Red Rose, White Rose (14 page)

This was no tipsy wedding promise. I understood his implied declaration of marital loyalty and when he had drunk, I gently took the cup from him and turned it, then pressed my own lips to where the rim was still warm from his and sipped at the rich red wine. Our eyes locked and I knew we had exchanged a solemn vow. ‘I shall hold you to that, my lord,’ I said softly. ‘And while you live I shall never be cup-bearer to another man.’

This exchange and Richard’s obvious sincerity did much to loosen the knot in my belly, as did the subsequent flow of wedding gifts presented to us. First and foremost a gloriously illuminated Book of Hours, ostensibly from King Henry but clearly acquired for him from France by his uncle Duke John of Bedford, judging by the skilful artistry displayed in its pages. My mother’s gift was a set of tapestries from Arras depicting the miracles of Christ, including the wedding at Cana, while from Hal and Alice came a pair of jewelled hanaps, from the Bishop of Durham a portable altar and a beautiful chased silver flagon from Will and Jane Fauconberg.

The loving smile on the cherubic face of Will’s childlike wife moved me deeply, especially when she laid her hands on her own swelling belly and asked in her piping voice, ‘Baby for Cicely soon, too?’ before embracing me enthusiastically. So she does understand what is happening to her, I thought, whatever people may think. I thanked my brother warmly for his gift and wished them both God’s blessing for the impending birth.

In the midst of this a courier arrived, whose appearance stirred a noisy reaction on the floor of the hall. His tunic bore the Neville saltire differenced by a black bull’s head and all present knew this indicated that he came from Brancepeth. He approached the dais and knelt, offering me a sealed letter.

I could feel my face drain of colour as he intoned clearly, ‘I bring greetings to her grace the Duchess of York from Sir John Neville of Brancepeth.’

My hand shook as I broke the seal but I did not unfold the letter. Whatever it contained I did not want to be the one who read it first. Instead I turned and handed it to Richard, sensing that a demonstration of my new subjection to his will would gratify him. ‘Read it, if it please you, my lord,’ I said, my heart in my mouth.

To my relief, after scanning the page Richard smiled broadly. ‘Sir John sends you a wedding gift, my lady. He describes it as “a gentle palfrey which will carry you faithfully into your new life”. What a chivalrous gesture. Where is the palfrey, goodman?’

‘In the stable, your grace.’

I heard my mother ask icily, ‘Is there no present from the earl?’ but there was no response. The courier merely studied the floor and shuffled his feet.

Richard appeared not to notice. ‘We will inspect it tomorrow. Pray convey her grace’s gratitude to Sir John.’

My lips smiled at the retiring courier but my heart and mind were still racing. For several minutes Richard stood and received more gifts and good wishes while I waited for my nerves to steady. Eventually, during the next lull in proceedings I stood up and walked down the table to address my mother.

‘I would ask a wedding boon of you, my lady mother, if you will be generous enough to grant it.’

Alarm rose in her eyes but was quickly stifled. ‘If I can, naturally I will,’ she answered cautiously.

‘Since Sir John Neville has been kind enough to send a wedding gift, I would like to return the compliment. His brother Thomas has recently lost a good marriage because he had no suitable home to offer his bride. I would count it a personal favour if our family was to grant him the manor of Slingsby as a place to establish a future family life.’

It was my mother’s turn to blanch. She glanced furtively at Richard before biting her lip and frowning at me, clearly unable to comprehend my sudden desire to reward the very people who had endangered my own marriage. Yet she could not remonstrate because Richard was unaware of my abduction and she knew it to be imperative that he remain so. It was clear that my mother remained as unwilling as ever to relinquish an acre of the lands her late husband had left her, but it was my belief that the transfer of Slingsby into Thomas’s ownership would ensure the silence of the Brancepeth Nevilles on the subject of her legacy and that of Sir John Neville in particular. My mother cast a beseeching glance at Hal, looking for assistance, but my gamble paid off. He was full of gratitude to me for escaping my captors without him needing to offer the palatial castle and substantial landholding of Sherriff Hutton as a ransom, and perfectly willing to surrender the comparatively unimportant manor of Slingsby at my request. ‘I think that is a splendid notion, Cicely. I will make the necessary arrangements for the title to be transferred to Thomas Neville of Brancepeth. Once he is knighted and the lord of such a prosperous manor, he will have no trouble in attracting a well-endowed wife. We cannot have a family of Nevilles living in reduced circumstances.’

Confronted with a
fait accompli
, my mother had little option but to accept the situation. ‘So be it,’ she said and demonstrated her displeasure by turning her back on us.

At this point the minstrels struck up for dancing and after Richard and I had led a merry
estampie
and several prominent vassal-lords had raised toasts to our health and fertility, my new husband told the Master of the Feast to announce that we would retire, generating a chorus of whistles and catcalls from the body of the hall. The minstrels played a stately march but some scurrilously bawdy lyrics sung from the lower trestles marred our dignified exit. Fortunately it was only a short walk to the privy door, when I could hide my burning cheeks from general view.

‘In the name of God, what is this?’ Richard demanded, reaching down among the luxuriant covers of our nuptial bed.

Following Bishop Langley’s fatherly blessing, when my mother and Hilda had drawn the curtains at my side and Richard’s chosen lords had done the same on his, I could not have been more relieved. Amidst the lewd sniggers of the tipsy crowd of guests who had attended our formal bedding, I had made a silent vow that any children Richard and I might have would never be subject to such an indignity. A blessing on the wedding night was one thing but bawdy comments and suggestive remarks were another. I was not called ‘Proud Cis’ for nothing and I had not relished the ignominy of such a barrage of innuendo. Nor, I suspected, had Richard, for in the dancing shadows of the night-lamp his expression was thunderous.

