The Red Rose of Anjou (22 page)

Meanwhile Jack continued his journey. He would make for the coast. Perhaps it would be wise to leave the country. There were not so many ships leaving for France now. The war was petering out in defeat for the English. But he could probably get across on some pretext. He had absolute faith in himself There would be no mercy for him if he were caught. They would discover that he was the murderer of the serving girl at Dacre. Not that that would be so serious a crime as leading a rebellion and executing important men like Lord Say and Crowmer.

His situation was indeed desperate. He was afraid to present himself at the inns now. He knew they were looking for him. Too many people would be after that thousand marks reward.

He skirted Heathfield in Sussex. He did not want to go right into the town. That could be too dangerous now. He came to a large garden, part of a big estate. It was quiet and peaceful there. There was an extensive orchard where he could make a comfortable bed and be off at dawn.

As he was settling down to sleep he thought he heard a rustle among the trees, a footstep on the grass. A stone rattled as though someone had dislodged it when walking. He had become very sensitive to such sounds.

He started up.

Someone was there. The figure of a man loomed up among the trees.

Cade was on his feet in an instant.

‘What are you doing here?’ asked the man.

‘No harm,’ replied Jack. ‘Just seeking somewhere to spend the night.’

‘This is a private orchard.’

‘I’m sorry, my lord, if I’ve trespassed. It was just a place for a poor man to lay his head till morning. I meant no harm.’

‘You have done great harm, Jack Cade,’ said the man, ‘and I have come to take you to justice.’

Jack sprang on Alexander Iden and they fought desperately for a few moments. Jack was strong but Alexander was armed. Jack lay on the ground groaning and Alexander leaned over him. ‘It is no use,’ he said. ‘It is over for you. Jack Cade.’

He lifted Jack onto his horse and took him back to Heath-field.

While he acquired a cart in which he placed him. Jack was only half-conscious but he did know he was captured.

Alexander Iden explained to the astonished innkeeper who supplied the cart and horses: ‘This is Jack Cade and I am taking him to London.’

‘Poor fellow,’ said the innkeeper, ‘rogue though he was. I wouldn’t be in his shoes.’

‘He won’t be in them much longer.’

‘Nay, it will be the end for him. Why can’t folks stay quiet in the station to which they’ve been called?’

Alexander did not answer that. He wanted to get to London as fast as possible.

Jack lay in the cart. He scarcely felt the jolting. Now and then he would come back to consciousness, and remember.

It was all over then. It was finished. He was finished.

Not that, he thought. Anything but that.

He was lucky. He died on the way to London.

Alexander took him to the White Hart Inn in Southwark where he had stayed.

‘That’s him all right,’ said the hostess. ‘No doubt of that. That’s Jack Cade. I’d know him anywhere.’

He was taken to the King’s Bench prison until it was decided what should be done.

Then they took him out and cut off his head. His body was cut into quarters and that all might witness what happened to those who thought it a good idea to rebel against the King, it was placed on a hurdle and trundled through the streets with his head resting between his breasts. From the King’s Bench to Southwark and over London Bridge to Newgate...the scene of his brief glory.

The parts of his body were displayed in prominent places in Blackheath, Gloucester, Salisbury and Norwich.

That is the end of Jack Cade’s Rebellion, said the people. But it was not exactly so.

In calling himself Mortimer he had implicated the Duke of York; who was too important and too ambitious a man to let it be thought that he had been associated with an adventurer like Jack Cade.

IN THE TEMPLE GARDENS

From Dublin Castle Richard Duke of York was watching events in England with great attention. As soon as any messages arrived he scoured their contents for news of the rebellion.

This Jack Cade – impudently calling himself Mortimer – had risen. With what purpose? He asked Cicely, his clever and most forceful wife.

Because, was the answer, the country was ripe for rebellion. The King was no King. He was tolerated because rumour had endowed him with certain saintliness. His great delight was in building colleges and attending churches. Laudable in a priest but hardly suitable for a king.

