The White Lion of Norfolk

By Lynda M. Andrews

From “an outstanding storyteller,” a historical novel about the duke of Norfolk, who courted the favor of King Henry VIII in his quest for power (Woman’s Weekly).

The White Lion of Norfolk is the story of Thomas Howard, Third Duke of Norfolk: a ruthless, unscrupulous man willing even to use his two nieces, Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard, as pawns to curry political favour.

Amidst the pomp and pageantry of the Royal Court, Howard climbs the greasy pole of ambition, remaining totally subservient to his master, King Henry VIII. His devotion places him at odds with his wife, the daughter of the Duke of Buckingham, who was put to death by the King. It pits him as rival and ally to such men as Cardinal Wolsey, Thomas More and Thomas Cromwell, and leads him perilously close to the unsavoury death many feel his savage cruelty deserves.

But will he live to see his great niece, Elizabeth Tudor, become Queen?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: May 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9781911591375

Lynda M. Andrews

Lynda M. Andrews, who also writes as Lyn Andrews, is the Sunday Times Number One bestselling author of over 34 sagas, and one of the top 100 bestselling authors in the UK. She was born and raised in Liverpool, which serves as the inspiration for many of her novels. She now divides her time between Merseyside and the Isle of Man, where she has lived for several years.

Book preview

The White Lion Of Norfolk

Lynda M. Andrews

Canelo

Prologue

September 9th, 1513, dawned grey and damp and a chill mist covered the slopes of the distant Cheviot Hills obscuring them from the view of the English army assembled a few miles from Flodden Edge at Branxton Church.

A mile to the south the Scots, led by their King, James IV, had commenced their march. Thirty thousand strong, they had streamed across the Tweed and had taken the border castles of Norham, Wark, Etal and Ford and their spirits were high as they contemplated the rich towns and villages that lay further south near Rothbury Forest and Newcastle.

Within their ranks marched warriors from every part of Scotland and the Isles. Wild highlanders with their axes and long-handled spears answering the feudal call of their chieftains. Beside them marched the retainers of the Lords of Scotland, their brightly hued liveries affording a gay contrast to the greasy tartans of their half-naked, semi-barbaric comrades-in-arms.

At the head of these motley divisions rode the Earls and Bishops mounted upon great horses richly trapped with beaten silver and gold, whose breath rose like smoke on the chill morning air.

King James himself spurred them forward and they moved on, filled with the expectation of victory and of revenge against their ancient enemy. The savage incidents which erupted frequently along the wild stretches of border country were a thorn in the flesh of Scotland and many old scores remained to be settled.

The English army had also commenced to march. At its head rode the grizzled veteran of the fierce and bloody battles of Barnet and Bosworth – Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey.

At his side rode his sons, Thomas and Edmund, and the Earls of Northumberland and Westmoreland (the great Marcher Lords), Lord Dacre and Sir Marmaduke Constable.

The whole fighting force of the North had been hastily summoned by the Earl of Surrey from Bolton, on the first of the month, for when the news reached London that the Scots had crossed the border (taking advantage of the absence of King Henry VIII and his army who were engaged in fighting the French) Queen Katherine had summoned the old Earl who with only five hundred men had ridden in haste to the North.

Behind their leaders marched the tough, silent men of the North. The ‘Reivers’ as the border soldiers were called in those parts, men who had fought the marauding Scots for centuries under the banners of the great northern Earls and the most prominent device amongst that grim body of men was the silver crescent moon of Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland.

The morning progressed and the mists slowly cleared. The moist, cloying smell of damp earth, leaves and bracken pervaded the nostrils of the men of both armies as they came to an abrupt halt and faced each other across the flat, green plain, the northern perimeter of which rose into a rock-strewn turf mound, called Flodden Edge.

As the Scots held the advantage of the higher ground, Surrey realised that he would have to break their formation by concentrated attacks upon their flanks. He had also had the foresight to place himself between the Scots and the border, thus cutting off their line of retreat. He divided his forces into three columns. He himself led the centre force with his son Thomas. Sir Marmaduke the left flank and his youngest son, Edmund, the right.

Once these manoeuvres had been completed an eerie silence descended, broken momentarily by the sounds of clinking metal from spurs and bits as men held their horses in check.

