The Rose of York (15 page)

“Time you met your oldest aunt, isn’t it, sweet babe?” Liza cooed. “Come with me, Meg, tell me your news. I’m dying to know; is there a handsome prince hovering on your horizon?”

Richard bowed as Liza led a blushing Meg away. When he lifted his head, his sisters were gone but he heard an echo of Liza’s merry laughter. Aye, laughter was everywhere tonight, for there was cause to celebrate. Much good news had arrived on the heels of the queen’s coronation. On St. Swithin’s Day, in the warm month of July, Henry of Lancaster was captured in the North, where he had hidden for a year disguised as a monk. Warwick had tied Henry’s heels beneath the stirrups of his horse and paraded him around London for the people to mock him. Then Edward had locked him up in the Tower to pray to his heart’s content. That same month, the deputy lieutenant of Ireland, the Earl of Desmond, came to make his report to Edward.

Richard had heard a great deal about the Earl of Desmond, Thomas Fitzgerald. So close a friend had he been to his father that even Richard’s mother, who rarely attended court functions anymore, had come to pay her respects. Warwick, of whom little had been seen at court since Edward’s marriage, had also made the journey. Only John was absent, though he’d sent word that he’d attend if the border remained quiet. The festivities in Desmond’s honour were to be spread over several days, with hunting, feasting, and much music making and reading of poetry, for the Earl loved music and was a patron of the arts in Ireland.

George appeared out of the throng and closed the distance between them. Richard smiled happily. “Edward has made everything very fine tonight, hasn’t he, George?”

George cast a bored look around. “He’s spent a few groats, but even with that, he can’t match Warwick’s splendour.”

Richard threw him a sharp glance. Besides the hall’s magnificent painted walls, tracery windows and gilded angels, cartloads of flowers perfumed the air and candles flickered over the gleaming marble pillars and tapestries by the hundreds, while the colourful murals around the room that set out scenes from the Old Testament and Edward the Confessor’s coronation sparkled from the scrubbing they had received. Richard decided to ignore George, who was obviously in bad humour for whatever reason, and turned his attention to the paintings.

As he looked, the smile that had begun to curve his lips faded. A grave series darkened the wall with bloody battles and beheadings that depicted the Vices in harrowing detail, and every glint of gilt and jewelled colour seemed to tell a tale of violence and suffering. All at once he wished he was back in the North. He had never cared much for court. Court was like a beautiful song—full of trills, rippling and gay, but beneath the lilting melody rumbled distant chords, warning of danger to the straining ear.

Trumpets sounded. Amid a swish of silks, lords and ladies bowed as the glittering King and Queen entered the hall. As always, Edward looked as handsome as a god. He wore a tunic of yellow shot silk beneath a tabard of heavy brown velvet edged with sable. The puffed sleeves and open sides suited his broad-shouldered frame, but it was not a style for the short of stature, like Richard. He favoured the simple doublet, such as the dove grey he had chosen for the evening, embroidered with motifs of black and gold.

His mother, Duchess Cecily, followed Edward and Bess on the arm of the guest of honour, the darkly handsome Irish earl, who was attired in white velvet tissue of gold, and they distributed themselves on the steps around the canopied throne.

A movement caught Richard’s attention. Ten-year-old Thomas Grey, the queen’s older son by her first marriage, was snickering with his younger brother. Richard thought Thomas looked like a gillyflower in his short doublet of orange and lime with alternating green and orange stockings. The fashion was the rage at Edward’s court but Richard found it lewd, for it was cut above the buttocks and manly organs, leaving little to the imagination. Hastings, standing nearby, was another who chose to sport the disgusting new fashion.

Around the queen’s two sons clustered more Woodvilles: the Duchess Jacquetta and her husband, Earl Rivers, with their brood of seven daughters, five sons, and newly acquired noble spouses. Among these the queen’s oldest brother, Anthony Woodville, stood out like a peacock in a field of pansies as he conversed with his youngest brother, John.

