By Loyalty Bound: The Story of the Mistress of King Richard III (4 page)

He rubbed his painfully cold limbs to life. He had ridden ill-equipped for camping and had slept, wrapped in a horse blanket, on the damp forest floor. He eased himself up to a crouching position and grasped clumsily for the sword that was sheathed beside him. The steady tramp of booted feet and the occasional snicker of an excited horse came closer and he realised that the army was moving south. Why he was not sure. It could mean that Stanley had got hold of his young nieces, Anne and Elizabeth, but it seemed unlikely given the way that his brother kept them closely guarded, and would have guarded them closer still with the enemy outside the walls.

Shivering, he rose to his feet and picked up his make-shift bed. His horse was tugging at the reins that tied it to a nearby tree. It too had heard the other horses and was keen to join them.

“Shush,” soothed Robert, running his hand down the animal’s bony nose and over its soft muzzle, hoping that it would not give him away. He hoped that if he kept his hand pressed down, preventing the horse tossing back its head, it was less likely to give off a revealing whinny. And, with luck, the Stanley army would have no interest in pursuing some felon even if they did catch sight of him lurking in the trees as they passed.

When Robert was sure that the last of the foot soldiers had gone he led his horse towards the road. It was churned to mud with the melting snow and the multitude of feet and, together with the distant sounds of the men, a steaming pile of horse dung gave testament to how recently they had passed. Robert turned his own mount north, gathered the reins and having pushed his foot to the stirrup pulled his aching body into the saddle. He would be home soon and with luck there would be breakfast waiting.

James Harrington stood alone in the hall with the Duke of Gloucester. His earlier euphoria at the sight of the Stanley army disappearing southwards had been replaced by unease and the duke had echoed his own thoughts. Something more than their resistance had caused the withdrawal and another uprising was not beyond possibility.

“I’ll ride to York,” said the duke. “If I need you I will send word.”

“You know my loyalty to you is without question,” James told him. “Your support here has been more than I am worthy of. If you need me to fight alongside you then I will come.”

The duke’s sharp blue eyes met his for a moment. James knew that he acknowledged the unspoken meaning that it was to him, rather than the king, that the Harringtons were loyal now that Warwick was no longer their lord.

“I’ve sent Ratcliffe to the stables to see our horses are prepared. We’ll leave as soon as they are ready.”

“But you will take breakfast first,” said James as a servant carried in some bread and set it on the trestle.

“A quick meal only,” said the duke. “I would like to reach York by nightfall. And that means we will have to ride at speed.”

Anne was in her bedchamber. She hadn’t been back there since the night the siege had begun. The bed was still unmade and her chamber robe lay on the floor where she had left it in her haste to dress. She picked it up and folded it before pulling the sheets and covers straight. Then she crossed to the window and opened the shutters to let in some slanted sunshine. In a moment, she thought, she would call for a servant to bring her some warm water so that she could wash and change her underlinen, but in the meantime she felt compelled to look out, to be sure that the siege really was over.

She could see men leading donkey-carts laden with fresh supplies up to the castle. For the moment the outer gate stood wide open to the market place and as far as she could see there was no sign of the Stanley army.

“They’ve left a mess,” commented Izzie, coming up behind her.

“Have they?” asked Anne, wishing that she had her sister’s acute eyesight. But then, she reflected, she didn’t really want to see rubbish on the banks of the Wenning.

“There’ll be hot water soon,” said Izzie. “I can’t wait to get out of this gown. I feel like I’ve spent a lifetime in it.” As she spoke Anne heard the sound of wood being chopped for fires. It was reassuring and calmingly familiar, and she looked forward to mutton for supper and fresh baked bread. Life would return to normal, for a while at least. But deep down, she knew that sooner or later the

Stanleys would return.

James beckoned his brother forward and Robert came towards them with a frown, as if he was seeking an explanation for why the Duke of Gloucester was eating breakfast in Hornby Castle whilst wearing his armour. Robert made a distracted bow to the duke and glanced from him to his brother with wary brown eyes. He looked cold and wet and very tired, thought James, wondering where his brother had been sheltering during the Stanley siege.

