February 1461:
Following the death of the Duke of York at the battle of Wakefield, the
Lancastrians under Queen Marguerite of Anjou are bearing down on the capital. The
duke’s wife, Duchess Cecily, has arranged to send their youngest sons,
eight-year-old Richard and eleven-year-old George, to safety in the Low
Counties. In this scene Richard and George are compelled to flee their home,
Baynard’s Castle, travelling alone, but for a trusted family servant, towards
an unknowable future.
A rowboat waits at the landing, dipping and bobbing as they climb
aboard. Richard sinks onto the roughhewn plank that passes for a seat and longs
for the silken cushions of their mother’s barge.
Skelton, settling beside them, struggles to arrange his gangling
legs in so cramped a space. ‘All well, boy?’
‘Well enough,’ George says. ‘I’m taking care of him.’
It’s strange to be on the river after dark. And cold; waves
slapping the gunwale, black and slick, like devils’ tongues. At the prow,
tallow flickers inside a battered lanthorn, a new cascade of tumbling
snowflakes dancing in its glow.
Grim-visaged, the boatman wastes no time. Gripping the oars, he
eases them from the jetty in a sickly, slopping rhythm.
‘Be still, lads,’ Skelton warns. ‘No squirming about.’
George endorses the command with a sharp prod, while their guardian
engages the boatman in muted conversation. Determined to calm himself, Richard stares
at the inky water, but the retreating presence of Baynard’s burns the back of
his skull like a brand. To allow their home to disappear in such a way, unseen
and unacknowledged, may be to lose it forever. He must take another look: to
keep things right, to keep things safe.
Twisting, he peers towards the landing where castle guards flex
their legs and breathe white plumes into the frosty air. Torchbearers emerge
through the open gate, and in their wake two black smudges which blend and
part, before finally retreating inside. Mother and Margaret, he thinks, resolved
upon a final glance. All at once he feels hollow, as if the very life has been
sucked out of him. Too soon, the castle buildings are lost from view, and he
settles with a sigh on the unforgiving plank.
‘Sit still, Dickon. Has Master Skelton not instructed us?’ George
delivers another prod then turns away, blinking hard.
Perhaps, Richard thinks, I should consider this an adventure;
something I will be able to boast about, in time. But he can’t, he feels
exposed on the water, unsafe, as if the whole world may know who they are, and
where they’re headed. Retreating into his hood, he marvels at the vastness of
the sky. The heavens look so infinite, and the boat a tiny, helpless thing
nodding worriedly on the swell. He shivers as snowflakes brush his upturned
cheeks. If it’s this cold on the river, how shall it be upon the German Ocean?
Nearing Paul’s Wharf, the bells of Saint Peter the Less are clanging
for Vespers: a solemn sound, like a passing bell. Perhaps it tolls for them;
sailing into a wilderness that is dark, cold, and forbidding, with no beginning
and no end. A gust of wind rips the
water and the boat tilts. George makes a grab for his thigh, as if he fears his
brother may be catapulted overboard.
Skelton eyes them both. ‘Not too long now, my lords.’
He’s told them they are bound for Queenhithe, where they will board
their cousin’s ship. From there they’ll sail down the Thames and cross the
German Ocean to the Low Countries. Queen-hithe: Richard shudders at the word.
What if she knows? What if her men are lying in wait?
‘George?’
‘What is it?’
He leans close. ‘What if Marguerite knows we’re leaving? What if
she sends her men ahead to kill us aboard ship, and drop our bodies into the
sea?’
Snatching the hood from his brother’s head, George hisses in his
ear. ‘And how could the queen’s men board our cousin’s carrack? They’d be cut
down before they even set foot on deck.’
But Richard cannot banish the thought. They could be heading into a
trap, just like their father. George doesn’t seem to have considered that.
‘What if there’s a traitor amongst our cousin’s men?’
‘Quiet, will you?’
He eyes the boatman’s meaty fists. For all they know he could be
the queen’s man; could have fooled Skelton, and Cousin Warwick, too; could be
luring them into the hands of the enemy. He inches closer to George: ‘We can
swim. We could jump overboard and swim for the shore.’
‘Shut up, and don’t be such an imbecile.’
He does as he’s bid, blowing on his hands and marking the smack of
the oars. At length, pricks of light pierce the darkness. Boats with lanthorns:
two, three, heading towards them. Richard stiffens. The queen’s men, here
already. He was right. He’s been right all along, and George didn’t believe
him. ‘Brother…'
Eying the craft, George appears undaunted, while Skelton pays them
no heed whatever. As the vessels draw near, Richard sees they are but regular
traffic; rowboats like theirs, and wherries, sailing upriver to Westminster.
His shoulders droop in silent relief.
‘All well, Dickon?’ George, suddenly attentive, replaces Richard’s fallen
hood, tucking it snugly under his chin. ‘We’ve a long voyage ahead of us. We’ll
be sailing with our cousin’s men and mustn’t let them think us afraid.’
Richard concurs, then asks: ‘Are carracks great ships?’
‘Of course. The earl was right not to set us aboard the Trinity
or the Grace Dieu, we would have been a floating target. The Anne
will serve us well enough.’
‘But how shall a great ship sail under the Bridge?’
‘Easy. The captain will have the drawbridge raised, and we shall
simply sail through.’ Instead of berating him for a fool, George grins. ‘We’re
safe in our cousin’s care, brother.’
Cousin Warwick: Richard visualises the earl - solid, robust, fleet
of mind. Mother’s choice, Father’s friend. Feeling his innards settle, he’s certain
George is right.
Skelton shifts. ‘My lords, we are approaching Queenhithe.’
Ahead of them, a hulking shape looms in the moonlight; massive sail
convulsing with every gust of wind, blobs of torchlight moving along the deck.
George fidgets, excited. ‘The Anne.’
The vessel, while not as grand as expected, boasts raised
structures at either end, like miniature castles with wooden crenels. Its
standard, flapping madly from the topmost mast, is unremarkable, but that,
Richard supposes, is precisely Warwick’s intent.