John Woodville and his new wife made a ridiculous looking couple, Richard thought. The marriage between the sixty-yearold Dowager Duchess of Norfolk—who could barely stand even with the aid of a silver cane—and the queen’s eighteen-yearold brother had scandalised the world, and infuriated Warwick. The duchess, his aunt, had fallen prey to the Woodvilles because she was the richest widow in the land. Richard recalled Warwick’s rage. “A diabolical marriage!” he’d roared, stomping back and forth across the great hall in Middleham like an enraged bull.

Warwick was right. The Woodvilles were looting the land like locusts, and their greed was all the more revolting because they made no effort to hide it. His glance moved to the queen. She had grown even more haughty in these months and sat with her back rigid, gripping the gilded armrests of her throne, her chin held so high she seemed to be looking down her nose through closed lids. He knew she was displeased. There were many here tonight whom she disliked, including him.

Trumpets blared again. “George, Duke of Clarence!” the herald announced.

Richard watched his brother saunter up to the throne in his pointed plum-coloured shoes. George cut an elegant figure in his ducal coronet, his cloth of gold surcoat blazing with the royal arms, but his manner bordered on insolent. A hush fell over the crowd and there was an uneasy rustle. George threw Edward and his queen a perfunctory bow, made no move to kiss their hands, then greeted Desmond with marked warmth. Unlike Warwick, George didn’t cloak his feelings, and everyone knew that he despised his brother’s lowborn wife. Richard thought his show of hostility unwise and had said as much. But George had laughed. He was heir to the throne, he said, and could do as he pleased.

Heir to the throne, aye
, Richard thought,
but heir only until the queen has a child—doesn’t George think that far ahead?
Yet, in spite of himself, he admired his brother’s courage. George wasn’t afraid of anyone. Richard wished he had his guts. His glance moved to the queen’s mother, Jacquetta, near the dais, and he felt a stab of unease. He didn’t like the way she looked at George.

“Richard, Duke of Gloucester!” cried the herald.

Richard marched up to the King’s chair. He knelt before Edward and the queen and kissed Bess’s icy hand. Edward leapt from his throne and embraced him. “Dear Dickon, how joyous we are to behold your face! You’ve been gone too long from my sight, fair brother.”

Richard beamed at Edward as he took his place a step below George, but his glance, moving back over the dais, touched, and held, on the queen. Her hooded green eyes regarded him coldly, and for a fraction of a second—so quickly that he might have imagined it—a thin smile twisted her mouth into an ugly line. He thought of Melusine, the serpent from whom she claimed descent.

One after another gorgeously dressed nobles and their ladies came up to the dais, gems glittering, silks shimmering, gauzy veils flowing, but the queen’s malicious look had spoiled his pleasure in the evening. He chewed his lip as he always did when he was nervous, and forced his attention back to Edward, who rose to give a speech of welcome. When he was finished, the minstrels and jugglers began their performances. Without warning the music ceased and a shocked murmur ran through the crowd. Heads turned towards the entrance. A man with a long white beard and leather pants cut high above knobbly knees thumped his way through the room with the aid of a staff.

Edward’s hand froze with his wine cup halfway to his lips. “Whoa!” he called, the smile vanishing from his lips. “What’s this?”

The man ambled up to the King.

“Why, ’tis George’s Fool!” muttered Edward.

“Fool I may be,” replied the Fool, “but tonight, Sire, I am the King of Fools!”

“A dubious honour, I assure you,” said Edward with narrowed eyes. “Tell me, Your Foolish Grace, why are you dressed in this bizarre fashion?”

“Sire, my journey here was full perilous as any knight’s. Many times I came near death.”

“How so?” demanded Edward, warily.

“I was near swept away by the currents, so high were
the Rivers
!”

A deadly silence fell over the room. Everyone stared at the rigid Queen. Then Edward let out a roar of laughter. The silence shattered, and everyone laughed. Music sounded in the minstrels’ gallery. With relief, Richard fled the dais.
Jesu
, but George had made his Fool take a dangerous chance!

Richard danced a pavane with the Countess of Desmond, his mind returning to the queen. She was smiling now and seemed to have forgotten her displeasure at the jest, but Richard suspected she rarely forgot or forgave anything. When the dance ended, he retired to a corner beneath the minstrel’s gallery to observe the revelries. He wished he knew where Anne had gone. He hadn’t seen her all evening.