“Your Grace,” said Robert.

“Do you bring news?” asked the duke eagerly.

James watched as his brother reached into his pouch for a damp letter. “The king is gathering an army again. There is talk of Warwick returning with the backing of the French queen.”

The Duke of Gloucester slammed his fist down on the table, making the board leap from its supports. The cups and platters quivered. “I knew there was more to the Stanley withdrawal than a distaste for inclement weather. When did you receive word from the king?”

“A few days past,” admitted Robert.

“My brother could not have brought news any sooner,” pointed out James.

The duke nodded, though it was obvious that his thoughts had already moved on.

“I must leave,” he said.

Stripped of the wet clothing that had clung coldly to his body, Robert stepped into the tub of water. It was hot. Too hot, and he stood for a moment as feeling flooded back into his lower legs turning them from white to a vivid red. Then he eased himself down, cursing as the hot water touched his nether regions. The servant stepped forward with a bucket of cold, but Robert waved him away. It would cool quickly enough and for now the pain was almost pleasurable as he allowed the fragrant liquid to wash over him and the steam to unclog his blocked nose. He leaned his head back on the hard edge of the tub and stared at the thick oak beams that straddled the roof of his bedchamber. It would have been pleasant to sleep, but his mind was still too busy pondering on the events of the morning.

When he’d climbed the outer steps in search of his brother he had never expected to find him with the Duke of Gloucester. He’d known the young duke since his days at Middleham when he was being educated under the tutelage of the Warwicks. As a squire there, Robert had been given responsibility for overseeing young Diccon’s training in the tiltyard and he’d found the boy a talented horseman though more interested in hunting with hawks than refining his skills in the joust. He also remembered how the boy was often to be found in a quiet corner reading a book or playing chess with anyone who would indulge him. The earl had been apt to mutter worried comments about such sedentary pastimes, but what Diccon had learned from them had not been wasted. He was a tactician and his assurances that he would intercede on their behalf about the inheritance gave Robert hope. He knew the king was fond of his youngest brother and if anyone could persuade him to change his mind then Diccon could.

He shifted in the tub and began to ease the bandage from his leg to inspect his wound. He winced as the cloth stuck to the dried blood, but underneath the cut looked clean and there was no sign of any yellowish seepage. He was gently splashing some water over it when a cold draught at his back alerted him to the opening of the door and a moment later his brother came round the screen. He had changed his clothes and his face was freshly shaven. He carried a flagon and two cups, which he placed on the floor before fetching a stool, sitting down and pouring wine.

“Here,” he said as he handed him a cup. “I managed to keep this back.”

“I would have preferred my betrothed to perform such duties,” remarked Robert as he took it and drank the rich red burgundy that sent heat radiating from his chest outwards to his limbs.

“I will not offer to wash your back then,” replied James, “but I would like to hear your opinion on a matter concerning Anne whilst the women are not around.”

“Indeed? I thought it would have been sieges and rebellions that troubled your thoughts, not our niece.”

“It is all intertwined,” said James as he twisted the cup in his hand. “I have been set to thinking these past few days.”

“On what?” asked Robert, intrigued by his brother’s serious expression and at a loss to guess what he was about to say.

“Gloucester seems interested in Anne,” his brother told him. “After all, they are of much the same age and she is not unattractive.”

“And what of her?”

“She sought out his company at every opportunity. I believe she likes him.”

“But a marriage is out of the question. He is as much as promised...” Robert fell silent as he realised the implication. There would be no match now between Diccon and Warwick’s daughter. “But whilst Stanley is her guardian we have no say in the matter of a husband for her. Or are you guilty of letting your thoughts run ahead of you and thinking that we need to make a match for her when the castle is returned to us?”

“I hope that the young duke can persuade the king to return the castle. But he may argue more forcefully if he has some reward. I will not discourage a friendship between him and Anne.”

Robert looked up from where a swirl of fresh blood from his leg was clouding the water and stared at his brother.

“How far are you prepared to encourage it?” he asked.

