thing: greater fright. I would have to kill or be killed.
Alone in my room, I tried to make sense of all the things the friar told me were about to happen: going to Ireland, wherever that was. Being crowned king. I liked that. Leading an army, an army of thousands—whatever “thousands” meant—against King Henry. Surely, if Henry knew I had such a vast army, he would run away. Then I wouldn’t have to kill him. I prayed that would happen.
But what if Henry did not run away? What if he tried to kill me first?
I don’t think I had ever truly thought about what being killed meant. I tried, but I couldn’t. All I could do was shudder.
What if I couldn’t lead an army?
Would Lincoln really let me become king? Was he my friend or enemy? What did he really want from me?
What if people learned that Brother Simonds had taught me to be what I’d become? Would Lincoln still let me be king?
Too many questions!
I decided there was only one answer to everything: Be like a king more than ever before.
TWENTY-FIVE
A FEW DAYS later, the Earl of Lincoln, Viscount Lovell, Brother Simonds, and I left Oxford, setting forth for Ireland, where I was to be crowned. Once crowned I would gather my army, invade England, and kill King Henry.
I, Lambert Simnel.
No.
I, Edward, Earl of Warwick.
I kept thinking on the friar’s words: If you act like a king, you will be king.
Yes, I would be a king.
When we left Oxford, it was late harvest time. Tree leaves were brown, the air clear and sharp. Here and there, fingers of white frost etched the rutted road.
A troop of mounted soldiers accompanied us, some in front, and others behind, some to either side. The steady clink of harness and the rolling rumble of horses’ hooves on the hard mud road measured the time. The soldiers wore iron battle hats, called barbuts, which covered heads and ears, so only narrow faces showed. Over their chests were brigadines, jackets of linked metal plates with chain-mail sleeves. Having these men so close did much to ease my fright about King Henry trying to kill me.
They made me feel more king-like than ever.
Lincoln and Lovell, also mounted, were in bright and burnished partial armor, swords on their hips. By Lincoln’s flank, a soldier held up his battle pennant: the cross of Saint George with three rampant lions, in gold, blue, red, and white, stirring to behold.
In our train were several ox-pulled wagons, carrying the necessaries for our journey: food, clothing, armor, and tents. The oxen, however, obliged us to move at their slow pace.
I rode behind Lovell and Lincoln, Brother Simonds by my side. To my great joy, I was on a fine horse, a gift from Lovell. Having never ridden before, it took some learning and soreness, but I was told I sat bravely.
I wore a green padded tunic, red hose, and leather boots. High gloves, too. A round, soft hat made of Flanders felt. I had my own small sword on my hip. It made me feel powerful to have it.
Was there ever—I kept telling myself—a boy on such a glorious adventure? I am Edward, Earl of Warwick. These are my soldiers. I am powerful. I am the king to be. I repeated these things to myself over and over again. I wanted to believe them. I did believe them.
Even so, Brother Simonds’s cautions nipped at me, making me feel I wasn’t full master of my fortune. I blamed him for my worries, my doubts.
I turned to him, “How much longer will it be before we get to Dublin?”
“We need to reach Minehead village first. A hundred miles away. On the sea. Ships will be waiting there to take us to Dublin.”
“Will that take long?”
“The weather will decide.”
“You’ll come to Dublin with me to see me crowned, won’t you?”
“I pray so.”
“Aren’t you sure?”
“It depends on the earl’s wishes.”
“Not mine?” I asked, resenting his timidity toward Lincoln. When he didn’t reply, I said, “Brother, I thought I was your king.”
“You are, my lord. But as I’ve told you many times, it’s the Earl of Lincoln who protects us both.”
His words irked me. Was I not his lord? Lincoln was below me. The friar needed to act in response to my wishes, not the Earl of Lincoln’s. I felt I needed to find a way to make the friar acknowledge this. That led to another thought that increasingly worried me: What if Brother Simonds told people how I was when he found me? They might doubt that I was Edward. Treat me with disrespect. I wanted Tackley’s bellowed words—You’re a nobody! Nobody!—completely out of my head.