‘Sometimes I think Fate likes to play a joke on us. It selects the most unlikely man to wear the crown when…’

“When there are those with as much right…some would say more…to wear it,’ finished Cecily who did not believe in diplomacy.

Her husband, this great Duke of York, had far more right to the crown than Henry of Lancaster and what a King he would make!

‘Henry is heading for disaster,’ went on the Duke.

‘Greatly aided by that little virago from Anjou.’

‘And my lord Somerset.’

‘Do you think the rumours about him and the Queen are true?’

‘I know not, my love, but it serves the lady right that they are circulated against her. She is too affectionate to her friends and too vindictive to those whom she dislikes.’

‘I fear we fit into the second category,’ said Cecily.

‘Rather rejoice in it. The day will come...’

‘It may well,’ answered Cecily. ‘It is a pity that they banished you to this God-forsaken place.’

‘Knowing, of course, that we shall never have peace with the Irish. The Irish are a versatile people. They love many things but what they love beyond everything is discord. They are born with the desire to fight. You can see it in the babies even.’

‘I always thought it would be a good plan to leave them to fight among themselves.’

‘That, my love, is what I am considering doing.’

She waited. Richard always talked to her of his plans and listened to her advice. He appreciated her. She had earned the nickname of Proud Cis and she definitely deserved it. She was no brainless female fit only for the bearing of children— although she was quite good at that too. She came of a fruitful family. She was one of the Nevilles and her mother had been Joan Beaufort, daughter of John of Gaunt and Catherine Swynford. So she was royal—for the Beauforts had been legitimized and she could not forget it. Her mother had borne ten children of whom she was the youngest; and before he had married her mother her father had sired eight children on his first wife, the daughter of the Earl of Stafford.

We have reason to be ambitious, thought Cecily. Our children have royal blood from both parents.

Richard was steeped in royalty. He was descended from Edward the Third by both parents. His father had been the second son of Edmund of Langley who had been Edward the Third’s fifth son; and his mother was a daughter of Roger Mortimer, a grandson of Lionel Duke of Clarence, second son of Edward the Third, Lionel’s daughter Philippa having married Edmund Mortimer the third Earl of March. Lionel had been older than John of Gaunt so if Henry the Fourth had not usurped the throne from Richard the Second, Richard Duke of York would certainly have come before the present King.

It was a fact to be proud of It was something they would never forget and since this affair of Jack Cade, Richard had been thinking a great deal about it.

Clearly the people of England were not satisfied with their King and consequently the Duke of York was feared in some circles which was why he had been sent to Ireland. And what was more clear than anything was that the time might be getting ripe when something could be done about ridding the country of an incompetent ruler and replacing him by someone who could rule well and in any case had more right to.

Cecily followed his thoughts.

Richard went on: ‘It would be advisable for me to return to England to clear myself of this suspicion which Jack Cade has aroused against me.’

‘The rogue! To dare to call himself a Mortimer.’

‘Rogue indeed but a shrewd one. The name of Mortimer would bring many to his banner.’

‘Because they would think that you were behind the rising.’

‘It might well be. So you see, my dear, I must go home to face my accusers.’

Cecily nodded sagely.

‘I am of the opinion, my lady, that that will not inconvenience you greatly.’

‘I shall welcome it. I long to see the shores of England once more. It will be good for George. Poor little mite. He has never seen his native land.’

‘I doubt he will notice where he is.’

‘Even babies would detest this country.’

‘Then I am to take it that you will rejoice to return to England.’

You may indeed.’

‘There might be difficulties . . .’

‘You mean the King will be suspicious of you. Poor fool. Has he the wits to be suspicious of anyone?’

‘Don’t underrate him. He is simply not fitted to be a King. He is quite a scholar, I believe. He loves his books.’

‘Books don’t hold kingdoms together,’ said Cecily scornfully. Then she added: ‘I look forward to .seeing the children.’