On the right flank young Edmund Howard gazed steadily ahead of him at the ranks of silent Scots. Beneath his helm he felt droplets of sweat stand out upon his brow. His mouth was dry and his heart beat with an unsteady, jerky motion induced by a combination of fear and excitement. The next instant the silence of that September morning was shattered by the wild, barbaric cries of the Scots as they came pouring over the turf outcrop.

Edmund felt the flanks of his destrier quiver for an instant but the huge beast had been bred for war and did not move an inch until he dug in his heels and only then did the great war-horse plunge forward. Brandishing his broadsword, Edmund galloped forward towards the ranks of attacking Scots. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the standard of the White Lion of the Howards as his standard bearer charged forward beside him.

A Howard! A Howard! he roared above the increasing noise and the cries of Thousands for a Percy! For God and the House of Neville! came to his ears as the Earls of Northumberland and Westmoreland charged forward also.

The two armies met with a resounding crash as metal struck metal and Edmund was lost in the surging, seething mass. Ceaselessly he swung the heavy sword, cutting down man and beast. The sweat poured from him, encased as he was in heavy, stifling armour. The English cavalry under Lord Dacre was heavily engaged on the Scots left flank while his father and brother attacked the central body of their forces.

Above the cries of dying men and the screams of wounded and frightened animals his Sergeant-at-Arms shouted to him that the Cheshire Yeomen were falling back before the onslaught. Pushing back his visor (careless of the danger of such an action) he turned in the saddle and his face turned scarlet with fury as he saw the Cheshire men throw down their weapons and run.

God Damn you! Come back you bastards! he shouted, trying to rally them but it was to no avail, they were fleeing in full retreat and he noted with grim satisfaction that many were being contemptuously helped upon their way by thrusts from the swords of men wearing the badge of Henry Percy.

He turned back and threw himself frenziedly into the fray knowing that he had only his father’s retainers left. He fought on hopelessly outnumbered. He sustained minor wounds and his armour became dented, battered and caked with grime. He slammed his visor shut as a spear passed perilously close to his face, but not before he saw his standard bearer being viciously hacked to pieces. Through dust filled eyes he saw the bearer, covered in blood, his left arm severed at the elbow, go down beneath a blow that opened his skull to the bone.

Edmund urged his horse forward, its great iron-shod hooves trampling into the dirt a writhing Scot. With a deft movement he wrenched the standard from the limp hand of the dead bearer and thrust it into the hands of his Sergeant. Suddenly, through the seething mass, he saw a man mercilessly forcing his mount over the bodies of the fallen wounded towards him. Instantly Edmund recognised the emblems upon his opponent’s surcoat – it was Lord Home.

Oblivious to the noise of battle around them they closed and there began in earnest a deadly combat as each man fought for survival and the honour of his house. They fought silently and ferociously until with a mighty, downward sweep of his sword, Edmund Howard rent the helm of Lord Home in two and the Scottish Earl fell dead from his horse.

Edmund swung the destrier around, ready to face the fury of the Earl’s retainers, but came instead upon Lord Dacre whose forces were dealing effectively with the Scots.

Thank God and His Holy Mother! Edmund cried with relief. Those cursed Cheshiremen fled!

Your father sent me, he saw how sorely pressed you were, Dacre replied before turning to pursue a fleeing Highlander.

The tide of battle had turned for the Scots could not match the English archers or pikemen and by late afternoon they were fleeing, completely routed and followed by the English who relentlessly cut them down.

Edmund was bruised, battered and ached in every limb, as he slowly picked his way between the mounds of dead men and beasts, discarded arms and trappings. The standards of the proud Earls and Lords of Scotland lay torn, blood-spattered and trampled in the mud but behind him his Sergeant bore the standard of the White Lion of the Howards proudly aloft.

At last he reached the main body of the English forces and urged his exhausted horse towards his father and elder brother as they sat wearily upon their mounts.

The old Earl raised his head, By St Michael and All the Saints! ’Tis Edmund, God be Praised! and he leaned over and clapped his son upon the shoulder.

Edmund winced, wondering how an old man of seventy could have possibly survived such a day – but Surrey had survived and he reminded Edmund of the fierce, old eagle.

You have given a goodly account of yourself. Get down from that beast, his father commanded.

With the aid of an esquire, Edmund slid painfully from the saddle.

Kneel!

Too exhausted to argue Edmund sank to his knees in the dirt.

Surrey lifted his sword and lightly touched his son upon the shoulder. In the name of Our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, I command you to rise, Sir Edmund Howard!

