“And king I am. Best you remember that, Warwick.”
The two glared at one another. Then Edward swung on his heel and strode from the room, leaving Warwick and his councillors staring at the open door. Warwick’s friend Lord Wenlock heaved himself from his chair. “The King is right, my lord.” His shrewd eyes looked up at the Kingmaker from beneath their craggy brows. “’Tis a fait accompli . We must accept it.”
John knew he must add his warning to Wenlock’s before more damage was done. After the initial shock, he had become more concerned by his brother’s reaction than by Edward’s marriage. So a treaty was lost. No real harm was done. But a feud with a king…
“My lord brother, ’tis well known that Elizabeth Woodville’s mother is a sorceress. She must have cast a spell on the King…” A medley of voices cried, “ Aye, sorcery !”
“The King is bewitched,” John added. “He knows not what he’s done.”
“What he’s done, brother, is to make a fool of me before all of England and Louis of France!” Warwick stormed, his bright blue eyes pained, his sharp-etched face taut. “He’s treated me like a common varlet.”
Aye, Edward had made it clear to the world that he ruled alone, that he deferred to no one, not even to the mighty Kingmaker. He had brought his proud cousin down in men’s eyes knowing that, more than any man alive, Warwick measured himself by his reputation. He was richer than Edward, a famed soldier and a friend to foreign kings, but now Edward had tarnished the image. No longer would men bow as low to the great Earl of Warwick, or kings embrace him as an equal.
“You’re no varlet,” said John. “You’re the most powerful baron in the land. It’s not a mortal blow, brother. Men will forget this insult. And I pray you to forgive… For England’s sake.”
Warwick turned his proud head and stared at the open doorway through which Edward had left. Slowly, he sank back into his seat. John rested a hand on his shoulder. His brother had suffered a sore wound. A worthier ruler he might make— more dedicated, capable, and wiser than Edward—but he was not born to the throne. By birth God had appointed Edward king and Warwick his servant. Edward answered to no one. Warwick answered to the King—like a common varlet, aye; in that his brother was right. Even a baron, mighty though he be, was not master of his own destiny. And that knowledge, striking its mark with this day’s work, had to taste as bitter to Warwick as a cup of hemlock.
John felt compelled to add, softly, “There is no way to go over the wall without bringing it down, brother.”
Warwick twisted in his chair and gazed up at him with unseeing eyes. He had heard, but whether he had understood, John could not be sure.
~ * * * ~
Chapter 11
“…she hung her head…
the braid slipped and uncoiled itself
and the dark world grew darker towards the storm.”
John’s wise counsel prevailed. Warwick decided to accept with as much grace as possible what he couldn’t change. On Michaelmas Day, ten days after the council meeting, Elizabeth Woodville was escorted into the chapel of Reading Abbey by the Earl of Warwick and the King’s brother, George, Duke of Clarence, and honoured as queen. Though of common stock, she looked very royal in her gold and blue brocade robes with an ermine cloak over her shoulders and her abundant white-gold hair loose in shimmering ringlets down to her knees. Warwick himself knelt before the lovely bride and kissed her hand. He even paid assiduous attention to her throughout the event. Edward, in gratitude, raised Warwick’s brother, George, to the Archbishopric of York.
Everyone rejoiced at the amity between the King and Kingmaker, but John was unable to shake his unease. In the recesses of his mind, a small voice warned that all was not well. Still troubled, he left for Carlisle after the ceremony to meet with the Scottish embassy, who wished to sue for
The two glared at one another. Then Edward swung on his heel and strode from the room, leaving Warwick and his councillors staring at the open door. Warwick’s friend Lord Wenlock heaved himself from his chair. “The King is right, my lord.” His shrewd eyes looked up at the Kingmaker from beneath their craggy brows. “’Tis a fait accompli . We must accept it.”
John knew he must add his warning to Wenlock’s before more damage was done. After the initial shock, he had become more concerned by his brother’s reaction than by Edward’s marriage. So a treaty was lost. No real harm was done. But a feud with a king…
“My lord brother, ’tis well known that Elizabeth Woodville’s mother is a sorceress. She must have cast a spell on the King…” A medley of voices cried, “ Aye, sorcery !”
“The King is bewitched,” John added. “He knows not what he’s done.”
“What he’s done, brother, is to make a fool of me before all of England and Louis of France!” Warwick stormed, his bright blue eyes pained, his sharp-etched face taut. “He’s treated me like a common varlet.”
Aye, Edward had made it clear to the world that he ruled alone, that he deferred to no one, not even to the mighty Kingmaker. He had brought his proud cousin down in men’s eyes knowing that, more than any man alive, Warwick measured himself by his reputation. He was richer than Edward, a famed soldier and a friend to foreign kings, but now Edward had tarnished the image. No longer would men bow as low to the great Earl of Warwick, or kings embrace him as an equal.
“You’re no varlet,” said John. “You’re the most powerful baron in the land. It’s not a mortal blow, brother. Men will forget this insult. And I pray you to forgive… For England’s sake.”
Warwick turned his proud head and stared at the open doorway through which Edward had left. Slowly, he sank back into his seat. John rested a hand on his shoulder. His brother had suffered a sore wound. A worthier ruler he might make— more dedicated, capable, and wiser than Edward—but he was not born to the throne. By birth God had appointed Edward king and Warwick his servant. Edward answered to no one. Warwick answered to the King—like a common varlet, aye; in that his brother was right. Even a baron, mighty though he be, was not master of his own destiny. And that knowledge, striking its mark with this day’s work, had to taste as bitter to Warwick as a cup of hemlock.
John felt compelled to add, softly, “There is no way to go over the wall without bringing it down, brother.”
Warwick twisted in his chair and gazed up at him with unseeing eyes. He had heard, but whether he had understood, John could not be sure.
~ * * * ~
Chapter 11
“…she hung her head…
the braid slipped and uncoiled itself
and the dark world grew darker towards the storm.”
John’s wise counsel prevailed. Warwick decided to accept with as much grace as possible what he couldn’t change. On Michaelmas Day, ten days after the council meeting, Elizabeth Woodville was escorted into the chapel of Reading Abbey by the Earl of Warwick and the King’s brother, George, Duke of Clarence, and honoured as queen. Though of common stock, she looked very royal in her gold and blue brocade robes with an ermine cloak over her shoulders and her abundant white-gold hair loose in shimmering ringlets down to her knees. Warwick himself knelt before the lovely bride and kissed her hand. He even paid assiduous attention to her throughout the event. Edward, in gratitude, raised Warwick’s brother, George, to the Archbishopric of York.
Everyone rejoiced at the amity between the King and Kingmaker, but John was unable to shake his unease. In the recesses of his mind, a small voice warned that all was not well. Still troubled, he left for Carlisle after the ceremony to meet with the Scottish embassy, who wished to sue for
Similar Books
