The Innocent (49 page)

Edward looked like a king out of the past, a mythic figure. The chamberlain’s skin prickled—he could feel the energy that radiated from this man spreading around the small party on that bleak hillside with greater warmth than the sun struggling up out of the east. As one, the twenty or so tired men gathered their horses around the king and cantered easily down toward the gate of Warwick Castle, new vigor in each one of them.

Sim the Fletcher was not a very clever man, but he was the first of the sentries above the great gate to believe what his eyes were telling him. There beneath them was the Lord Chamberlain of England bellowing for admittance to Warwick Castle and with him was the king—and Gloucester, his young brother!

Sim hurried to tell his sergeant, and the sergeant, confirming the extraordinary news with a terrible sinking feeling in his gut, hurried toward the castle’s hall where Warwick’s people were waiting for the earl before going to Mass in the family chapel.

The sergeant need not have bothered. Warwick had heard the news. He sauntered in, smiling confidently, holding up one velvet-gloved hand for silence. “Raise the gate. Admit our dearest friend, the king.”

Warwick had not survived at court for as long as he had without understanding the need to play a role

—and play it well. No one who was unaware of the situation between Warwick, Edward, and the Duke of Clarence would have seen anything but a loyal servant of the king delighted and honored by Edward’s unexpected presence.

And that was the tableau that Edward saw as he and his small, dazzlingly dressed party swept in to the hall: Warwick on his knees, head bowed, surrounded by a mass of men and women wearing his colors but all similarly humble in the presence of the king. Edward laughed out loud—a joyful, ringing sound

—and strode, beaming, to Warwick, reaching down one hand to raise him.

“Enough, Earl Warwick, enough. Such humility from you and yours is never necessary—we are old friends, after all.”

For a moment the king and the earl locked glances before Warwick smiled glitteringly and sprang to his feet. “My liege, will you join me and mine for a Mass?”

“With pleasure, with great pleasure, Earl Warwick. Let us seek the blessing of your Savior and mine, together.”

It was as if no hard words had ever been spoken, from the courtesy the king and Warwick showed each other during the Mass and afterward, breaking their morning fast together in the hall.

The castle kitchen had flung together a magnificent meal for their unexpected guests, for it was only a day from the Red Letter Feast of the Conversion of Saint Paul, thus there was plentiful food in the castle. As course followed course—boar pastries; pike and eels in aspic; gull, quail, and plover eggs preserved in salt and spices; hot fricassees of fresh venison, and pears preserved in honey and cinnamon—the earl and the king spoke of almost everything but Clarence, who was absent from the hall. As were Warwick’s eldest daughter, Isabelle, and his wife, the countess.

There was much chat about the doings of the court at Christmas and the strange misunderstanding surrounding Warwick’s departure. The confusion was blamed by both men on the Countess of Warwick’s unexpected illness, forcing the earl’s speedy return to his own lands. Then Warwick lightly asked the king what had earned them the pleasure of this visit.

“Why, I was hunting with my brother on some of his lands hereabouts”—Richard had no lands near Warwick Castle and they both knew it—“and thought that we should discuss, you and I, the tourney we have planned for the Feast of Saint Valentine.”

Ah, yes, the tourney. Twelve knights to be led by the king, twelve by the earl—and a scant few weeks away.

“And as I understand it, my brother Clarence is currently your guest. Since he has not been at court this little time past, and I wish him to ride with my party…” It was said so silkily, so courteously, that none but Warwick heard the edge in those words. “…I thought we should speak, George and I, about the contest to come.”

The earl smiled, though when he laughed the sound was harsh. “Alas, my liege, I have news to concern you a little. Your brother is not well. I dislike being a messenger of bad tidings but…there it is.”

The king allowed his face to register concern. “My unfortunate brother—what is this illness? What do the doctors say?”

Warwick looked uneasy. “Little at this early time, though they are confident in his recovery, of course.

He sweats, and has fever alternately, though it is not the sweating sickness. I have given him my own chambers and, of course, he must stay here until he is well again. My wife, and Isabelle, have nursed him devotedly.”

The king smiled broadly. “How fortunate that Lady Warwick has recovered her own health so quickly.

