Chapter 3
“Ravensworth.” With a wave of his arm, Prince Henry hailed his friend from across the expanse of the winter-worn gardens.
Edward made his way along the gravel path. On either side lay Westminster Palace’s culinary gardens and flowerbeds, most of which were deep in grey, wintry slumber.
The monks working in the herb garden lifted their heads, while gardeners and scullions, apothecaries and laborers stared at the pair with ill-concealed curiosity. This place was not the usual venue of such illustrious visitors, especially in midwinter.
Edward shared their sentiment, wondering why, in all that was holy, he had been called out on this bitterly cold New Year’s Day for a stroll with his royal friend in such an unlikely place.
“You wanted to see me, highness,” he said in greeting.
“Only bloody place I could find where no inquisitors were likely to descend upon my head,” the prince said by way of explanation, without having been asked. “Confound them all, Edward. They are relentless in their whining.”
Edward searched the prince’s cloudy face. “How is he?”
Henry shook his head.
What does one say? Edward asked himself silently. The king is dying, long live the king.
They stood a moment in silence. The prince looked up to where the spires of London pricked the skyline. “I keep hearing the bells toll. Waiting for them. Hearing them even though they don’t ring yet.”
His voice bleak, he continued. “My father hears them too, I think. He leaps off the bed without cause, as if Satan himself pokes at his hide. O’ most unhappy king,” he finished and covered his face with his warrior’s hands. “And his eyes accuse me, withal.”
“How can I help? Name it, and it shall be done,” said Edward in a carefully controlled baritone.
Again, the prince shook his head. “I know it, never have you failed me, Edward. We trod our first battlefields together. How can I praise you further, my trusty and well-beloved cousin?”
Unconsciously, the prince ran his fingers over the scar near his nose. It had been Edward, three days away from his fifteenth name day, who had carried him from Shrewsbury’s bloody field.
Edward recalled vividly what that day had meant to him, his grim determination that he would not fail his prince. He had just buried his only brother, and he did not intend to bury his royal brother-in-arms.
From that day to this, people considered it a miracle that the prince had survived such a wound. The arrow had pierced his face and lodged six inches deep in the back of the skull. Removing it was the accomplishment of a genius named Bradmore.
Edward bowed in silence. What words could he give back when fellowship came from the heart? It was his sworn duty, moreover. A Ravensworth had served the crown since the Conquest in one capacity or another.
When he looked up, he found the prince mentally measuring him, as if for a suit of clothing.
“I know that look, Henry. You are up to something?”
“You are correct. I need to act. There are too many grumblings across the land, and you cannot fix everything for me, though you will deny that, doubtless.”
Edward shrugged. “What are we talking about here, my liege?”
“Do you recall the quaint little interlude in Cheshire a few years back?”
He nodded.
“Well, it’s reared its head. Ugly rumors are spreading in harmful places. More forged letters purporting to be in my hand, stirring mischief and more than mischief. I can’t afford to have the barons withdraw their support as they’ve done to my father.”
“Slanders again,” Edward said in disgust. “Even at a time like this, the carrion crow will peck and peck? It sickens me, these cowards who would knife a nun at prayer.”
“Or a new king before even he is crowned. Yet as we know, power is a stern mistress. And for the craven, their only chance to grab it is when the powerful are weak, so they think.”
“Aye, and it is difficult to punish your enemies when you are trying to establish allies for your throne. A fine time for instigating subversion. I understand the problem. I assume you have suspects?”
Henry nodded. “Several. John Percy, for one. He’s been seen meeting with the Keelings. They’re plotting together—I am certain of it.”
“They nurse grudges, as petty men often do,” said Edward.
“He is not alone, but one of the many who lost in the rebellions against my father. They would have dragged Henry off his throne.”
“And executed him.”
The prince winced. “As you know I do not agree with my sire on many issues, but in this case, the forfeiture of land and honors was justified. He had to put an end to revolt.”
Edward’s expression grew grave. “As a good number of those same forfeited estates and honors came to me, I am hardly going to disagree. The Keelings and Percys do not love me overmuch. And they are not alone. There are any number of dark nights where I must perforce watch my back. A bitter man is a dangerous foe.”