His brother stood up and drained his cup in a hasty gulp. “Would it worry you if Stanley were to receive spoiled goods?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

Anne picked at the food on her trencher without interest as her uncles discussed Hornby yet again. It was almost a week now since the Duke of Gloucester had left. There had been no word from him and the dull ache in her throat and behind her eyes had not lessened.

Beside her Izzie groaned as Uncle James began to retell the tale of how he had tried to prove his loyalty to the Yorkists by taking King Henry prisoner. It was a story they had heard many times before, about how, after the battle at Towton and the defeat of the Lancastrian army, Henry had run off and spent months hiding in the houses of northern nobles who were still loyal to him.

“He was just sitting down to dinner with the Dean of Windsor when we burst in,” related her uncle. “We took him to the castle at Clitheroe and locked him up overnight before taking him to London.” He paused with a gloomy look. “Yes, I was rewarded, but not with what I desired and now it seems that even keeping Henry in the Tower has not secured Edward on the throne.”

“Henry is only a pawn,” said Robert. “It always was his queen who made the moves. And it doesn’t surprise me that she will not give up striving to secure the throne for her son.”

“And is the old king really mad?” asked Anne.

“Mad enough,” remarked James, pouring more wine from their replenished cellars. “But maybe not as mad as Warwick. Whoever would have believed that he would turn against Edward and ally himself with his old enemy Margaret of Anjou?”

“Warwick wants to show Edward that he can’t rule without his support,” said Robert. “He always was a man to exploit weakness for his own gain.”

“Perhaps he would like to be king himself,” suggested James.

“If not a king then a man who makes kings. If he could be rid of Edward he might put Clarence on the throne.”

“That would indeed be a tragedy. I’ve met Clarence and I am of the opinion that he’s a mile short of midsummer.”

“What do you mean?” asked Anne.

“Your uncle means that Clarence is the idiot of the family; easily led by promises of grandeur.”

“What will happen?” asked Anne.

“Rumour has it that Warwick and Clarence have met with Margaret of Anjou at the court of the French king Louis.”

“Sworn enemies joining forces?” laughed James. “Nothing will come of it. He’ll be home soon enough with his tail between his legs like a whipped dog.”

“I don’t know,” said Robert seriously. “Warwick will do whatever it takes to get his own way, and he and Edward never did agree about which side to support in the French war. I think that there may be more battles to come,” he said and, although the hall had grown warm from the generous fire, a cold shiver ran through Anne as she listened to their words.

“We may be called away to fight for the king,” Uncle James told her. “If the Duke of Gloucester sends for us we cannot refuse him.”

“What if Lord Stanley comes?” she asked.

“He will ride to fight for the king as well. You will not be in any danger from him.”

Robert dropped the latch on his bedchamber door, but rather than lying down to sleep he stood and stared at the clear night sky. A coloured iris surrounded the full moon. The night would bring a frost that would turn the water in the rutted roads to ice. He shivered and hoped that no messenger would come from York just yet. Cold days spent in the saddle and even colder nights under the flimsy cover of a tent held no appeal for him, and a campaign against Warwick also meant that his marriage to Isabella would have to be postponed. Damn the man, he thought, as he got into the deathly cold bed. He was tired of waiting to have his betrothed’s warm body to heat his sheets. His whole life seemed to consist of waiting: waiting for the king to give them Hornby, waiting for peace, waiting to be wed.

As he lay awake, not daring to move his feet from the one spot that was warmed, he considered what James had said about Anne. His niece had certainly seemed more distracted than was her nature this past week, though what was the cause he could only guess. Women’s minds were never easy to understand and Anne had changed from the little girl who was happy with a plate of sweetmeats or a new doll to play with into a moody creature who often displeased her aunt with her desire to be left alone in her bedchamber; and Elizabeth was even worse. Heaven preserve the man who took her to wife, he thought, as he risked turning over to ease the pressure on his sore leg.

