The Rose of York (10 page)

At the end of the table, Anne said to Richard, “I fear my father is displeased.”

Richard’s eyes flew to the Kingmaker, who a moment before had been deep in conversation with the King. He now sat stiffly as his brother, Bishop Neville, talked with the Countess. Though Warwick pretended to be listening, his face was set in a hard line and his eyes smouldered. Richard’s stomach clenched tight. The King and the Kingmaker had glanced at them several times as they spoke, and Edward’s expression, normally so good-natured, had darkened.
They were discussing us
, Richard thought.

“And it bodes us no good,” Anne said, finishing his thought, as she often did these days. Richard had no heart to reply. He pushed his plate away and looked up to find Edward beckoning.

“I wish your company a while, Dickon,” Edward said, patting the chair a servant placed beside him. “The entertainment is about to begin.”

Drums rolled and a dwarf led a huge brown bear into the hall. The minstrels struck up a Saracen melody. The dwarf pulled on the bear’s chain and the bear clapped her hands with a jangle of silver bracelets. He tugged again and she twirled and somersaulted around the floor, veils flying, coloured glass necklaces flashing. Edward threw his head back and roared with laughter. Richard loved the sound of Edward’s laugh, so joyous, so exuberant. That was part of his charm—the ability to enjoy life, to revel in the moment and never to worry about the past or the future. He wished he could laugh like that and always be so sure about everything, instead of being shot through with doubts. He had so many doubts—about his future, about whether he’d marry Anne, about whether he’d measure up. He even had doubts about his paternity.

When he was small, he used to study his mother, hoping her guard would drop and he’d learn who his father really was. But after the death of the Duke of York, she withdrew from the world and spent most of her day in prayer, living almost a monastic life, and Richard resigned himself never to know the truth of his birth. Instead, he sought comfort in the tales of the Round Table, for the legendary Arthur had suffered the same doubts. It was another reason why he had taken King Arthur to heart.

“Why so sombre, little brother?” Edward demanded. “Is the wine not good? Is the bear not amusing?” He raised his rubystudded cup to his lips.

“Tomorrow you leave,” Richard said.

“But you’re coming with me,” Edward exclaimed with surprise.

“Not to fight Marguerite. To observe the siege. I’m not in danger. You are.”

Edward regarded him a moment. “More reason to laugh today, Dickon.” He drained his flagon and set it down with a resounding clang. In one agile leap, he was across the table, making a sweeping bow to the bear. Gasps of horror sounded around the room and mouths fell open. Women clutched their crucifixes; men unsheathed their daggers and leapt to their feet. The dwarf blanched, took a step forward. “But my Liege…”

Edward waved him away. The hall fell deadly silent. Her eye caught by a jewel twinkling in Edward’s crown, the bear stared at him as if bewitched. Edward turned, picked up a bowl of custard from a table, and held it out to her. Sniffing the air, she ambled over, stuck her snout into the silver bowl and licked noisily. When she looked up, yellow custard covered her face. Slowly laughter erupted, softly at first, then rose in volume until it filled the hall. For a moment Richard forgot his worries and laughed as happily as any child.

“Dickon laughs,” Edward announced. “My little brother laughs!” He leapt over the table and back into his seat. “Now, Dickon, ’tis your turn to perform. What shall it be? A dance? A song?” He looked around and a chorus of Aye’s swept the room. “Sing for us, Dickon!” he demanded.

A minstrel hurried to the table with a lute. Richard’s eyes met Anne’s. Then he bent his ear to the instrument, strummed gently, and sang:

“Love, thou art bitter; sweet is death to me,

I fain would follow love, if that could be;

I needs must follow death, who calls for me.

Call and I follow, I follow….”

So pure and melodious was his young voice that the hall remained quiet for some moments after Richard set down his lute. Then loud applause shattered the silence. Edward said, “Dickon, that was splendid—but far too sad, little brother. Play a gay ditty.”

“I don’t know one, my lord.”

