The Rose of York (17 page)

Bess pulled away and looked up at him, a smile on her lovely lips. “My dearest lord, I’ve been waiting to tell you. We’re going to have a child.”

~ * * * ~

“They… that most impute a crime are pronest to it.”

On a chilly March afternoon, the day after he had returned from attending a council meeting in York with Warwick, Richard stole away with Anne to the stately chestnut they had made their own. Pine needles swished under their feet and the din of the castle receded into a gentle quiet, broken only by birdsong and the sweep of the wind through the woods. A running brook gurgled nearby with water so clear the speckled gravel at its bottom glistened like shiny gems. The brook marked the boundary of their stronghold, their secret place, their own mythical kingdom of Avalon where as children, they had ruled supreme as king and queen, with no grown-ups to tell them what to do.

But they were children no longer. It was 1466 and the cares of the real world could not be banished so easily. On this day a sense of dread enveloped Richard like a pall.

“All will be well,” Anne said, watching him. “The King has asked my lord father to be godfather to the newborn princess, and my gracious uncle to baptise her. Surely that’s a good sign?”

Toying with the ruby ring his father had given him, Richard made no answer. Aye, to all outward appearances all seemed well enough. Edward made gestures and Warwick accepted them. In February, three days before the feast of St. Valentine, the queen had given birth to a girl she named Elizabeth, in her own honour, and Edward had made Warwick godfather. He sent the three Neville brothers to negotiate a truce with the Scots and let Warwick head embassies to Burgundy and France. But Richard had spent time in both camps and knew the truth. He’d been with Warwick and Edward as they passed through London and the villages. He had heard the crowds cry, “Warwick! Warwick!” as though the Kingmaker were a god dropped from the skies. And he’d been with Edward in his private chamber and seen him pace back and forth, angrily shouting that the people loved Warwick more than they loved him, their King.

Then there was the queen. She lost no opportunity to fan Edward’s jealousy. In his presence she’d questioned Richard about Archbishop Neville’s feast in the North, which Edward had been unable to attend. It had been held at Cawood Castle on Michaelmas Day, a celebration of George Neville’s promotion to the Archbishopric of York.

“They say it was the largest feast ever,” Bess said, playing a game of ninepins with her son Thomas Grey in the garden at Windsor. “More splendid than any royal feast in living memory, correct, Dickon?”

Thomas Grey looked at Richard sideways and a corner of his mouth twisted upwards. With his insolent eyes and permanently mocking grin, Bess Woodville’s elder son was nearly as unpleasant as his mother, Richard thought. And he hated that the queen used the familiar with him. She had a way of making it sound demeaning. Richard knew she regarded him as her rival for Edward’s favours, and though she pretended affection in front of Edward, she made her disdain evident when he wasn’t present.

“I don’t know what they say, my lady,” Richard replied courteously. “I don’t listen to gossip.” He watched Edward step up to take his turn at the pins.

The Queen smiled sweetly. “You sat at the head table in a chief chamber of estate—with Lady Anne. A high honour, wasn’t it, Dickon?”

Richard hesitated, an eye on Edward, who was readying his club. “Aye, my lady,” he replied. Edward missed.

“Good that you are better on the battlefield, my lord,” the Queen remarked to Edward, then turned back to Richard. “How many guests were there, Dickon?”

There was no relief for him, he thought. “Many, my lady.” He watched Edward ready his club for another throw.

“Was the great hall full?”

“Quite full, my lady.”

“The great hall at Cawood is known to hold seven thousand. So six thousand—which is the figure most mentioned—would be no exaggeration?” Edward threw and missed again, his wooden club landing with a great thud against the stone base of a fountain. A servant ran to retrieve it.

“I suppose not, my lady,” Richard said as Thomas Grey stepped into position.

“And what did these six thousand guests eat?” she asked.

“Bulls and boar mostly, my lady, and some swans and peacocks,” Richard replied. Thomas Grey knocked down an ivory pin.

“Well done, Thomas!” the Queen exclaimed. She turned narrowed eyes on Richard. “There were four thousand sheep, and hundreds of bulls and oxen. Even porpoises and seals, were there not?”

“Aye, my lady.”

The Queen stole a glance at Edward, who was examining a platter of refreshments offered by a servant. Porpoises and seals were a delicacy, expensive and difficult to come by.

“A dozen porpoises and seals, in fact,” she continued relentlessly. “Four hundred swans, and over a hundred peacocks. For dessert there were thirteen thousand sweet dishes and a magnificent marchpane subtlety depicting St. George slaying the dragon. Life-size, so I hear.” Bess Woodville took a step forward and readied her club. She addressed herself to Edward with a sigh. “It must be wonderful to be as rich as Warwick and never have to worry about money, as we must do, my lord.”

Richard could have strangled her. Edward’s eyes were blazing. She threw her wooden club, knocked down five of the nine ivory pins, gave a gleeful cry, and clapped.

And so it continued the entire time he was at Windsor. Bess told Edward about a rumour on the Continent that Warwick had become his enemy, and Edward kicked a dog. When Bess informed him that King Louis of France sent Warwick copies of all his official correspondence with Edward and that on one of the embassies Louis had received Warwick as if he were King himself, not an emissary, Edward yelled at Richard and found fault with his soup, his squires, his scribes, and his tailor. “He even sent Warwick a hound, my lord, and asked Warwick to do him the honour of sending him a fine English hunting hound,” Bess persisted as she worked on her embroidery. “Why did he not ask you, my lord? You are King Louis’s equal. Not Warwick.”

Edward had thrown his goblet against the fireplace.

Then there had been that scene between Edward and Bess when Richard sat unnoticed, reading a book in a corner alcove of the royal apartments at the Tower.