They had a full nursery. There was Anne aged eleven, Edward aged eight, Edmund seven, Elizabeth six, Margaret four, and little George who had been born in Ireland. A pleasant family and what one would expect of a daughter of a very fruitful mother. There had been sorrows in the family. Three little boys Henry, William and John, had not survived their infancy. But they had three left to them which was comforting for it was good to have boys. The joy of Cecily’s life was Edward—her eldest boy since the death of little Henry; and Edward seemed to be growing into a true Plantagenet. He was going to be very tall; there were signs of that already. He had the strong blond looks of his ancestors. He was remarkably like Edward the First; and that was a good sign. He was lively, demanding his own way, excelling at outdoor exercises and charming all the servants. A worthy successor to his father—and who knows, wondered ambitious Cecily, what his father would have to leave him when the time came.

Richard nodded. He too was eager for a sight of the children. ‘So,’ said Cecily, ‘we are to return to England.’ ‘How soon can you be ready?’ asked the Duke. ‘I can be ready as soon as you give the order to leave.’ They laughed together. He could read the exhilaration in her eyes; she could see the dreams in his. Who knew, they might be going home to fight for the crown.

###

Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset was riding through the streets of London towards the palace of Westminster. He was the most unpopular man in England and he was on his way to see the most unpopular woman. He hated the mob. Unthinking idiots, he grumbled to himself. They judged a man by his victories and his defeats. It never occurred to them to consider extraneous circumstances. How could any general succeed in France at this time? Everything was against him. Charles of France—that weak and ineffectual Dauphin—had suddenly shaken himself out of his torpor and was roaring like a lion. The English had lost heart since Joan of Arc had appeared to tell them that Heaven was on the side of the French. It was all hopeless. Somerset wanted to shake the dust of France off his feet for ever.

He had returned not exactly in disgrace but somewhere near it. He had been obliged to relinquish Rouen and that was tantamount to losing Normandy. He was blamed for the disasters of the last few years. Bedford was dead; Gloucester was dead...though Gloucester had not helped them to success...but now people were talking of him as though he were a martyr. They believed he had been murdered and they accused Margaret of having a hand in that.

Margaret it seemed was his one friend, an important one it was true for Henry relied on her completely and he obeyed her wishes in every respect. So if he had only one friend yet she did happen to be the most powerful in the Kingdom.

It will blow over, he thought, unless of course this rumour about York is true.

Margaret was delighted when she heard he had come. Somerset was a true friend as the Suffolks had been. She was sad thinking of Suffolk, that dear man who had come to France and brought her to England and had been so kind to her. And Alice too...poor broken-hearted Alice. It infuriated Margaret to think of the dastardly way they had murdered Suffolk. She could grow white with anger at the thought and could only be appeased by telling herself what she would do to those who had murdered her dear friend if ever she got the chance.

Henry was so mild of course. She had had great difficulty in persuading him to allow harsh sentences to be passed on those who had been caught taking part in the Jack Cade rebellion. It was true they had been given pardons. That was the rabble, the mob, who followed blindly. It was the leaders who had to be severely punished. She was sorry Jack Cade had not been brought before his judges alive. Henry shuddered at the thought of bloodshed. He really was becoming more and more aloof from life. He wanted to be alone with his books and the time he spent on his knees made her wonder whether his brain was softening. There was one virtue in all this, it did give her a free hand. He rarely questioned anything she did but when it came to punishment he did raise a feeble voice and utter the only oath he used, which was ‘By St. John’ and if he were greatly put out he would mutter ‘Forsooth and forsooth’.

Henry lived like a recluse and a very pious one at that. He did not dress like a King but like a townsman with a round cape and a long cloak of drab colour; he refused to wear the fashionable long pointed shoes and wore the round ones which countrymen wore. When he had to be attired for State occasions he wore a hair shirt under the glittering robes. Margaret herself loved to be arrayed in splendid garments. Of course she did. Had she not suffered poverty all her life before she came to England and was she not the Queen? Moreover she was beautiful and naturally she wanted to make the most of her charms.

Henry wanted nothing for himself but he gave freely to others. He never wanted to punish evil doers—even robbers and such malefactors. He found excuses for them. It was very benevolent but it did nothing to deter the criminals. The fact was that he was a good man; he would have been at home in a monastery and it was a pity fate had set him on a throne.