Edward gripped his shoulder. “Then learn, Dickon. Life can’t be all grief or we couldn’t survive it.” He tousled Richard’s dark hair and rose to his feet. The hall hushed. “On the second of October, the feast of St. Thomas, His Grace the Duke of Gloucester celebrated the eleventh year of his birth, in honour of which we wish to make an announcement.” He turned to Richard. “My gracious brother, we appoint you Admiral of England, Ireland, and Aquitaine.”

Richard blushed. Edward lifted his gold and ruby cup. “To Lord Richard of Gloucester!”

“To Lord Richard of Gloucester!” echoed the hall.

When he sat down, Edward leaned close and said in a low voice, “I regret I had to take back the lands I gave you in August, Dickon, but George raised such a fuss, I felt compelled to transfer them to him. This is compensation.”

Richard nodded. Lands, titles, money didn’t mean as much to him as they meant to George, who never seemed to have enough to suit him.

Edward smiled and shifted his large frame in his chair. His bright blue eyes swept the room. Abruptly his expression changed. He moved forward in his chair with interest, and stared as if mesmerised. Richard followed the direction of his gaze. It had caught on a golden-haired beauty at a table below. He watched Edward give the blond a slow secret smile; watched her smile back; watched Edward’s gaze return to his own table and encounter Warwick. A knowing, half-contemptuous smile fluttered on the Kingmaker’s lips. Edward clenched his jaw and turned away.

Richard was seized with foreboding.

~ * * * ~

“Young as I am, yet would I do my best.”

King Edward was in the antechamber of his private apartments at Windsor enjoying a cup of wine in amiable conversation with Hastings and some of his lords when Warwick burst in, unannounced.

“My lord king, how can you rest easy when there’s such trouble in the realm?” Warwick growled, throwing his gauntlets on a nearby table. His obeisance was scanty, a bare acknowledgement of the royal presence. “1464 has been nothing but trouble since the clock heralded its first accursed hour!”

The lords stared in shock at the impropriety of Warwick’s manner, but Edward grinned. “Ah, Warwick, a cold wind blows you in. Here, have some wine.” He pushed his own cup into Warwick’s hand. “To answer your question, let me see… Last I heard, there was trouble in Wales, unrest in the Midlands and Lancashire, and rioting in Gloucestershire… Then Somerset, whom we captured and pardoned—in January, I believe—went back on his oath last month—can’t think why!—and fled to Scotland to rejoin Her Grace, the Bitch of Anjou. Ah, yes, and Bamborough, which we twice won back from gentle Marguerite, fell to her again a week ago… Has something happened that I should be concerned about, fair cousin?”

Warwick gave an uncertain smile. “I’m glad you can jest, cousin. The fact is, we’ll have no peace in the kingdom until we rid the North permanently of Lancastrian troublemakers. I know you haven’t much taste for the soldier’s life, but there’s no other way. And no time to lose.”

Edward threw himself into a chair and propped his feet up on the table, displaying thigh-high boots of gleaming black Spanish leather. He indicated the silver flask and a server rushed to pour him a cup of wine. “Wars cost money, cousin. Since we have none, can you suggest what we can use to pay the troops?” He drank deep, and gave a smack of appreciation.

Warwick gripped the table, eyed him urgently. “We have no choice, Edward. We must raise the money by any means possible. Until we do, the crown’s not truly ours.”

Edward twisted in his chair and looked up at his cousin. “Ours?” he said with the lift of an eyebrow.

Warwick reddened, but offered no explanation or apology, and Edward didn’t demand one. He turned his attention to the window, staring out silently. Snow was falling more heavily than before, blanketing the banks of the Thames with crystalline brilliance in the March dusk. Abruptly he slammed down a palm.

“Very well. I’ll see how many pence I can scrape together. Then I’ll dispatch commissions of array to the south and order conscription. Will that content you, Warwick?”

Warwick set his wine cup down. “It’s the only way, Edward.” He bowed. “By your leave.”

“Incidentally,” Edward called out to his retreating back. “The crown is mine, and mine alone, cousin.”