I was thinking about this when we passed some peasants with scythes in hand cutting the last stubble corn in the fields. As we went by, they stopped working, doffed their caps, and bowed. In return, I lifted a hand to acknowledge their respect.
As it happened, one of the peasants did not bow. Seeing this, Lincoln called out a command and a soldier went and struck the man so that he tumbled to the ground.
At first I felt sympathy for the peasant. Then I realized he had shown me disrespect and deserved his drubbing. Was I not the future king? Reverence was owed.
The incident reminded me of my wish to show Brother Simonds that I was his lord. I told myself, I must act like a king.
I saw my way. Urging my horse forward, I drew up beside Lincoln. Brother Simonds, as I knew he would, moved with me, staying close.
I called to him loud enough so the earl would hear. “Brother, how did you come to know so much about me?”
“I spent time at King Richard’s court, my lord. I saw you, the young Earl of Warwick, quite often.”
Though I knew this was not true, I held back my smile. Instead, I asked, “Brother, were we friends at that time?”
“Of course.”
“What happened?”
“Henry put you in the Tower,” said the friar. “And you were clever enough to disappear. Happily, I found you.”
“Do you remember what I was like when you found me in Oxford?”
The friar was scowling, clearly puzzled as to where my questions were tending—which, let it be said, amused me.
“Do you?” I pressed, enjoying my joke.
“I do, my lord.” He offered a false smile.
“Brother,” I went on, “you must never tell anyone what I was at that place. It was beneath my dignity. I don’t wish it ever to be known.”
As I had hoped, Lincoln heard the exchange. He looked around, curious to catch the friar’s reaction.
I pushed on. “Brother, do you recall that time I ran away?”
“I do.”
“You struck me. Do you remember that?”
Lincoln looked back sharply. The friar was no longer smiling. “For your own good, my lord,” he said softly, his face red with embarrassment.
I said, “You struck me just like we hit that peasant who would not bow to me.”
Brother Simonds looked at me with unease. Sensing his weakness and my strength, I went on with my mocking. “Am I not your master?” I asked.
“You are,” he said glumly.
“Brother, I command you never to tell people how you found me. Or how you hit me. I don’t w
ant people to think less of me.”
“May you grow to be ever more yourself, my lord,” said the friar. He let his horse slow down so as to fall back.
Enjoying the friar’s discomfort, I laughed and turned to Lincoln.
“Lincoln,” I said, “do you think Brother Simonds knows too much about me?”
“What do you mean, my lord?”
“Didn’t you just hear his answer about his time with me in Oxford? He was being disrespectful, was he not?”
Lincoln kept silent a moment, glanced at Lovell—who had not uttered a word—and said to me, “I shall speak to him.”
I let my horse drop back, the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves echoing my thoughts: I can tell people what they can and cannot do. I am England’s most powerful person. Ha! King Lambert the First!
It was hard to keep from laughing aloud. But that laughter would have been short-lived.
TWENTY-SIX
I FIRST SAW the village of Minehead from some high bluffs: a cluster of stone buildings under thatched roofs, a church with a square tower, and an inn. Most importantly, it lay close to the sea.
Never having seen the sea before, I was entranced. The blue-gray waters seemed to go on forever. Closer in, great waves rolled over brown sand. A stone path stuck out from the sand into the sea. Some small boats were tied to it. The air bore a salty smell while overhead, large gray birds circled, squawking incessantly. I told myself they were welcoming me.
Offshore were two large floating things. Not sure what they were, I was reminded of floating pin-pillows. These were high in back and front, with one big pole in a scooped middle section, and other sharp poles poking from all angles.
Brother Simonds pointed to them. “Those are the ships,” he said, “which will take you to Ireland and your coronation.”
“Ships!” I cried with delight. “Can they cross the sea?”
“They will.”
“You don’t seem happy,” I teased him.
“You complained to Lincoln about me.”
“You said he was your lord, Brother, not me. You helped me recall I was the Earl of Warwick. Have I not learned well?” I laughed at the friar, amused to see him feel rebuked.