who was led in by the two Archbishops and Sir Thomas Erpingham bearing a new sword of state, the jewelled Lancaster Sword that Henry had carried at Ravenspur on his landing. Behind him marched the two Holland Dukes of Exeter and Surrey as well as my brother Aumale. Thomas played his role as one of the seven commissioners appointed to witness the pronouncement of Richard’s deposition. When Lancaster was ultimately proclaimed King of England by the lords and clerics in the Hall, it was our father of York who committed us to the new regime by leading Lancaster to the throne to take his seat.
Thus we were shackled and bolted to the new King for all time. Thus we disavowed Richard. Thus we were all brought neatly into the Lancaster fold, a little flock of important but impotent sheep, chivvied by the sheepdog named Ambition.
‘Can we all breathe easily again?’ I asked in a hiatus between signing documents and celebrating the auspicious events.
‘We have cut our cloth to suit the occasion.’ The Duke of York might regret the outcome but he had embraced his nephew with admirable fervour when Lancaster had acknowledged him, as we had hoped, as a father figure.
‘And a fine cloth it is, too,’ I remarked, and indeed nothing could have heralded our pre-eminence at the coronation more than the cost of our garments. Clad in silk damask and satin and sumptuous fur, provided for us by the new King as befitted our Plantagenet rank, we gathered in a little smoothly expensive knot as the feast was drawing to a close, to raise our cups of fine wine in private recognition of what we had achieved. At the beginning of August we had been the most loyal of subjects to King Richard the Second. By this day, a mere two months later, we had made the transition to supporters of Lancaster. The connections of the past could be forgotten, masked in the well-seasoned dishes and outward show of this royal feast. The future of Richard, still in the Tower with the prospect of a trial hanging over him if our new King gave his consent, must not be considered as we gorged on roast cygnet, venison and a multitude of game birds, the subtleties, fantastic creations sculpted from hard sugar, stuffed and enhanced with preserved fruit, their carved crowns and eagles sending out the pertinent message to all who dipped their spoons. King Henry the Fourth demanded our fealty and obedience and we gave it with much flamboyance.
Why had we ever doubted our ability to step unchallenged from one loyalty to the next? We allowed a collective sigh of silent relief.
‘I did think that at the eleventh hour he might order the arrest of the lot of us,’ Thomas remarked. ‘Even when I knelt to take the oath, I could feel the kiss of an axe against my neck, but it seems that we are still in possession of our titles, and our heads.’
I could not be so sanguine, but masked the persistent fear. ‘Edward says that Henry needs us, and thus our future is secure.’
‘Edward says whatever suits him best. He’s as slippery as an eel resisting being dropped into a pot of boiling water.’
‘Are we not all carved from the same wood? Self-interested to the last?’
Thomas emptied his chased and enamelled goblet with some satisfaction. ‘Of course. We’ll all perjure ourselves if necessary.’
Our thoughts, which it seemed were for once in unison, were interrupted by a great crash of wood against stone, as the doors of the feasting chamber were flung back and a knight in full gleaming armour, on horseback, rode in. Around us many voices were raised, but no one seemed too perturbed. There was some laughter, some groans. Thomas sighed as the knight lifted his visor to announce his name: Sir Thomas Dymoke. His voice, raw as a jackdaw’s croak, bounced from the stonework.
‘I am here by right of inheritance through my lady mother. I am the King’s Champion. I challenge to a duel any man who doubts King Henry’s right to the throne.’
Spurring his horse to a brisk walk he made a circuit around the hall, brushing against the tapestries to release clouds of dust. The preparations for this festivity had been hasty. One circuit and then another. And another, by this time raising some ribaldry.
‘Is there no one here who will challenge the right of our King to wear the crown? If there is any such, then I will fight him, sword against sword.’
‘For God’s sake, someone challenge him and put us out of our misery.’ Thomas had no patience, while Edward, who had been dispensing wine to the new King from a silver flagon, strolled over to replenish our cups with what remained in the vessel.
‘A more pompous idiot I have yet to meet,’ Edward observed.
‘So will you not answer his challenge?’ I needled gently.
‘Not I. I am firmly in the royal good books. And I will make sure that I stay there.’
The greyhound, no longer following obediently at Edward’s heel, was restored, hale and hearty, to the company of King Henry. It lay beside him, its head on the royal foot as once it had rested on Edward’s, and probably before that on Richard’s, reminding me that all dogs could be fickle creatures.
Edward followed the direction of my gaze. ‘And there’s the truth of it,’ he nodded in a moment of whimsy. ‘Henry the greyhound putting to flight the white hart of Richard.’
‘I dislike omens. And I’ve more care for my dignity,’ Thomas said, ‘so don’t look at me. Public challenges only bring ridicule to all concerned, whoever wins.’
My father grunted his disapproval but acceptance of such levity. It was tradition.
‘I’ll do it.’ Dickon spoke out, his face aglow. ‘I’ll throw down my hood.’
‘You’ll do no such thing,’ I said, suddenly made alive to the inadvisability of drawing attention to our ambiguous position at this dangerously new Court.
‘But I will.’
And he did, his fur-trimmed hood flung to the floor in formal challenge as Dymoke rode past. Before anyone could see and comment, I stooped, picked it up and pushed it into his hand.
‘Be silent!’
‘Why should I?’
‘Such ill-considered chivalry could be noticed. And lower your voice! You are a fool, Dickon.’
‘At least I am loyal.’
‘Then you will perforce learn a new loyalty. As we all have done this day.’
It was Henry who brought the display to an end.
‘I shall personally relieve you of this onerous duty, Master Champion, since no one seems to be prepared to pick up your challenge.’
I wondered if he had seen Dickon’s defiant gesture. Cousin Henry was sharp-eyed. He would need to be if he was to carry this reign to success. I allowed my regard to sweep across the assembled throng. How many here were as ambivalent in their loyalty as we were? As the dregs of the feast settled down around us, the Champion retiring with much unkind laughter, Dickon subsiding, we exchanged a grim smile and raised a toast. To the future. To a new beginning. To inscribing the House of York with gold.
‘He has called for parliament to resume tomorrow,’ my father reminded us, as if we needed the reminder. It was the poisonous fly in the ointment, the occasion when all past enmities just might be stirred into life. Seeing the fine line between his brows, I asked:
‘Do we fear it?’
‘No.