Warwick halted stiffly, then resumed his steps. Laughter followed him out the door.

~*~

On a sunny Sabbath afternoon, Warwick returned to Middleham with startling news.

“Dickon’s been appointed sole commissioner of array for nine counties.”

The Countess ran to keep pace with him as he dismounted and marched up the outer staircase into the Keep. “Sole? He’s but a child. Raising an army is work for grown men.”

“Evidently the King has supreme confidence in our Dickon.”

“Why not George? He’s three years older.”

“You know as well as I that George interests himself only in clothes and enjoyment—and Bella. I never knew two brothers so unalike. Where’s Dickon? We must get the word to him. He has much work ahead.”

~*~

In the blossom-laden month of May, Richard led his troops north to meet the royal army, his head high. He wished Anne could see him now. His mind strayed to their last afternoon together, when they’d played Crusaders and Infidels in the melting snow with his friends, the two Toms, Francis, and Rob. “Make up your mind, Anne. Are you in?” he’d demanded. She’d pouted, looking at him shyly from beneath her lashes in her endearing way. “Only if I don’t have to be a horse again.” He’d shrugged. “There’s but one other choice, then. Are you willing to be a damsel in distress?” With a sigh, Anne had gathered her cloak of violet wool around her and climbed into position on a low branch of a crab-apple. “You always rescue me,” she’d complained, “but one day I’ll rescue you. See if I don’t!”

Richard smiled, remembering. It was only because she’d refused to be a damsel in distress that he’d come up with the idea of the horse so many times.

They were nearing Leicester, the point of muster with Edward’s army. The air hung heavy with a coming storm and thunder rumbled distantly. They climbed through heavy yellow fog and all at once Richard caught a glimpse of a hillside village to his left. He felt as if he gazed through gauzy veils, for the picturesque cluster of church steeples and whitewashed cottages lay half-hidden by curls of faint, floating mist. Cows grazed among purple wildflowers, and orange clouds glowed with flashes of jagged lightning, illuminating the sleepy village in spasms of glittering, uncanny light.

Richard blinked. “What is that place?”

“Bosworth, my lord,” the Friendly Lion replied.

“Bosworth,” Richard echoed softly, unable to tear his gaze from the scene. “It doesn’t look real, does it, Howard? Like a faerie place.”

“Faerie? Frankly, my lord, I find it a strange sight… Makes me think of phantoms.”

Richard considered the thought for a long moment before glancing away to find Edward waiting ahead at the bow bridge that led into Leicester. Edward was grinning, and it irked him that his brother should be so amused to see him leading an army. He might cut a small figure among all these men, but he had done man’s work though he was not yet twelve years old.

“My Lord of Gloucester,” Edward said, greeting him from the saddle in a formal, royal manner that helped to mollify Richard. “Your King thanks you for the army you have delivered. However, there’s no longer urgency. We’ve received excellent tidings. Lord Montagu defeated the Lancastrians at Hedgely Moor.”

Richard felt his disappointment as keenly as if he’d been struck a blow on the tiltyard. He had burned to see action, burned to distinguish himself as Edward had at his age, and now that chance had been snatched away. “Our noble cousin Lord Montagu is a valiant general,” he said with dignity. Then, with a crack in his composure, he added, “But what now?”

Edward exchanged a look with Hastings. “Now we celebrate,” he laughed. “And, at our leisure, we’ll head north to help John finish off the Lancastrians.”

~*~

Richard followed expectantly as Edward and Hastings led the way into a dimly lit townhouse in Leicester for the surprise they had planned for him. They were treating him differently now. Like an equal. A bosom companion. One of the men—no longer just Edward’s baby brother. He took care to walk with a swagger.

A black-clad woman with hair on her chin met them in the hall. She led them up a staircase and along a passageway to a room decorated in red velvet and heavy with the odour of sweet spices. Candles flickered and maidens with unbound hair reclined on silk pallets, laughing and eating grapes, pouring wine and proffering goblets. Richard stared, his heart pumping erratically. The women were bare-breasted.