Stormbird

Epilogue

London could be beautiful in the spring. The sun made the sluggish river sparkle and there were fresh goods in all the markets. There were still some who came to see where Cade’s axe had marked the London Stone, but even that scar was fading with time and the rub of hands.

At the Palace of Westminster, lords arrived from across the country, travelling by coach or horse, or ferried up the river in oared barges. They came alone or in crowds, bustling through the corridors and meeting rooms. Speaker Tresham had been sent by Parliament to greet the Duke of York as he returned from Ireland, but whatever the man had intended had been forgotten when the Speaker was killed in the road, apparently mistaken for a brigand. York’s personal chamberlain, Sir William Oldhall, now held that vital post. It was he who had set the venue for his master’s return and sent out the formal requests for attendance. Thirty-two out of fifty-five noble houses were represented in the London gathering, barely enough for the task ahead.

As the clock tower bell was rung for noon, Oldhall looked across at the gathered lords, separated from each other by a wide aisle. Sunlight shone through the high windows of the White Chamber, revealing velvets and silks, a mass of bright colours. York was not yet present and he could hardly begin without him. Oldhall wiped perspiration from his forehead, looking to the door.

Richard of York walked calmly through the corridors leading to the White Chamber. He had a dozen men with him, all dressed in the livery of his house and marked with either the white rose of York or his personal symbol of a falcon with outstretched talons. He did not expect to be threatened in the royal palace, but neither would he come into the stronghold of his enemies without good swordsmen at his side. He heard the clock bell ring for noon and increased his pace, knowing his noble peers would be waiting for him. His servants matched him, checking every side corridor and chamber they passed for the first hint of trouble. The rooms were all deserted and York rounded the last corner at speed.

He drew to a sudden halt as he sighted a group standing close by the door he would take into the echoing chamber beyond. York could hear the mutter of conversation inside, but he had eyes only for the young woman who stood at the centre of her pages and stewards, glaring at him as if she could set him on fire with just the force of her dislike. He hesitated only for a heartbeat before he put his right leg forward and bowed deeply, his men dipping with him for the queen of England.

‘Your Royal Highness,’ he said, as he rose. On impulse, York stepped forward alone, raising an open palm to his men so that they would not be seen to threaten Margaret. ‘I did not expect to see you here today …’

His gaze dropped as he spoke, unable to avoid staring at the bulge of her dress. His mouth tightened as he saw her pregnancy for the first time. When he looked up, he saw she was watching his reaction.

‘My lord York, did you think I would not come?’ she said, her voice low and firm. ‘Today, of all days, when such great matters are to be decided?’

It was an effort for York not to show his triumph, but he knew it was unnecessary.

‘Your Highness, has there been a change in the king’s condition? Has he risen? I will give thanks in every church on my lands if it is so.’

Margaret’s lips thinned. For five months, her husband had been utterly senseless, almost drowned each day just to force enough broth into his stomach to keep him alive. He could not speak or react even to pain. Her child and his still grew within her until she felt she could not stand another day of the heaviness and discomfort. The triumph of the great hunt at Windsor seemed a lifetime away and now there was her enemy, the enemy of her house and line, home from Ireland once more. The whole country was talking of York’s return and what it meant for England and the broken king.

Margaret’s hands were swollen, made painful by the pregnancy. They still twitched as she wished that just once she might have the strength of a man, to reach out and crush another man’s throat. The duke stood tall before her, his amusement showing clearly in his eyes. She had wanted him to see her gravid state, to know that at least there would be an heir. She had wanted to look into his eyes as he betrayed his king, but it was all ashes at that moment and she wished she had not come.

‘King Henry improves by the day, Lord York. I do not doubt he will take up the reins of government once again.’

‘Of course, of course,’ York replied. ‘We all pray that it is so. Now I am honoured that you came to meet me, my lady. Yet I am called. If you will permit, I should go in to witness the vote.’

He bowed again before Margaret could reply. She watched him sweep into the White Chamber, wilting as the will to face him faded. Yet his men still observed her from under lowered brows and she raised her head, leading her entourage away. She knew what they intended, those lords who spoke so often of the need for strong rule, while her husband struggled and choked in his waking sleep.

As York entered, Oldhall puffed out his cheeks, desperately relieved to see his patron the duke both safe and present. As York took his seat on the ancient oak benches, Oldhall rose to speak, clearing his throat.

‘My lords, if you would come to order,’ Oldhall called across their heads. He stood at a lectern in front of a gilded chair, raised above the benches so he could address them all. The noise fell away.

‘My lords, it is my honour to give thanks for your presence today. I ask that you bow your heads in prayer.’

Every man there either dipped his head or knelt on the floor at his seat.

‘Lord, the God of righteousness and truth, grant to the king and to his lords the guidance of your spirit. May they never lead the nation on the wrong path, through love of power, or desire to please, but lay aside all private interests and keep in mind their responsibility to mankind and to the king, so may your kingdom come and your name be hallowed. The Grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God and the Fellowship of the Holy Ghost be with us all. Amen.’

The last word was echoed by those present. They sat back, knowing every detail of what was to come, but still attentive and alert. The gathering was simply the last part of months of negotiation and argument. The result was already set in stone, for all it had to be enacted.

‘King Henry’s state has remained unchanged for five months, my lords,’ Oldhall went on, his voice trembling with tension. ‘He cannot be roused and, in his illness, the king lacks the sense and capacity to rule. Therefore, for the good of the kingdom, I propose one amongst us be recognized as Protector and Defender of the Realm, to be arbiter and final authority until such time as King Henry recovers, or the succession is established elsewhere.’

Oldhall swallowed nervously as he saw Lord York’s mouth twitch. The queen’s pregnancy was the only barb to prick his pleasure that day. The deals and alliances had all been made. It was done, the necessary result of her husband’s blank stares and inability to speak. Oldhall cleared his throat to go on, his hands shaking so much that he gripped the lectern to hold them still.

‘Before we proceed to a vote on this matter, who among you will offer himself as Protector and Defender to the kingdom for the period of the king’s illness?’

All eyes turned to York, who rose slowly from his seat.

‘With great reluctance, I offer my service to my lords and my king.’

‘Is there another?’ Oldhall asked. He made a show of looking, though he knew no one else would stand. Those earls and dukes who were still staunch in their support for King Henry were not present on the benches. Somerset was missing, as were the king’s half-brothers, Edmund and Jasper Tudor. Oldhall nodded, satisfied.

‘My lords, I call a vote. Please rise and pass to the division lobbies.’

The two narrow rooms lay on either side of the White Chamber. To a man, the lords rose from their benches and walked into ‘Content’, leaving the ‘Discontent’ room empty. York was the only one of their number who remained in place, a small smile playing at the edges of his mouth. Clerks took the names, but it was a mere formality. When they returned, the mood was lighter and York was smiling and accepting congratulations from Warwick, Salisbury and the rest of his supporters.

Oldhall waited for them to settle once again before he delivered the judgment.

‘Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York, it is the will of the Lords Temporal and Spiritual that you be appointed Protector and Defender of the Realm. Do you accept the appointment?’

‘I do,’ York replied.

A cheer rose from the benches on either side of him and Oldhall sat back in relief, wiping his forehead. They’d done it. From that moment, York was king in all but name. Richard of York inclined his head to his peers. He stood tall among the assembly of noblemen, his pride showing clearly.