And Isabelle—this is kind and selfless of them both. You have risked your family to secure George…to secure his life. That will not be forgotten.”

Warwick’s smile was frozen to his face as he and the king locked glance to glance once more. The moment was broken by William. “Lord Warwick, I am sure that our liege would be pleased to visit the Duke of Clarence. Sire”—he turned to Edward—“if you have eaten enough to ward off the northern chill this cold morning, perhaps…?”

The king sprang up, hauling Warwick to his feet. “Let us visit Clarence together. There is little time before we must be on our way again.”

Warwick’s people scrambled up from the benches as the king swept by with his host, and due note was made of the grim expressions of the king’s party—and of the men who accompanied the earl.

Nothing was said as they strode toward Warwick’s private quarters. It took only a few minutes to mount the stairs to the iron-bound door that guarded the entrance to his sleeping room. Warwick thrust it open and the cold winter light showed Clarence lying in his bed propped up on bolsters, a scarlet flush high on his cheeks.

Isabelle and her mother, the Countess of Warwick, nearly fainted when they looked up from tending George to find the king framed in the doorway. “So, brother, Lord Warwick spoke true. What ails you?”

For a moment the king’s face softened. George was infuriating, jealous, and impetuous, but they’d been friends as children.

“Nothing, brother. Now that you are here.” George coughed as he said the last of the words, so the irony lost its impact. It made the king smile though. George had always had a ready wit.

“I’d thought to talk tourney with you, brother, but I can see you’re otherwise occupied.” He flashed a quick glance at Isabelle, standing beside her mother. She was a good-looking, disturbingly well endowed girl for a fourteen-year-old, and seeing her again, Edward could understand his brother’s lust.

The ghost of a smile crossed the king’s face. How useful it must seem to George to have a potential wife who was both bedworthy and an heiress. But it would never happen—not while he was king.

“Earl Warwick, we have all trespassed on your hospitality for too long. Especially George. Come, brother, I shall take you back with me to court, and you can recover in your own home.”

Edward knew that surprise was his only weapon, that and the bluff that Richard had five hundred men waiting for the king to return from his “hunting expedition” just over the hill outside the town; a fact he’d casually slipped into conversation with the earl at the feast.

However, it was the sheer strength of Edward’s will that got them out of Warwick Castle, for there was instant turmoil as the king shouted orders for his brother to be dressed. Warwick could do nothing but pretend to assist. To oppose Edward would have meant an open breach—and a fight, probably to the death, with the king’s men he supposed to be surrounding his castle. It had galled Warwick to cancel the wedding feast when the duke was ill and now it galled him even more that Edward was riding out of his castle with his daughter’s bridegroom safely tucked into the earl’s own luxurious litter, borrowed on a promise of return shortly. He knew it would be some time before he saw either again.

Clarence could be wily when he chose, once he absorbed the way the wind was blowing. It was one matter to oppose his brother’s will from a distance, another again to take him on at close quarters. So he allowed himself to be bundled into the litter with one long glance at Isabelle. He and Warwick shared a look. “I shall be well for the tourney, my Lord Warwick, never fear. And we shall be glad of your presence at court when that day dawns, shall we not, brother?”

Edward looked down at Clarence with a bleak smile. “Do not fret, brother. The tourney, when it comes, shall be like no other. And without my Lord Warwick, what point would it have?”

George sank back into the luxury of the padded brocade interior of the litter, biting his nails, as the king flicked its curtains closed.

William, Richard, and Edward rode out into that late morning with stoic faces, swords held loosely at their sides. They did not look back at Warwick standing beside his countess in the inner ward of the castle, but as they clattered over the drawbridge each sneaked a glance at the other, every moment expecting an arrow to thud home between their shoulder blades.

But none came, and as they left the castle behind them, the small troop instinctively broke into three parts: the king with his brother Richard at the front with a few men, the greatest mass of soldiers around the litter, and a handful dropping back with Hastings to guard the rear. It would be slow progress across Warwick’s lands and the king was worried that the earl might gather himself and come after them with a larger force when he’d had some time to plan and think matters through.

