The Sun in Splendour - Plaidy Jean (электронную книгу бесплатно без регистрации .txt) 📗

At Baynard's Castle the Duchess of York was in residence. When she saw her son the tears streamed down her cheeks and she fell upon him kissing his face and his hands. There was little sign of Proud Cis at that moment.

'My dearest boy,' she called him, forgetting the dignity owed to the King even though dignity was something she had always been so insistent on. 'Oh a thousand welcomes. . . . This is the happiest day of my life. You are here with us . . . and the people want you. . . .'

He let her talk. Then he kissed her tenderly and said: 'Elizabeth and the children have come to stay here. I shall leave them in your care.'

For a few seconds the two women looked at each other. Proud Cis who could not like her son's marriage to this commoner and Elizabeth Woodville who knew that Edward's mother would have done everything possible to stop the marriage.

The Duchess's eyes softened. Elizabeth Woodville was an exceptionally beautiful woman and she could not but be moved to see her standing there beside her own handsome Edward. Surely a more good-looking pair could not be found in the whole of England.

And Elizabeth had done her duty. Edward still wanted to keep her after all these years so there must be something special about her. And she had produced those lovely children—and now a Prince of Wales.

The Duchess went forward. She could not expect a Queen to kneel to her, but she held out her hand and Elizabeth took it.

'Welcome to Baynards, my dear,' she said. 'It makes me happy

to have you here . . . you and my grandchildren.'

Edward put an arm round her and the Queen; he held them tightly against him.

Thank God you are back/ said the Duchess.

'Yes, I am back. But there is work to do. I shall not stay here long now. But at least I shall know that you are together. Look after each other, my dear loved ones.'

Edward stayed at Baynard's Castle tor a day and a night. Then taking Henry with him, he rode out to Barnet.

*

RICHARD'S WOOING

So Warwick was dead. Killed in battle and against the one whom he had taught to command armies. Edward was sad.

He should be rejoicing, of course. Warwick was his enemy. . . . No, he could never accept him as such. They were fighting against each other but it never should have been. He should have talked to me. We should have reasoned together, thought Edward. It was either him or Elizabeth for it was my marriage that turned him from me. He was never the same after that. The sore had been opened and it had continued to fester although Warwick had pretended that it had healed. Warwick wanted to be supreme. He was supreme in his way. He had learned so much in a life dedicated to the getting of power. It was power Warwick had wanted. Not a crown as so many men did. But power. He wanted to be the one who set up kings and brought them down. He had been, for that was exactly what he had done.

But no more, my one-time friend and erstwhile enemy. No more.

It was foolish of him to feel thus. He should be rejoicing. He must tell no one of his true feelings . . . not even Elizabeth. Certainly not Elizabeth. She would think him soft and foolish. He was not soft. None could be more ruthless when the occasion demanded, but Warwick . . . Warwick had been his friend, his ideal, his god. He could not stop thinking of the early days when he had been a young boy. He listened to Warwick; he tried to be like Warwick. He was Warwick's. That was why Warwick had made him King.

But boys grow up. They have wills of their own. They change, Warwick. You hated the Woodvilles but the Woodvilles are

Elizabeth's family, Warwick; it is natural that she should wish to advance them. You saw them becoming more powerful than the Nevilles ... so you turned against me who had made them so.

And now it has come to this. Dead. . . . No more to harass me as once you helped me. Dead, dear friend and enemy.

He went to see the dead body. It was harrowing. Once so proud, once invincible . . . but we are all vulnerable. There comes a time in our lives when death beckons and kings and even kingmakers must obey.

His body would have to be on show for a while so that there should be no rumours that he still lived. He would have his enemies but legends and in particular living legends were always the hardest to overcome.

He looked so vulnerable stripped of his fine armour. Soldiers had robbed him of it. His own guards had found them engaged in that when they rode up to save his life, for Edward had been eager to save him. He would have forgiven him, as he had forgiven Clarence, and he believed that they could have been friends again.

But they had come too late. He was already dead, and there was nothing that could be done but take the corpse to St Paul's Cathedral and there let it lie for those two days that all who wished might assure themselves that Warwick was dead.

'Let him be buried with all honour and respect with his parents and brother Thomas in Bisham Abbey,' said Edward.

So all knew that the great Kingmaker had died in deadly combat with the man whom he had made King.

It was the passing of an era.

So he was back in London with Elizabeth and his family—the triumphant victor. He had brought Henry with him and had now installed him in the Wakefield Tower. Poor trusting Henry who seemed happy to be back within those constricting walls. Edward had felt a little shamefaced when poor Henry had expressed his trust in him. Henry was an encumbrance but to have him removed would make him an even greater threat. Moreover there was still the young Prince Edward. If Henry were gone people would only transfer their loyalty to him. While those two lived Edward would always have to be watchful.

But in the meantime victory. Warwick was dead and although he could not rejoice whole-heartedly none could doubt this was in his favour.

He savoured those few days in Baynard's Castle with Elizabeth. He was glad of her coolness and the irresistible urge to break it down was possibly what had kept his passion so alive. He might go with others but he would always return to her. She was unique. Moreover she was the mother of the royal children. Sometimes he had uneasy thoughts of Eleanor Butler and that ceremony through which he had gone. But Eleanor was dead now and that was all in the past. But he had discovered that she had been alive at the time of that secret ceremony at Grafton. And if that ceremony were binding then what of Elizabeth and the children?

Oh it was long since forgotten and if anyone started to probe into that woe betide them.

So he put it out of his mind and savoured these few days of respite for it was pleasant to be shut in with this happy family atmosphere even if it were only temporary. Elizabeth had quickly filled the nursery with people whom she considered necessary to the Prince's rank. There was a widow named Avice Wells who was nurse to the Prince; and there was Elizabeth Darcy who was mistress of the little Prince's nursery. That was not enough and Elizabeth persuaded Edward that their little son should have a chamberlain.

That had amused Edward.

'At his age, my dear. Why should a baby not a year old need a chamberlain?'

'To carry him in ceremonies ... for the people must get to know their Prince. And they must be aware at once, Edward, of the importance of the Prince.'

So to please her he had appointed one of his own best ser ants, Thomas Vaughan, to attend the Prince at all times.

Young Edward lay contentedly in his cradle unaware of all the fuss that was going on around him.

Into this happy domestic scene the news burst. Edward had been waiting for it and now that it had come immediate action was imperative.

Margaret of Anjou and her son Edward, calling himself Prince of Wales, had landed at Weymouth.