By Loyalty Bound: The Story of the Mistress of King Richard III (22 page)

“I will sit down,” said Anne to her husband, pointing to a bench in a quiet alcove. “You join in the dancing,” she urged him, as the musicians changed their tune to a rhythmic carole.

“Are you unwell?” he asked as he offered his arm to walk her to the seat.

“No,” she reassured him. “I am well. Just not in the mood to dance,” she said. “But do not let me spoil your evening. There are many pretty young girls who would enjoy partnering you,” she urged, giving him a gentle push before settling herself to sit and watch.

The dancers lined up and began to step and stamp across the hall. Anne’s foot moved to the beat of the music as she watched them pass before her; her eyes examining each one as they went by, looking for only one person.

“So this is where you hide yourself.” Anne jumped as William Stanley sat down. “Were you waiting for me, my love?” he asked. “Or were you hoping for a tryst with another?”

She moved up the bench away from him as he leaned towards her, his hot breath smelling of wine and spices. He laughed and edged up beside her. “This is novel sport!”

“Leave me be!” she told him, knowing that he would not obey, but would make use of the opportunity to pester her. “Where is your wife?”

“Gone back to Stanley House with a headache. So I am all yours, now that your husband has deserted you for the comely ladies on the dance floor.”

Anne got up to escape from Sir William. As she turned in confusion she stepped into someone coming towards her.

“I apologise...” she began with downcast eyes and had stepped aside before realising that it was Richard. His eyes were grim and the two men glared at one another for a moment before Sir William stalked off.

“I was not speaking with him by choice,” she burst out, desperate that Richard might think she had been encouraging the odious man. “I did not want to be with him. He keeps trying to force his attentions on me.”

“Where is your husband?” enquired Richard coldly.

“He is dancing.”

“And you do not join him?”

“I... I preferred to sit and watch. I did not want to...” She hesitated.

“Did not want to what?” he asked.

“I did not want to come face to face with you in the dance,” she admitted, going back to the bench. He followed her and sat down, but unlike Sir William he did not try to touch her though she did not move from his reach.

“Are John and Katherine well?” she asked after a moment.

“They are very well. Did you receive the letters?”

“Yes. Thank you.” She paused. “Are they with you?” she asked, hoping that they had come to London and that she might have the opportunity to see them.

“No. They have remained at Middleham; Edward too. The journey was too long for him,” he explained.

Anne nodded. “I yearn to see them,” she told him.

“Perhaps in the summer, when you are back at Hornby, something can be arranged.”

“Could it?” She looked directly at him then, but her eagerness waned when she saw the expression in his eyes.

“What is it? Something troubles you,” she said, seeing his unhappy look. “Is it your brother?” she asked, remembering Lord Stanley’s words about the Duke of Clarence.

“I cannot speak of it. I have pleaded with the king, but he will not listen. His mind is made up – or rather I might say he has had his mind made up for him.” He glared at the passing dancers and Anne thought that he looked as if he hated every one of the household that surrounded the king. She put her hand on his to comfort him.

“Is there nothing more you can do?” she asked. But before he could answer they were approached by a slender woman in a blue gown.

“Richard?” she said as he pulled his hand from Anne’s and got to his feet.

“My lady, this is Anne Harrington... Anne Stanley,” he corrected himself as Anne got up and curtseyed, not able to take her eyes from the pretty girl with the oval face and clear blue eyes under arched brows. “This is my wife,” said Richard, “the Duchess of Gloucester.”

They stared at one another and the music and the dancers seemed to fade away. “My husband has spoken of you warmly,” said Anne Neville after a moment. “I am pleased to meet you at last.”

“And I you, Your Grace,” said Anne, surprised at the friendliness of this woman whom she’d thought must hate her.

“I am sorry that your son and daughter are not with us. You must long to see them,” she said. “But they are well cared for and I have become fond of them. They are good children.”

“I am pleased that they are well-behaved. And your son?” she asked. “The duke tells me he has been unwell?”

