Red Rose, White Rose (49 page)

‘It is the ague again, your grace,’ she told me, her brow creased with worry.

I bent and pressed my lips to my daughter’s brow. They were almost burned by the heat of her skin. Unfortunately Ursula had first suffered marsh fever when she was a toddler and it returned at regular intervals, sapping her strength and laying her ever lower at each visitation. Successive physicians had provided no cure and one had even predicted to Richard that he did not expect her to survive many more attacks. Anicia however had procured a variety of mixtures from apothecaries in both Ludlow and Fotheringhay which had produced hopeful results and used herbal remedies she prepared herself to cool the heat of the little girl’s blood when the ague struck.

I summoned a hovering servant to take over the old nurse’s task and took her aside to explain the latest developments. ‘There is no knowing what will happen tomorrow, when the Lancastrians gain access to the town, Anicia, as they are bound to do,’ I warned. ‘If you have friends in the town with good bolts on their doors you would be well advised to take shelter with them for I fear the castle will be no refuge for any servant of York.’

The nurse stared at me, aghast. ‘I could not leave the child, your grace,’ she said. ‘The fever is always at its worst on the second day. With your permission I will stay with you. Surely not even the Lancastrians would make war on a sick child?’

I shrugged helplessly. ‘Who knows what the Lancastrians will do, Anicia. All we can be sure of is that the queen will be after Yorkist blood. Perhaps, should any Lancastrian come near us with evil intent, God will forgive us if we pretend that Ursula’s malady is extremely infectious.’

Ludlow Castle, October 1459

Cicely

R
ichard did not return to the castle from Ludford Bridge until nearly midnight, accompanied by Hal, Dick, Edward and Edmund and a handful of loyal household knights who had agreed to accompany them on their separate journeys. A fire still burned in the hearth in the great chamber where food and wine had been laid out on trestles. The men were dispirited, thirsty and hungry after a day spent more or less play-acting, trying to rouse their troops to a fight they knew would not take place and contemplating a long ride at speed through the rest of the night. I acted as butler and kept their cups filled as Richard vented his spleen.

‘I could not believe my eyes when King Henry paraded between the lines for the third time just before dusk,’ he declared after he had drained his cup at a gulp. ‘They were using him like an armoured puppet. I swear someone was behind him moving his arms and legs.’

While Richard marched up and down restlessly, Hal was conserving his energy, sitting in a carved oak chair and sipping steadily, between bites of pigeon pie. ‘His appearances may have had something to do with you spreading a rumour that the king had died,’ he remarked sardonically. ‘What possessed you to do that?’

Richard paused at the table in his perambulations and selected a slice of the pie. ‘The men were so disheartened. I thought it might give them cheer to think that they were not being asked to fight their anointed sovereign.’ He took a bite and chewed with an aggressive jerk of his jaw.

Dick gave a derisive snort. ‘Instead the sight of their sovereign beckoning to them from his army’s lines made half of them throw down their arms and race to join him. If we had not already decided to leave, that was a sight which would certainly have convinced me to run.’ He turned to his group of knights who were foraging eagerly among the platters. ‘Yes, friends, fill your bellies. Who knows where we shall find our next meal. I have sent a message and money to Sir John Dinham in Devon to acquire us a ship but there is no knowing how long it will take or even if the courier will get through. Dinham will give us shelter though, provided we can reach his house.’

As I filled Richard’s cup for the second time, I murmured in his ear, ‘I must talk to you urgently and privately, my lord.’

He glared at me with knitted brows. ‘Why? The horses are ready. I take it you have prepared the children for the journey. We ride after mass.’

I received the distinct impression that he regarded us as troublesome appendages. ‘No. I very much fear that I cannot come with you, my lord. Ursula has a high fever and Dickon is not yet strong enough to race through Wales on horseback for a night and a day. Edmund will go with you. The rest will stay with me.’

I kept my voice firm but low so that the others might not hear but Richard’s response was loud and hoarse with strain. ‘Dear God, woman, do not defy me now! It is all arranged. It is bad enough to leave my men. I cannot leave you and my children as well. I will carry Ursula on my pommel.’

