Death Be Pardoner To Me: The Life of George, Duke of Clarence by Dorothy Davies

rise in his throat and he was on the point of gagging with it until it subsided and he was able to look calmly around as if it mattered not to him that he was once again being forced to leave home.
    John Skelton turned as if to shout, but at that moment Richard rushed out into the bailey and mounted his horse. As usual he was a silent, brooding child, not a thought given away. If he was frightened or outright terrified, none would know it. George sat squarely in his saddle and watched as the escort mounted up, listening to the jingle of harness and the muffled orders. No one appeared to want to make much noise, as if the enemy was close and did not need to be warned of their departure. What enemy? What problems had beset his family now?
    “Could I not have a moment to say goodbye to my lady mother?” George leaned over to speak to the squire who was going with them, it would seem, by the load he carried.
    “No, Lord George. Tis best to leave your lady mother to her thoughts and prayers at the moment.”
    The group set off, buffeted by the bitter wind. Gorge brooded, feeling uprooted, outcast. He had to know what the reason was this time.
    He reined the horse back until he was riding alongside John Skelton.
    “Why are we going?” he asked bluntly. “Why, not where.”
    He watched as Skelton went through a variety of expressions, from grief to blankness, as if he wished to blot out the thoughts he carried. Finally he sighed and nodded.
    “You have a right to know. Your lord father is dead. He died at Wakefield, in a battle with Lancastrian forces. Your brother Edmund of Rutland was murdered on the battlefield. Your uncle Salisbury is gone too. Your lord father’s head and your brother’s head are on spikes at Micklegate. Your lord father’s head wears a paper crown. Ever does the Lancastrian queen mock the House of York.”
    Words are often sharper than weapons, sharper than knife thrusts and sword impalement, sharper than lances designed to knock a rider from his horse. George clung to the saddle, shocked to his core. He turned to see the blood had drained completely from Richard’s face. He had ridden close enough to hear.
    “And so…” Skelton continued, “for your safety, Lord George, Lord Richard, I am commanded to take you to Europe where you can stay until the matter is resolved, one way or the other. Even now the Lancastrians are approaching the city. Your lady mother will write to you when you are safely out of the way. I am sorry to give you this news, heart-sore sorry but someone had to tell you.”
    The great duke dead, the golden Edmund dead. On a blood soaked field his beautiful brother, so young, so talented, so promising, had been murdered. Somewhere a spike held the head of his lord father, adorned with a paper crown. The proud duke, mocked and scorned and dead. The handsome Edmund, a corpse on a battlefield. Somewhere a woman was gloating over the blood which had been shed and the lives which had been lost whilst in London the duchess was left to mourn her husband and her son. Left to mourn alone for her young sons were not permitted to stay with her. For their own safety. Sometimes, he thought, it would be better to stay and be killed than be separated from her yet again. There were no tears. What tears could be shed in front of an armed escort, of squires, of a tutor, without looking like a weakling, despite the immensity of the news? The tears burned inside, though, hotter than any fire, along with a grim cold determination for revenge. One day, somewhere, somehow, he vowed, there would be revenge taken by the Yorks for this appalling act of killing. He sent prayers flying to Heaven for his lord father’s soul and for Edmund’s soul, for the comfort of his mother, for the easement of his brother Richard’s mind, for the safety of Edward, who was gone, it would seem, somewhere in the country, perhaps? Mr Skelton had not mentioned him. That meant no one knew where Edward was hiding. It was