“He has lately suffered from a falling fit and we thought the journey too arduous for him, so we decided it was better that all the children should stay at home together.” Anne nodded. “Richard,” said the duchess placing her hand on his arm, “the king is asking for you.”

“I must go,” he said to Anne. She nodded and curtseyed to him and the duchess, then watched as they walked away together. She wandered disconsolately towards the wall and began to pluck leaves from a garland that was hanging there, wondering how she would ever learn to cope with the life she had chosen for herself. Eventually her husband came to find her. He was flushed and glowing from the dancing and she forced a smile, telling him nothing of her encounters with his uncle or the Gloucesters.

Robert Harrington flexed his right arm in the new armour that had been fashioned for him. It seemed flimsy, but the smith had assured him that its curved surface would reflect a blow from a lance. He hoped the man was right. The armour had not been cheap and although his wages from the Duke of Gloucester were generous the payment was not entirely selfless. Although Diccon had never been fond of jousting himself, he still expected the knights of his household to do well, and Robert knew that the duke was expecting a good account from him at this tournament that had been arranged to celebrate the marriage of the king’s second son.

“Who better to fight under the badge of the white boar than you?” he had asked with a smile. “Now is your chance to prove yourself and show me that you really have those skills you tried to beat into me at Middleham.”

Robert had been on the point of reminding him that he had never received a beating from anyone and that both his brother, the king, and the Earl of Warwick would have dealt severely with anyone who had dared to do so, but he held his tongue and merely agreed. With Diccon you could never be sure when he was jesting. He had the ability to keep a serious face and even those who knew him well could never be certain. The problem came when he was in earnest and a bold reply unleashed his temper.

Robert mounted the horse that wore a caparison of murrey and blue and settled into the saddle. He adjusted the weight of his shield on his arm and after shutting the visor on his helm he bent to take the lance from the squire. It was unfortunate, he thought, that his first opponent was Anthony, Earl Rivers. Not only was he the queen’s brother and tutor to the Prince of Wales at Ludlow Castle, he was renowned for his skills at the tourney and, as far as Robert could remember, he had never been bested.

January was cold for such sport, he thought, as he circled the horse and, through the restricted vision of his visor, saw the newlywed children, well wrapped in furs, fidgeting as they waited for the joust to begin. Diccon was sitting with them and Robert made a private prayer that he would not let the duke down too badly.

He watched his opponent take his place at the far end of the field. Why couldn’t the man stick to his books, thought Robert. It scarce seemed fair that such a learned man should excel in sport as well.

At the trumpet signal he touched his spurs to the horse and it leapt forward, unsettling his balance. He quickly regained his seat but it was enough for him to miss his target and feel instead the jarring thrust of the lance even if it did not knock him from the horse. He fought to bring the beast back under his control and turned it ready for the second run. He was vaguely aware of the cheering and shouting of the crowd, though the blood coursing through his veins was making such a singing in his ears as to almost deafen him to anything else.

He was a moment too hesitant to start and even as he lined up his lance he knew that he had misjudged. He was only vaguely aware of the hit and found himself on the ground struggling for breath and with the taste of blood in his mouth. Someone hauled him to his feet and pulled off his helm. Robert spat onto the grass and was thankful that the blood only seemed to be coming from a bitten tongue. Earl Rivers was holding his lance aloft as he galloped a victory run down the tiltyard and the crowd was cheering. The king had risen to his feet to applaud him and without making eye contact with Diccon, Robert limped from the field. No one bested Rivers, but even so he felt angry and humiliated. He knew that the duke detested the queen’s brother and blamed him for the accusations of treason against the Duke of Clarence. He often remarked that the man grew too powerful for one who was not royally born. Robert knew that Diccon had been hoping to prove that a knight of his own household was better, and now he had let him down.

The squire unbuckled his gauntlets and handed him a cloth, to wipe his face, and a cup of ale. Robert drank, tasting blood more than anything and spat again. This matter with the Duke of Clarence had cast a pall over both the Christmas celebrations and this wedding tournament. Not that the king seemed troubled by it, he thought, as he watched Earl Rivers salute his sister and brother-in-law. It was as if Clarence, locked up in the Tower, was already dead to him.