I put the wine jug down on the trestle beside us and laid a hand on his arm. ‘Be calm, my lord. This is not defiance. Ursula is too sick to move. The other children cannot go without their mother and I will not leave her.’

The room had gone quiet as it became obvious to everyone that there was a crisis. Richard’s chest heaved as he fought to control his anger and his stress and I waited for him to succeed, as I knew he would, for the sake of appearances.

His cup slopped wine onto the floor as he put it down and considered the full implications of my announcement. ‘Then I cannot go either,’ he said flatly. ‘In all honour I cannot leave my wife and family to the mercies of that rabble out there.’ He made a vague, flapping gesture towards the window and we all knew he meant the twenty-thousand-strong Lancastrian army encamped only a mile from the castle on the other side of Ludford Bridge.

Edward had moved nearer to us and cleared his throat to speak but his father rounded on him, venting his anger and cutting him off. ‘If you think to make one of your fatuous light-hearted quips Edward, kindly desist. Now is not the time for humour.’

Edward took a step backwards in surprise but rallied swiftly. ‘On the contrary, my lord, I was humbly going to suggest that honour need not demand that you sacrifice yourself for poor little Ursula.’ He gestured towards Hal who was frowning at him over the rim of his cup. ‘Do not forget that my aunt of Salisbury will also be left behind in England. Surely honour demands that you and my father flee the injustices of the council but at the same time you also demonstrate your faith in King Henry’s justice by committing your wives and families to his grace’s personal care, as hostages if you like, to guarantee the loyalty of your intentions.’

Edward paused to let his words sink in and Richard and Hal both studied him briefly before turning their questing gaze upon each other. Neither spoke but it was clear they were giving serious consideration to Edward’s submission.

‘A letter of explanation could be given to Vert Eagle to deliver to the king’s hand,’ Edward went on. ‘According to the chivalric code, in the hands of a herald it will not be intercepted.’

I held my breath, inwardly blessing Edward. This was the very argument I had been going to make to persuade Richard that he must go, although, shamefully, I had not thought of including Hal’s wife Alice in the plea. With all her children grown and flown, she remained alone at her home at Bisham in Bedfordshire but would doubtless suffer as much as I as a result of her husband’s declared treason. The idea was more palatable to Richard because it came from his son rather than his wife but still Richard sat balefully silent for some while before raising an eyebrow at Hal to signify that he should speak first.

‘That was well said, Nephew,’ Hal began. ‘You have summed up my thoughts and prayers precisely and I hope your father will agree that what appears at first as dishonourable, is in fact the only honourable course of action.’

Receiving a nod from Richard, Hal concluded, ‘Now I think it is time to hear mass, place ourselves in the hands of God and take to the road.’ He consumed his last morsel of pie and gazed lovingly at the remains left on the table. ‘That was an excellent pie, Cis,’ he remarked, standing up and smiling at me. ‘I hope someone will pack up the rest and put it in my saddlebag.’

While the men heard mass in the castle’s exquisite round chapel, I gathered all the younger children except Ursula from their beds, ensured they put on warm clothes and had them ready in the inner court to make their farewells as the service ended. Young Dickon looked dazed and bewildered, bleary-eyed at being roused from a deep sleep. I doubt if he truly understood the significance of this midnight departure but he dutifully bent his knee to receive Richard’s blessing then stood for the embrace of his two big brothers and waited with tears welling in his dark eyes as they followed each other down the family line. George was more demonstrative, flinging his arms around Edward in particular, as if he feared he would never see him again, while Margaret looked up at her father with a clear-eyed gaze as he placed a paternal hand on her head and asked God to be with her.

‘And may He also be with you, my lord father,’ she said earnestly. ‘For I think you will have much need of His loving care.’

As she said this, in the dancing light of the torches I thought I saw a tear glisten in Richard’s eye. Then I watched Edward make a particularly grave bow to his sister, kiss her hand respectfully and receive a whispered comment in his ear which, to my surprise, made his eyes widen in surprise. When I asked Margaret later what she had said to make him start she replied serenely, ‘It was in Greek, lady mother. That is why he was surprised.’ But she did not tell me what it was in Greek that she had said.

