The Red Rose of Anjou - Plaidy Jean (книги онлайн полные версии бесплатно .TXT) 📗
Edward was scarcely puppet material. A strong man he would be, with a will of his own—and all the better for that. Warwick wanted to set his mind working in the right direction.
There was promise in the air. Every little circumstance must be made use of; and if the debacle at Ludlow had helped him to know a little more of the Duke of York and incline him slightly away from him, so much the better.
He would not so much support York as the reform of Parliament. One thing was certain, Henry needed guidance; the Queen’s rule—and that was really what the country was getting—was disastrous. Margaret would never understand the English people, she had no notion that if she was going to rule she must have their consent to do so. She must have their respect and approval. They might be subjects but they were of a nature to choose their ruler. If they did not like the one providence had given them, they would change him. They had done so before and they would do so again.
And if the Duke of York did not quite fit into Warwick’s conception of what a King should be, the Earl of March—with Warwick behind him—did.
As Warwick pointed out to Edward, timing was important. It was the most important thing of all. One week could mean success, a week later defeat. They had been routed; they had fled to Calais, but look how fortune was beginning to smile on them.
Their adherents were increasing every day. The great Duke of Burgundy was smiling on them. He did not mind that there were raids on the French King’s ships. As long as Warwick did no harm to Burgundy he could do what he liked to France. Burgundy saw in Warwick a kindred spirit. He was amused by the manner in which the Earl, by holding the port of Calais, was dominating the seas.
‘We must strike soon,’ Warwick told Edward. ‘The moment is becoming ripe. We should not delay too long for as I told you everything can change between one sunrise and sunset. You see, we have news from Kent as to how Somerset is fitting out ships in Sandwich to come against us, for I have my friends in Kent who keep me informed of every move. If we went to Sandwich we could take the town easily. My friends of Kent would rally to the banner of the Ragged Staff.’
It was amusing and added to Warwick’s prestige when one January night news came that Somerset was ready to sail. Warwick lost no time. He sent out a fleet of his own led by Sir John Wenlock and John Dynham to take them by surprise. This they did, capturing all the ships which were in port and at the same time landing in the town and arresting Lord Rivers and Sir Anthony Woodville in their beds. What was so gratifying was that the townsfolk rallied to help Warwick—which, said he, was the best sign of all.
When they arrived in Calais, Lord Rivers and Anthony Woodville were imprisoned.
‘It is only necessary to execute men who can be dangerous to you,’ he explained to Edward. ‘To kill these two would bring us nothing but the animosity of their families. They are too weak to harm us. It is well to let them live. And if they escape to serve the Queen again, that matters little. They do more harm than good to her cause.’
There was perpetual activity at Calais. By night the ships brought stores and ammunition into the harbour from England. Warwick heard with delight that the men of Kent were waiting to flock to his banner when he came. The government in England was proving itself to be incompetent; the Queen was imposing her will on her chosen ministers and she did not understand the English and every day she earned their dislike a little more.
‘The time has come,’ said Warwick, ‘to consult with your father. We must go to Ireland. There are matters to be discussed which cannot be done by messengers.’
‘The English fleet will never let us get there,’ said Edward.
‘That is not the way I expect to hear you talk, my lord. We are going to get there despite any fleet that any country could put on the sea.’
Edward said that of course they would. He just thought that
Exeter and Somerset would put everything they had into stopping them.
They set out for Ireland and reached that country without mishap. The Duke had established himself in Ireland. He was a born administrator and just as the English had profited from his rule, so had the Irish. They recognized this and showed their appreciation by allowing him to rule in peace.
But the Duke’s heart was in England. He wanted news of Cecily and the younger children. He said he and Rutland were eager to go home, and he was delighted to see Edward growing into such a fine specimen of manhood and was sure he could have no better tutor than Warwick.
For eight weeks, they discussed the situation; they made plans, exchanged ideas and decided on their strategy. Warwick then thought that it was time he returned to Calais where he would make his final preparations.
Edward took a fond farewell of his father and prepared to leave with Warwick.
‘It won’t be long now,’ said the Duke. ‘We shall all be together soon.’
Edward glowed with the anticipation of seeing his father King of England. How proud his mother would be. She could play the Queen in earnest then. He would be the heir to the throne and that was a dazzling prospect. Rutland and young George and Richard would be princes. They would be greatly excited by that.
In the meantime the kingdom had to be won. They had to drive that virago of Anjou back to her native country. They had to make poor old Henry see that he was unfit to wear the crown.
It was Edward who first sighted Exeter’s fleet off the coast of Devon. There would be a mighty battle now and Warwick was not equipped for a fight, but there was no help for it.
‘This day,’ cried Warwick, ‘we shall show our true mettle. Here we are a small force and before us lies the might of Exeter’s fleet. We’ll not flinch. We fight for the right and always remember that I have not been beaten yet and one of us is worth ten of them. That makes the numbers right. But we have valour and ingenuity which is unknown to them. Come, my lads, serve me well and I promise you victory.’
It was like a miracle. Exeter was turning away. He was not going to fight. Warwick laughed aloud. He guessed what had happened.
The seamen doubtless came from Kent or the south-east.
Warwick was their idol. They would refuse to fight against him. Not only from affection and admiration but because they believed he had some divine quality and to fight against that was like pitting mortal strength against the gods.
Laughing with glee Warwick came safely into Calais.
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During the feverish preparations at Calais Francesco dei Coppini arrived in the town.
He was an Italian Bishop who had been ostensibly sent to England on command of the new Pope Pius II but was in fact a secret agent for the Duke of Milan. His mission was said to be to raise money to fight the Turks. He had believed that as this would be a kind of crusade against the infidel it would find favour with the King of England.
However, discovering that one of his aims was political and in some measure aimed against France, Margaret would not receive him; moreover she prevented his seeing Henry.
Warwick, who knew what had happened, decided that since Coppini had been snubbed by Margaret it would be a good idea to cultivate him, to make much of him and thus give his own campaign a religious flavour, as though it had been approved by the Pope.
Warwick was a little impatient with the pious talk of his guest but he assured him that he had no intention of displacing Henry; all he wanted to do was reform the government, to dismiss those men who were ruining the country, and curb the activities of the Queen. When Coppini saw the fleet Warwick had amassed and listened to his eloquence he was sure that the expedition would be successful and as Margaret had not been friendly to him, he would give the enterprise his blessing and even sail with it. So he was there when, in the pelting summer rain, Warwick landed at Sandwich, where he was greeted like a king; within a short time he was marching on to Canterbury where he paused only to pay homage and ask the blessing at the tomb of St. Thomas a Becket.