The weariness fled as Edmund raised his eyes to those of his father and saw mirrored there a fierce, quiet pride. He struggled to his feet as his father dismounted and Lord Dacre found his way to their side.

Wiping the dust and sweat from his face with a corner of his surcoat Dacre commented drily, That has put paid to yon Jamie’s dreams of glory!

Aye, he fell but a few feet from me, Surrey replied.

Do we order a search for his body?

Before Surrey could answer the Earl of Northumberland arrived. His dark green surcoat with the silver crescent moon was caked with mud and blood and his armour was as battered as that of his confederates. He bore two swords, one of which he handed to Surrey. A great sword this, its handle worked with a twisted pattern finishing in two spade-shaped ends, one pointing upwards, the other down. There was no need for Northumberland to enlighten him, Surrey knew that this was James’ own sword. With a curt nod he took it from the Earl’s hand.

As the early September twilight descended upon Flodden Edge – its once green turf soaked with blood and churned into a morass by countless flailing hooves – ten thousand Scots lay dead and the flower of Scotland’s aristocracy lay amongst them. Twelve Earls, three Bishops, Lairds and Chieftains by the score and somewhere upon that ravaged ground lay the body of King James.

It was to take the Scots almost twenty-five years to recover from the terrible defeat of Flodden but of young Edmund Howard a nameless poet wrote these words:

"For who, in field or foray slack

Saw the Blanche Lion e’er give back."

One

"If all the camp prove traytors to my Lord,

Shall spotlesse Norfolke falsifie his word?

Mine oath is past. I swore t’uphold his crown,

And that shall swimme, or with it shall drowne."

Bosworth Field by Sir John Beaumont

The great victory of Flodden lay in the past as eleven years later Edmund Howard rode slowly through the Suffolk countryside towards Framlingham.

Framlingham Castle had been founded in the days of the Saxon King, Redwald, and had been given to Thomas of Brotherton by his father, King Edward, and it was from Thomas of Brotherton that the Howards were descended.

As Edmund reached the top of the high, grassy mound upon which Framlingham is built, he reined in his horse. In the late evening of the 21st May, 1524, the castle stood silhouetted against a rosy sky. Its curtain wall – forty feet high and eight feet thick with its thirteen towers, each fourteen feet higher than the wall – rose like the sheer sides of a cliff.

To the east lay the flat lands towards Saxmancham and the sea which were part of the Mowbray inheritance. His eyes travelled to the gate tower above which flew the standard and Edmund’s expression hardened as he thought bitterly of the brilliant career he had envisaged and the lofty aspirations that he once had but his hopes and dreams had never come to fruition. He thought of the crumbling house that he called home. It was sadly in need of repair and its furnishings were worn and dingy for it necessitated a decent staff of servants to keep it in order but there was never enough money and plenty of mouths to feed!

He had married the daughter of Sir Richard Culpepper and Jocosa had produced the ten children, who added to his increasing burden of penury, with almost sickening regularity.

What good brave and gallant deeds? What good a Knighthood when one was forced to go abroad disguised to avoid ones creditors? he thought. The name of Howard was revered throughout the realm for after Flodden King Henry had restored to his father all his forfeited estates and his title, Duke of Norfolk, but what use was it to be the son of an old and noble family when your clothes were threadbare and there was but one silver angel in your pocket?

Framlingham had been his home as a child. A secure, if somewhat bleak place, but a place where furnishings were comfortable, where food, servants and fine clothes plentiful and creditors never came beating upon the door. He remembered how he had been taught the skills of war with his brothers Thomas and Edward. Edward had died in a naval battle off the French coast a month before Flodden and Edmund now wondered whether Edward’s was not the more advantageous lot. Surely a gallant death and a revered memory were better than his existence of grinding poverty, insignificance and humiliation?

His horse was quietly cropping the grass and was loath to move as Edmund urged it forward. It was growing late, the sun had set and the shadows were lengthening as he crossed the walled causeway which spanned the triple moat. His father was close to death which was why he had been summoned.

His horse’s hooves clattered upon the stones until he reached the gate tower where, to his surprise, he was halted.

Hold there! State your business! the man cried, peering at him in the gathering gloom.

Edmund hung his head for this was the ultimate humiliation. Was he so shabby that he was not even recognizable as a gentleman, let alone a son of the House of Howard? He did not