When his father and brother had died at Wakefield he and James had ridden through the night to reach Hornby Castle to secure it and their young nieces against any other claim. James had been confident that even if Hornby did pass to Anne he would be given the guardianship of his niece and would retain the castle until she came of age, when he would choose a suitable and compliant husband for her who would not cause him trouble. Yet despite their continued support of King Edward he still insisted that the guardianship should be Stanley’s. But what if James was right and Anne was enamoured of the Duke of Gloucester? Could it be used to their advantage, he wondered. Despite his brother’s ambitions, Robert could see no hope of Anne becoming a duchess, even with Hornby Castle as her dowry. But as a bribe to keep the duke petitioning the king on their behalf she could be used. It was a shame, he mused, as he thought of Anne with her thick, dark hair and green eyes. She was a pretty girl and would have made some man a desirable wife. But if that man was to be a Stanley then Robert agreed with his brother that there was no reason for her to be claimed as a virgin bride.

Anne sat up in the bed, huddled under her cloak for warmth. The pain in her abdomen was striking through her in intensifying waves and she pulled her knees up to her chest to try to get some relief from it. By the low light of the flickering night candle she could see the flask that held the rest of the herbal brew that the aptly named Mistress Payne, the village wise woman, had brought for her. Hoping not to wake Izzie, who slept silently beside her, Anne eased her bare feet to the scratchy rushes that covered the floor. With one hand clutched to the place where the pain threatened to rip her apart, she felt her way to the coffer and poured a little of the foul smelling liquid into the cup and sipped at it, pulling a disgusted face at the darkness.

“Tis part of becoming a woman,” Mistress Payne had told her. “There is nothing to be afraid of. Tis nature’s way of clearing a woman’s unused seed. Once you are married and carry a child it will cease.”

The first time Anne had found blood on her bedsheets she was at a loss to explain it. She’d thought that she must have somehow injured herself as she slept and her sister’s frantic cries had done little to calm her. But the servant who had come to take the sheets for laundering had explained that it was coming from her womb and that it happened to all women who were not bearing a child. She’d found Anne some linen cloths to catch the blood and taken the soiled bedlinen away without further comment. At first Anne had thought the pain was something she had to endure, until her aunt found her curled and weeping on the bed and having discovered the cause of her agony had sent for Mistress Payne.

Anne had felt able to ask the wise woman all the questions that she had not dared to ask her aunt and later she had shared her new knowledge with Izzie, who had been horrified and declared that it was a pretty poor trick for God to visit on women – and Anne had been shocked and told her to pray for forgiveness for her blasphemy.

Anne had also asked Mistress Payne about how babies came to grow inside a woman’s womb and the wise woman had explained how the mixing of a man’s and a woman’s seed was achieved. At first Anne had been astounded by what she was told. She thought about the two children of her aunt and Uncle James and found it hard to believe that such an act as the one described had taken place between them. But Mistress Payne had laughed at her doubt and told her that it was an act to be enjoyed, though at the time Anne could not comprehend how lying down whilst a man pushed his private member inside her could possibly give her any pleasure. But when the Duke of Gloucester had grasped her arm and taken her to her uncle’s solar she had felt something clench inside her, near the place that pained her now, and it had brought a feeling that she craved to experience again. She looked at the bed as the pain began to ease and she imagined herself lying down on the mattress for the duke. It was a thought that both frightened and excited her.

James read the message, written by a secretary and signed by the Duke of Gloucester with his seal attached. It seemed that the threat from France was credible and that Warwick and Margaret of Anjou were gathering troops for an invasion force to remove Edward from the throne. The king, said the duke, was worried, especially as he had already been forced to put down a rebellion in Yorkshire led by Sir John Conyers and John, Lord Scrope of Bolton. The duke wrote to ask James to encourage the local men who were still loyal to the Harringtons to turn out for the king. Of the inheritance he said nothing, though a footnote, added in his own hand, said that he would come to Hornby soon and James hoped that he would bring better news; perhaps news that he didn’t dare set on paper until it was more certain.

He told the messenger with the boar badge pinned to his hat to go down to the kitchen and ask for food and drink. “The steward will find you a pallet for tonight. There’s no point in your riding back to York if your lord is to attend on us here,” he told him and as the man left he began to consider why Richard of Gloucester had decided to return to Hornby when he was supposed to be gathering troops to meet with the king’s forces to the south.