James Harrington wondered whether it wouldn’t have been better to keep hold of Hornby than to be reduced to this. The war in France had come to nothing and now here he was, guarding the king’s door whilst he cavorted with one of his mistresses. He tried to shut his ears to the cries of pleasure from within the chamber. Not only did they make him ache uncomfortably for the chance of some release of his own, but he hated having to deceive the queen about what occurred in the king’s bedchamber. Though she must be aware of what went on, thought James, as another shriek rattled the bedposts within.

James had spent the evening with the king, Lord Hastings and the Marquis of Dorset as they had become drunk enough to want a woman, but not too drunk to lose the wherewithal to satisfy one. Lord Hastings and the queen’s eldest son delighted in encouraging the king and Edward seemed to lose all self-control when in their company. The result was that they had each chosen themselves a bedmate and it had fallen to James to stand outside the king’s door and admit no one, especially not the queen.

At length the door was pulled open and Mistress Shore came out with a gleam in her eye and a handful of gold. She smiled broadly at James and he knew that it was his duty to escort her back to her husband’s house in the city. As they walked in silence, their way lit only by the circle of light from the lamp that he carried, James glanced up at the keep of the Tower. In some chamber there, the Duke of Clarence awaited the decision of parliament on the charge that he had committed treason against the king. The evidence against him was conclusive and the duke himself had shown no remorse. It seemed that he truly believed he was the rightful king, and nothing would stop his claim other than his execution. James shuddered and averted his eyes as he heard one of the menagerie lions give out a predatory roar. Mistress Shore moved closer to him. She was scented with some herb that he found pleasant and as her fingers tightened on his arm in the darkness he cursed his own lack of self-control as he found himself attracted to her. Perhaps the rumours that persisted about women and witchcraft were true, he thought. The women who surrounded the king certainly seemed to know how to make him do their bidding.

Having seen the lady safely to her door with her bulging purse, James trudged back through the quiet streets. He was not happy in the service of the king, but there was little he could do to change it.

Lord Stanley returned home to a late supper with a face even more solemn than usual on the day that parliament heard the charges against George, Duke of Clarence. Anne was hungry as they sat down to eat yet uneasy about what news her father-in-law had brought. Lord Stanley nodded to the priest to say grace and after the butler had brought the wine and the dishes had been set on the table, the Countess of Richmond broke the tense silence by asking what verdict had been given.

“The parliament found him guilty,” replied Lord Stanley, “and a sentence of execution was pronounced by your cousin the Duke of Buckingham.” For a moment a shocked hush held them all in its grasp as no one put spoon to mouth or reached to carve from the meat. “By law there can be no other outcome,” he added.

“When will he be put to death?” asked the countess after a moment, putting down her knife beside her platter and dabbing her lips with her napkin.

“I do not know,” said Lord Stanley. “That is for the king to decide.”

“And how? Surely not by hanging? A public beheading?”

“I would suppose so. Though I doubt it will be popular.”

Anne pushed her food aside untasted. “Did no one speak on his behalf?” she asked. Lord Stanley regarded her for a moment.

“He was accused by no one but the king and only Clarence spoke in his own defence. He remained defiant and made many accusations against the king: that he was born a bastard and that he, George, was the rightful heir; that the king had had his wife and child poisoned and had tried to poison him. His railing was bitter. There was nothing that could have been said in his defence. It had all been said earlier. Once Clarence was arrested and accused, the process could not be stopped.” He paused and she was surprised when his expression softened slightly; she had never seen any kindness in his face before. “The Duke of Gloucester has done everything within his power to save him,” he told her. “But in the end Clarence damned himself. All that is left is to pray for his soul.”

There was an uneasy atmosphere in the city as they waited to see what would ensue. Each day Anne expected to hear that it had been done and she dreaded Lord Stanley coming back from court with the news.