Last to bid farewell to his siblings was Edmund, who spent several minutes reassuring Dickon that he was only going to Ireland with their father for a short while and would be back in no time with a tame leprechaun for his little brother. ‘What is a leprechaun?’ Dickon asked, beguiled.

‘I do not really know,’ admitted Edmund. ‘A little man in a big hat I believe but I am going to learn all about Ireland and I will make sure to find out and bring you one as a pet.’

Dickon screwed up his small face in doubt. ‘I do not think I would like a little man as a pet, Edmund. I would rather have a horse.’

I stifled a smile. Although only just seven, Dickon was excessively fond of horses and had earned praise for his riding from no less a task-master than my brother Cuthbert. He yearned to graduate from a pony to what he called ‘a proper horse’ but his physical slightness and my reluctance to put too much strain on his underdeveloped body proscribed it.

There was a back exit through Ludlow’s outer curtain wall known as Mortimer’s gate, after one of Richard’s more infamous ancestors who had made many hasty exits to avoid trouble and eventually died on the block. It had occurred to me lately that too many of his relatives had done so. This tower-gate provided access to a bridge over the River Corve and the routes west to Wales and south to Wigmore and the Black Mountains. More importantly the Lancastrians had not blockaded it, being fully occupied on the other side of the town on the far bank of the River Teme, into which the Corve flowed. I walked beside Richard’s horse as he rode across the outer bailey towards this back gate, followed by the rest of the escapees and their followers. Every horse in the cavalcade was equipped with bulging saddlebags for they took no sumpters due to the need for speed. It was my last chance to speak to my husband out of earshot of others.

‘I do not know where I shall be, Richard. It depends what the king decides to do with us but I shall endeavour to get word to you somehow,’ I told him.

‘My spies report regularly to their contacts. I am certain they will keep me informed of your whereabouts,’ he replied gruffly. ‘I cannot bear to think of you facing Henry’s smug toadies when they enter Ludlow tomorrow, Cicely. If they harm a hair of any of your heads …’ He did not finish because he did not know how, or even if, he would be able to revenge himself against them. Lancaster was in the ascendant, York was on its knees; there was no denying it.

‘They will not dare,’ I declared with a confidence I did not feel. ‘We still have plenty of supporters Richard. Lancaster cannot afford to stir the York hive too much lest the bees go berserk.’ I reached up and drew his hand down from its grip on the reins. ‘York and Neville will rise again, you will see. Let the winter do its worst then spring will turn all in our favour.’

I saw the gleam of his teeth in the moonlight. ‘You northerners have so much drive,’ he remarked. ‘Sometimes I think Warwick has too much.’

‘You can never have too much energy, my love, and Dick will be good for Edward. Together I believe they will prove far too much for poor King Henry.’

‘Well, we shall see.’ We had reached the gate-tower and he swung his leg over the saddle and jumped down, sweeping me into his arms. ‘We cannot part on bad terms, Cicely. I pray that we meet again in brighter and better circumstances.’ He bent and kissed my lips, hard. ‘God go with you and protect you, as I cannot.’

‘And may His Holy Might further your cause, my dear lord,’ I said fervently. ‘We
will
meet again.’

‘Do not doubt it.’ He put his foot in the stirrup and remounted. ‘I will look after Edmund,’ he said.

I smiled up at him, hoping the moon lit my face. ‘And let him look after you,’ I said. ‘He can, you know.’

He rode forward and ducked under the low arch of the gate. Hal and Dick came next and I signalled a solemn farewell to them with a bow and a hand-gesture but blew kisses to Edward and Edmund as they trotted past me. Edmund waved forlornly back, riding alongside his brother for the last time before their paths divided on the other side of the bridge but Edward’s blown kisses were jubilant; even in these desperate circumstances he gave the impression of an eager young man setting off on a great new adventure without any doubts or fears. The arched vault of the gatehouse echoed with the clatter of iron-shod hooves and then they were all through. Suddenly there was silence save for the creak of saddle-leather and a series of soft, equine grunts as a dozen horses negotiated the steep earthen path which led down the wooded escarpment to the river and the bridge – and escape.