The attraction had to be Anne he decided, and he clicked his fingers at a servant who had just come into the hall with a basket of logs for the hearth.

“Find the lady Anne and tell her I desire a word with her in my solar,” he said.

James busied himself with his secretary, dictating a letter to be sent around to the villages and hamlets reminding men that although their lord was for the moment Thomas Stanley, they owed their ultimate fealty to the king and that they must leave their homes and rally once again, with horse and harness, to fight for him. When he saw his niece at the door he beckoned her to come inside and pointed to the stool near the fire. He remained silent until the scribe had finished his work and gathered his pens and ink to go to his desk in the hall to make the copies ready for the messengers. Then James turned to Anne who was looking up at him expectantly. Of his two nieces she had always been the more biddable and he hoped that she would not make a fuss about what he intended to ask of her. Now that Warwick had fled, the Harringtons were in need of a new lord and who better than the king’s youngest brother, Gloucester. Once Warwick and Clarence were defeated, the young duke would be next in line to the throne after Edward and he was becoming increasingly influential. His intervention on their behalf concerning the castle and the lands had been gratifying and James had decided that the time was right to offer the duke something to keep his favour; a gift that would also serve to spite Lord Stanley.

Anne studied her uncle’s face as he moved his chair a little before sitting down and brushing some unseen mark from his sleeve. He smiled uneasily at her and she felt her heart quicken as she hoped that he was not about to impart some bad news. She had seen the messenger and knew that he had come from York.

“I have had word from the Duke of Gloucester,” he said at last.

“Does he send word about the inheritance, Uncle?” she asked.

“No. But I hope that he will have something to say on the matter when he comes.”

“The duke is to return to Hornby?” Anne heard the rising pitch of anticipation in her voice and wasn’t sure what to make of her uncle’s smile. She waited to see what else he had to say. She was sure that it wasn’t just to share this news that he had sent for her.

Anne recalled the other times that she had been summoned into the solar. As far as she could remember they had all been occasions when she had been brought before her uncle to receive some punishment for a misdemeanour: giggling with Izzie during mass, doing badly at her lessons, or the time when she had allowed her aunt’s merlin to escape from its perch in the hall and it had flown out of the open door never to be found. But today it was her uncle who seemed to be the penitent as he shifted restlessly on his chair before he spoke again. “You are pleased that the duke favours us with his presence?” he asked.

“I... I... Yes, it pleases me,” she stammered, feeling her cheeks burn hotly as her uncle smiled at her again.

“It would please me if you would show the duke some friendship,” said her uncle. “I have seen that he is drawn to you, as you are to him... and I am minded to offer encouragement to an association.”

Anne stared at her uncle. Was he trying to arrange a marriage between her and Richard of Gloucester? But how could that be achieved when her guardianship belonged to Lord Stanley?

“Do not hope for marriage,” he continued as if he could hear her thoughts. “Your legal guardian would never agree and without Hornby you would be no heiress. But there are other ways of gaining the favour of influential men.”

He looked away from her and went to stand by the window, which opened onto the inner courtyard. “Get on with your work you lazy wenches!” he suddenly bellowed at some servants below. Anne jumped. They had, no doubt, only paused to gossip for a moment as they went about their tasks and her uncle’s reaction betrayed his own discomfort. “You know that I have a son, John,” he continued, still watching the scene below. “His mother still lives. I provide her with a yearly pension and a town house in Lancaster. She was never my wife.”

Anne continued to stare at her uncle’s back. He was wearing a dark brown coat, lined with fur and his hair, where a few threads of silver shone amongst the brown, curled neatly inwards as it touched the collar. He didn’t turn and she was unsure if she was expected to reply, and if so what response would be appropriate. She had known John a little when he’d lived at Hornby during his days as a squire. She remembered being taken down to the tiltyard to watch him cutting the heads of cabbages in two with a series of precise sweeps of his sword as he rode past them at speed on his horse. She had thought him handsome and brave, but had not known him well enough to miss him when he left Hornby to work as a secretary to the Earl of Warwick. Where he was now she had no idea and she wondered for a moment if her uncle knew.