A feather tickled his ear. “Can you never be still?” laughed a voice behind him.

“Anne!” he exclaimed. Then, lowering his voice to a whisper, he added, “Let’s leave.” He seized her hand, but as he dragged her to the door they bumped into the Earl of Desmond. Behind him came Bella, and, spotting Anne, spirited her off to see a newborn hound, leaving Richard alone with Desmond.

“You’ve made quite an impression on my Countess, my lord of Gloucester,” the Earl said, a twinkle in his brown eyes. “She seems unable to talk of anything but you. No doubt all Ireland will soon know the King’s brother is near as handsome as he is.”

Desmond was a fine-looking man, Richard thought, with his generous mouth, aquiline nose, and touches of humour around his eyes and mouth. “My lord,” Richard replied, “the Countess is kind.”

“Nay, Lord Richard, not so. You resemble your dear father whom we all loved, God absolve his soul.”

Richard knew the rush of gratitude he felt showed on his face. “You knew my father well, my lord. Could you—would you…” Richard braced himself. “Tell me how he died?”

Desmond gave him a long, appraising look. “Aah… you don’t know? A bitter tale. No wonder they have kept it from you. But perhaps it is time…” He rested a hand on Richard’s shoulder and drew him aside from the circulating crowd.

Richard listened in rapt attention. It had happened during a Christmas truce at Wakefield Castle. Snow had been falling lightly as a small number of the Duke’s men left the safety of the castle to forage in the nearby woods. Suddenly there were shouts and calls for help. A party of Lancastrians had fallen on the Yorkists and were cutting them down mercilessly. The Duke of York never hesitated. Grabbing his armour, he rushed to save his hapless men. Along with him had ridden his son Edmund, Warwick’s father, Salisbury, and Warwick’s brother, Thomas. They were winning the foray when out of nowhere appeared a thousand-strong Lancastrian force, led by the iron-faced Lord Clifford. Heavily outnumbered, the Duke of York and his men had no chance. The Duke and Warwick’s brother fell, fighting bravely, but the Duke’s son, Edmund, seventeen, disarmed and unhorsed, was brutally cut down by Clifford as he fled across the bridge to Sanctuary. Warwick’s father, the Earl of Salisbury, was taken alive and beheaded the next day. Further atrocities followed. The bodies of the Yorkist leaders were mutilated and their heads cut off and borne to York, to be nailed to the gates. Amid derisive laughter, Marguerite had placed a paper crown on the Duke’s head, since he had wished to be king.

“It was despicable… breaking the truce, the double ambush, murdering an unarmed man—a youth, no less—and defiling the bodies of those who had fallen honourably in battle… The world changed after that.”

Silence.

“England lost a good man that day, Lord Richard. A fair-minded man, free from the greed and ambition that plagues others. Ireland only had your father a year, but he governed us with justice, something we had not known before… We will never forget him.”

“There you are, my Lord of Desmond!” came George’s voice. “I’ve been searching for you.”

Desmond’s smile widened. A special tie bound the two since George was born in Ireland and Desmond was his godfather. George was also Lord Lieutenant of Ireland while Desmond was his deputy. The arrangement worked well, since Ireland was governed by an Irish lord for a change, and George, who had neither the interest nor the ability to govern, enjoyed his title.

“My dear George, how well you look,” Desmond said.

“’Tis no doubt due to my dress,” said George, with a futile effort at humility. “Gold flatters me. I have fourteen gowns of tissue of gold alone.”

After exchanging information about the health of absent friends and relatives, George spotted a familiar face. “Sir Thomas! Pray, join us.”

The portly old gentleman hitched up his silver girdle around his ample belly and, excusing himself from his company of ladies, came stoutly to their side. Richard had met him before. Sir Thomas Cook was a former mayor of London. With a sweeping bow, the old man introduced himself.

“I hear you’ve sold a fine tapestry to the Queen, Sir Thomas,” said George. He took a pasty from a page with a silver tray and popped it into his mouth.