“I’ve had a belly-full of your spies and their reports about Warwick!” Edward had stormed. “Lady, I order you to stop meddling in my affairs!” She had thrown herself at his feet. “My dearest lord, pray forgive me,” she’d wept. “I shall never speak of such matters again. The reports come not from spies— for I employ none—but from my royal uncle, the Count St. Pol, who was at the French court and learned of these matters. He bade me tell you for your own good. But never shall I mention them again, for never would I distress you.”

Seeing tears sparkling on Bess’s lovely face, Edward had taken her into his arms and begged forgiveness.

Richard knew that Bess lied. She employed an army of spies. He’d overheard her give them instructions on several occasions, and how else could she have known about his conversation with Desmond? She had asked Richard whether the Earl of Desmond had ever sent the tale of Tristan and Iseult he’d promised. A seemingly innocent question, but in that same conversation George had likened Bess to a rat. It was the Woodville’s way of telling Richard she knew. The Earl of Desmond had been right. There were no secrets in a castle— except from Edward. He was blind when it came to his queen.

Richard bit his lip. Whatever his misgivings about Warwick and Edward, he had to allay Anne’s fears.

“No doubt it’s a good sign that your gracious father will be godfather to my niece.” He looked up at her standing before him. She was twelve now, looked more a maiden than a child in her fitted green gown, and the summer sun, glinting through the leaves of the sprawling chestnut, threw darts of gold through her hair. Behind her the little brook babbled gently. Unable to restrain himself, he added with a rush of emotion, “I wish I could stay here at Middleham forever, Anne!”

Anne sat down and rested her cheek against his hand, suffused by joy, then quickly by guilt. At least Richard came often to Middleham, even if his stays grew shorter in duration as strained relations between their families made the King claim his presence elsewhere, but poor Bella lay pining for George, whom she hadn’t seen in months. “Has the King changed his mind about George and Bella?” she ventured. “Is there hope they might marry?”

Richard hesitated. Implicit in her question was the thought, ever at the back of their minds:
Is there hope we might marry?
He didn’t want to tell her the truth. She’d find out soon enough that Edward had tried to marry George to the daughter of Charles of Burgundy. The negotiations had failed. Warwick had headed the embassy to Burgundy and everyone knew he was against the marriage. He wanted George to marry Bella, not nine-yearold Mary of Burgundy, and he wanted Richard’s sister Meg to marry a French royal, not the recently widowed Charles of Burgundy, whom he despised. But while Warwick favoured France, the queen favoured Burgundy, the ally of her mother’s family, the St. Pols of Luxembourg. The question was, Who would win? France or Burgundy?

Warwick or the Queen?

And if it were the queen, would Warwick the Kingmaker accept a second humiliation at Edward’s hands?

Richard decided to tell Anne part of the truth. “Edward won’t hear of a match between George and Bella. He fears a union with your mighty father will make George more powerful and fill his head with even more dangerous notions. I think Edward would like to see George abroad. He’d be less trouble there.” He fidgeted with his ring. “Anne… I leave for London tomorrow.”

“So soon?”

“I must attend the queen’s churching with your lord father. It is politic, Anne.”

“Will you be back?” she asked in a choked voice.

A silence.

“Whatever happens between our families, Anne,” he replied at last, “know that I will raise Heaven and Earth to see you again.” A sickening sensation knotted his stomach. Nowadays each time they parted, he feared he might never see her again, and without Anne, the world was such an empty place. He looked up through the leaves at the shining sun. A bird stirred in the branches and a gust of wind rustled the leaves.

“Remember the afternoon we picnicked in the heather by the windmill?” he said, reaching into the past for comfort.

Anne smiled down at him.

There are moments you never forget
, he thought.
Images that are forever.
Part of the music of the North that would always be with him, like the roaring of the winds through the trees, the rushing of the rivers, the pine-scented freshness of the air, the cries of birds over the moors. And Anne, smiling at him with her flower-eyes.

He stood up, and took her hand into his own. “London is a foul place. Filthy. Malodorous. The court swarms with greedy, grasping, scheming Woodvilles. There’s whispering everywhere, deceit everywhere. I loathe London. If I had my way, I’d never leave you… never leave Middleham, or the North.” Under his breath, he added, “I fear trouble, my lady. If you go away, leave me a message here, on our tree. I shall do the same.” He fumbled in his doublet, and drew out a ring. “Wear this for me, Anne. As a remembrance.”

Anne gazed at the delicate ring worked in a motif of silver leaves. The gift meant one thing: trouble lay ahead. Tears welled. She averted her face blindly.

Richard put his hand under her chin and turned her head to the old tree that had been struck by lightning in its youth. The deep gash had never healed, and there, in its hollow heart, they had sheltered in many a rainstorm. “Look, Anne… it’s survived all kinds of storms, and so will we.” He slipped the ring on her finger. “Someday we’ll be together and never have to part. We must believe that.”

He couldn’t deny he had his own doubts sometimes, but like a beacon that guides a sailor safely back to shore at night, there was a certainty at his core that saw him through the blackness of his fears. Somehow, like their tree of Avalon, they would survive. Someday, somehow, they would be together.

~ * * * ~

“The meanest having power upon the highest, And the high purpose broken by the worm.”

The frantic blare of trumpets, the galloping hoofs through the gatehouse, and the shouts of men in the courtyard drowned out the mellow chanting of monks in the chapel. Archbishop Neville, in Middleham for the weekend, interrupted the Mass he was conducting to hurry to the courtyard with Warwick. The Countess followed with Richard and Anne. They reached the west door in time to hear Warwick groan. Beside him the Archbishop stood as if turned to stone, ashen as a ghost. Two messengers were kneeling, heads bowed, sobbing. A crowd had gathered around them, faces wet with tears.