What they needed was support, and Edward couldn’t understand why Richard seemed so relaxed about the situation. Especially since the youngster insisted, after they’d been traveling for less than an hour, that they rest. It was then they heard the distant thunder of hooves: riders, a mass of them, approaching fast!

Edward shouted orders: “Ring the litter! Ring the litter!” And in the time it took to draw swords, the twenty men in the king’s party had forced their horses into a circle knee to knee around the hapless Clarence. The king’s expression was grim, so was Hastings’s—only Gloucester seemed relaxed.

There was good cause for his calm: the troop of five hundred men that appeared out of the darkening afternoon was wearing the white boar, Gloucester’s emblem. “Well, brother, think you we have enough men now to hunt properly?”

Edward smiled as he clapped Richard on the shoulder delightedly. “Aye, brother, just enough. Let’s ride, see if we can flush any foxes from their dens.”

And as they picked up pace, Edward’s thoughts flashed to Anne. His triumph now would be perfect if she were waiting for him back at Westminster. And by God, he’d relish both tourneys to come. And in their private combat, she was the sweetest prize of all.

Chapter Thirty-eight

January passed slowly at Burning Norton. Anne found the rhythm of the house monotonous after the bustle and intrigue of the court, but there was comfort, too, in this simpler world, for it had no hidden meanings.

For the few visitors who braved the winter weather and arrived at the farm, Alicia and Giles kept up the fiction that Anne was a cousin of Lady Margaret’s, wintering over at Burning Norton before continuing her journey farther north in the spring. Thus, gradually, the feeling of fear and urgency ebbed away and Anne learned not to expect that each new day would bring news from London.

Being a kind woman, Alicia did her best not to pry into the mystery of her guest’s past, yet at night she and Giles spoke in low voices of what Mathew’s motives must be in sending the two women to hide on their farm when Anne so clearly had such a heavy burden of unspoken fear to carry.

But the short unvarying days moved on, and January gave way to February while Anne found she could keep thought and fear at bay with the work of her hands. One particular afternoon in the first week of the new month she had set to and carded, teased, and spun so much wool into fine thread, that Alicia was astonished.

“Truly, lady, you’re the best worker I’ve ever had, but there’s no need, you’ve done much more than enough.”

Anne laughed. “It’s so long since I’ve spun. I fear you are being kind.”

Alicia eyed the skeins of fine woolen thread and the waiting pile of uncarded fleece with a shake of her head. “Well, at least we should give you something else to do; work that seems endless is bad for the soul. If the weather is fine tomorrow we shall go up on the moors. Perhaps we can gather goose-wort from the beck. They yield a good dark red when boiled long and slow with ashes, and we can weave you material for a red kirtle from all that you’ve spun.”

A sudden commotion from the inner ward outside broke through their quiet conversation. “Visitors?

Now, who…” Alicia and her guests hurried to take off their rough, sacking work aprons as men’s voices were heard. Giles was bringing someone up the stairs.

A gust of cold air found its way around the screens as the entrance door was thrust open, and a moment later Giles appeared accompanied by several men muffled to the eyes in their black cloaks. “Alicia…

we have guests.”

There are moments in a life that are remembered like pictures, like tableaux. For Anne, the sight of a stranger unwinding his cloak to reveal the particolored blue and gold tunic emblazoned with leopards and lilies was one such moment, for she knew, deep in her core, that her life would change in this instant.

“Mistress Anne?” The man had a deep, slow voice and he looked at the three women in front of him for only a moment before he confidently stepped forward and addressed Anne directly.

“My master, the king, has commanded that I escort you to Westminster. We are instructed to leave immediately.”

There was nothing Anne could say; fear and agonizing joy clamored equally. Alicia spoke for her.

“You’ve had a long ride, sir, and you will need warmth and food. Let me take you to the kitchen where we have both. Mistress Anne must have a little time to gather her things and make her good-byes.”

Getting over her shock at not only seeing a king’s messenger and his men in her hall, but hearing this extraordinary news, Alicia hurried forward to sweep the men away, buying a little time for the girl to think. For weeks she’d longed to ask questions of Anne, but now the time for explanations was gone.