“I agree. ‘Tis well to take care with enemies such as those. But John Percy has not the guile to lead this troop. I smell a fouler rat. There is someone else behind this slander.”
“You want me to find the leader? I see. Yes, that seems like the obvious thing to do.”
“More than just the leader. Bring me a solution, Edward. Something irrefutable so that we may build a case so strong, people will see it for what it truly is. Slanders. I will not give my people cause to turn against me. I want a strong kingship and nothing less.”
* * *
April 9, 1413, Westminster Abbey
King Henry V, Coronation
There was snow that day.
Some took it as a bad omen, but Edward held the opposite view.
He rode with the prince’s honor guard to the Abbey.
Just that morning, he’d received the new king’s gift: the Fortified Manor house of Burnsley, its market town and cluster of villages.
The honor significantly expanded his already wealthy estates.
They’d laughed at the irony because it was Edward’s prowess that had wrested Burnsley and several even richer holdings from the Percy rebels.
There were still some, especially in the Cheshire region, who had not forgiven Henry’s father for usurping the throne and causing the death of King Richard in captivity. Memories, thought Edward, are long when it comes to land.
Inside, the Abbey was packed.
From beneath an arch at the south transept, Edward could see the proceedings unfurl like a precious banner, waving and rippling in an unseen wind.
Incense swirled through veils of hymns and soared amid the angelic sounds from the choirs of young boys.
The pomp and ancientry reached across countless generations, spilling out before him, and he felt the history of it swell in his chest.
From this vantage point, he could see Henry, pale from fasting, drowned now in cloth-of-gold and the deep blue of Garter robes.
He could see the marks of anointing that proclaimed him the instrument of the Almighty.
The close-cropped head bowed in anticipation beneath the most awesome and terrible weight of the crown that would momentarily proclaim him King of all England and Duke of Aquitaine.
Golden light shimmered over the murmuring heads of the finely dressed lords and ladies, the soldiery, the clergy, the brilliant minds of the day, the elite of Europe as they chanted their responses.
Even from inside, he could hear the huge crowds, commoners, clergy, people from every walk of life, who swelled and swayed outside the Minster.
They spilled over into the snowy streets and icy walkways, in and out of taverns, guesthouses, shops, and every public place they could find.
This was a holy day, a grand celebration, one that would go on unabated for days.
Inside, though, it was not just crowds that Edward perused. He had a purpose for choosing his vantage point. He wanted to catch a glimpse of his quarry.
Humbert Keeling, Baron Stanbury. He was not difficult to find. There he sat in one of the less auspicious pews, looking old and careworn. Beside him were his two sons.
Rumor already had it that Stanbury’s wife, an ethereal beauty and perhaps one of the most vicious women in England, had been asked not to make an appearance at any of the banquets that would take place over the next week or so.
A scandal in the making, or so he’d been told.
Edward occupied as little time as possible indulging in court intrigue; it bored him silly.
He could not see the notorious Lady Elizabeth, but it recalled to his mind her daughter, the spirited ragamuffin he had encountered in the forest the day of the theft.
His suddenly curious eyes wandered over the nearby rows, and there, along the wooden choir, she sat.
The beauty she’d borrowed from her mother could not be missed.
Elizabeth Keeling. Lily, they called her.
It had been a little more than two years since Cheshire. She’d been a pretty child then. All sharp angles and colt-like limbs, a slender flower pushing her way up into adulthood, but with a distance to go.
Now she had grown to womanhood, and the promise of her loveliness had come to full flower. Even from this distance, her flawless skin, not ghostly white as was the fashion, looked rosy with vitality and creamy as silk. Her lips, rich as cherries, begged to be kissed.
A smoldering flame ignited in Edward’s eyes as he took in as much of her as he could. Most of her shape lay hidden, lost inside the folds of her dull grey cloak. Who dressed her in such drab feathers, he wondered. The crowd around her obscured further details from him.
He wondered idly if she had become a vapid female like so many at court. Or if, by chance, she had retained the refreshing spirit that had so entranced him that day in the forest.
He was looking directly at her when she lifted her eyes and stared right back at him. He saw the shock of recognition. Heat stole into her cheeks. She looked away, only to take another peek to assure herself that she had not been mistaken.
Edward grinned inwardly at their silent game. He dipped his head in salute and continued to hold her gaze.