A wriggling movement among the fur covers in the great bed’s nether regions revealed the cause of his new displeasure. He pounced and extricated a squirming brown and white animal which he held out to me with an expression of distaste. ‘Is this yours?’ he asked.

We were both still wearing the velvet chamber robes in which we had been put to bed but his had fallen open during his search and for a few seconds I found myself admiring the sculpted muscles of his torso as he held my pet dog at arm’s length. I took the little creature from him.

‘Caspar always sleeps on my bed,’ I said. I could feel a volcano of nervous giggles threatening to erupt and I snuggled the terrier into my chest to muffle them in his wiry coat. ‘He must have sneaked in. He has missed me all day.’

Richard reached over and firmly removed Caspar from my arms. As he did so one of the dog’s claws inadvertently scratched me, drawing a bloody red line across the swell of my breast. Unceremoniously Richard dropped the terrier over the side of the bed and I heard Caspar scuttle away whimpering. My giggles instantly gave way to protest. ‘He does no harm really. He just wants to be friends.’

‘He has hurt you though. You are bleeding.’ Richard was staring at my breast where beads of blood were oozing up in the red weal left by the little dog’s claw. He pulled up the rumpled sheet and dabbed at them gently. ‘Does it hurt?’

‘No, not much; it does not matter.’

I was still worrying about Caspar and did not notice that Richard’s expression had changed from frowning concern to narrow-eyed lust. ‘It matters to me,’ he said, bending to put his lips to the bloody weal. His voice sounded different – fervent and thickened and I felt his sexual tension as he licked at the blood. Tentatively I indulged my fantasy of plunging my fingers into his luxuriant curly bronze hair and he responded by lifting his head and pulling my robe fully open, taking my breasts in his hands and stroking the nipples with his thumbs. He was smiling now, a proud, possessive, sensuous curve of his moist lips. ‘These are mine now. You are mine, Cicely. I want no harm to come them or to you.’

I was startled by my own rapid reaction to his ardour. I felt my breasts swell and my nipples stiffen under his caress and something like liquid fire trickled through the core of my belly and into the flesh between my legs. I was deliciously aroused and wanted it to go on but at the same time it frightened me. Surely this was wicked? Against everything I had been taught. Pleasure did not happen between man and wife. Ever since we were children I had expected to couple with Richard in order to get children; it was a duty to be performed, not an act to make me feel as I had felt with … no I would not name him even to myself. It was as if my mind and body were two different creatures; one crying out in protest, the other beginning to arch in ecstasy.

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell Richard to stop, that this was all wrong, when I felt a stab of pain and he was pushing fiercely inside me as I lay spread-eagled beneath him. As quickly as it had come, all my pleasure abated. I was his wife. I could not refuse him. I must ignore the pain and let him thrust his seed deep inside me so that God could make a child. That was my duty and after several thrusts and a groan of release, duty was done.

When we had rolled apart and arranged ourselves for sleep I realized that at least, thanks to Caspar, one of my worries was over. Richard had entered me and there was blood on the sheets. Our marriage was consummated and we were one body in the sight of God and the law of England. There was no going back.

Rouen, Normandy 1442

Cuthbert

T
owards the end of the road to Rouen we broke free of the dangers of the forest and I ordered my troop to draw rein in order to walk the last mile. Armour and harness jangled less percussively as our horses slowed from their fast, working trot to a gentler pace while at the same time their necks stretched out and their nostrils flared as they caught their breath.

Ahead of us the city gradually came into sight. Once a jewel in the crown of France, it was now a battered shell, its pale stone walls displaying ugly gaps, like the smile of an ageing man. In the twenty-three years since the English had marched into the capital of Normandy after a long and bloody siege, repairs had been done to the cathedral and castle but the damage inflicted by Henry the Fifth’s massive cannons on the city’s outer defences still showed as gaping scars, testament to the fact that the tightly defended borders of the duchy now prohibited any French attempt to retrieve the city at its centre, making repairs unnecessary. In this Year of Our Lord 1442 the commander of those defences and the King’s Deputy and Lieutenant General in France was Richard, Duke of York.

However, the sight that struck me most forcibly whenever I approached the city was not its crumbling walls but the extraordinary ghostly landscape surrounding them. In fields where crops had once grown, long strips of fabric in a hundred different shades of white now billowed in the breeze like the sails of some enormous land-locked armada. The famous linen weavers of Rouen had taken over farms abandoned as a result of the siege and employed them for cloth-crofting, the complicated business of employing the elements to turn their cloth the purest white. The process took months and involved successive soakings, first in urine and finally in buttermilk, with washing and extended periods of airing in between.

‘This is a sight to see, is it not?’ remarked the lady riding beside me. ‘They used to send the raw linen to Holland for crofting.’

The lady was Anne, Countess of Stafford and I had been sent to Calais in command of a troop of men-at-arms to bring her safely to Rouen for her sister Cicely’s lying-in. Strictly speaking, I was brother to both these noble ladies, although as a mere knight, the division between our ranks could scarcely have been wider and this hazardous journey across the plains and forests of Picardy and northern Normandy had been the first time the Lady Anne and I had ever met. I had expected to find the task of escort irksome but had now decided that a man of any rank could do worse than spend a few days in the company of this spirited female. Although she was nine years older than Cicely and already well into her thirties, she was far from being middle-aged in her attitude to life and her elegant red-leather trappings and fashionable fur-trimmed riding huke disguised a practical, down-to-earth disposition. Several times during our ride from Calais, where her husband was captain of the embattled English garrison, we had been forced to draw swords and engage with desperate gangs of bandits called
écorcheurs
who haunted the northern forests, preying on unwary travellers, and far from cowering behind her escort the countess had unsheathed a useful poignard concealed in her riding boot and wielded it in earnest.