The Rose of York (18 page)

“What is it, my lord?” the Countess cried, running to her husband’s side.

“Evil, evil tidings, my lady…” Warwick took an unsteady step towards her. She seized his hands and looked up into his stricken eyes.

“The Earl of Desmond is dead. Executed by Tiptoft. His two small sons with him.”

The Countess blanched. “How could such a thing happen?”

Silence.

Richard’s stunned gaze flew from the Countess, to George Neville, to Warwick. Events had moved swiftly after the birth of the little Princess Elizabeth and messengers had streamed to Middleham for weeks. The most disturbing report was that Edward had relieved the Earl of Desmond as Deputy Lieutenant of Ireland and appointed in his stead the Earl of Worcester, the harsh Tiptoft, to the post. The move bore the mark of the queen’s hand, for Tiptoft had carved himself a fearsome reputation for cruelty since his return from Padua and was a man distrusted by everyone —except the Woodvilles.

The Countess turned on one of the messengers. “Tell me this is not so!”

“I fear it is too true, my lady. The Earl of Worcester accused the Earl of Desmond of treason and Desmond came in bravely to answer the false charge. He was immediately cast into prison and condemned to death. His two sons, mere schoolboys, eight and ten years old, were sent to the block with him.” The messenger paused. “One of the boys had a boil on his neck. He asked the executioner to pray be careful, for it hurt.” His voice cracked; he dropped his head.

The second messenger spoke. “’Tis said that the Queen stole the King’s signet ring to seal the Earl’s death warrant, my lady. The King was not pleased.”

“But why should the Queen wish such a thing? It makes no sense…” The Countess searched their faces: all were blank, except her husband’s. He said nothing, but fury now mingled with the grief in his eyes.

Silently, wretchedly, Richard made his way into the chapel to pray for the dead Irish earl, his father’s beloved friend. Anne followed him, tears rolling down her cheek.

~*~

“So what that Edward was angry with her? He forgave her soon enough, didn’t he?” George fumed to Richard on a visit to Middleham. “She’s a witch from the bowels of Hell, she and Jacquetta both! ’Tis said they practise the Black Arts with the help of a certain Friar Bungey, who is in truth a Warlock.”

I wouldn’t doubt it,
thought Richard. Aloud, he said, “Don’t believe that foolery, George.”

“It’s true! She’s a sorceress. If I were king, I’d burn her at the stake.” His blue eyes blazing, he added, “And I should be king! Edward has no right to the throne. He’s not our father’s son.”

“You’re mad, George. Why do you say such things?” Richard rushed to the open window and looked down at the foot of the tower, where a gathering of nobles stood talking in the garden. He slammed the window shut, his heart racing with guilt. It was not Edward who was the bastard.

“Because it’s true! Our mother was with child when our father married her. Why do you think Edward’s so tall—so much taller than our father? So much taller than the rest of us? Because he’s no Plantagenet!”

“Edward takes after Mother’s grandfather, Lionel, who was a giant. You’re losing your mind, George. For the Blessed Virgin’s sake, you must stop this. ’Tis treason what you speak! If Edward knew…”

“Edward does know. I’ve made no secret of it.” He plopped down on a bench.

“More fool you, George. If he hasn’t clapped you into prison, then he’s a better man than you.”

“Why do you always defend him, Dickon? Are you so blind to what he is?”

“He’s our brother—and King. You’re wicked to slander him with lies. Have you no gratitude? Have you forgotten that he came to our lodgings every day to visit us when we were alone in London? He was fighting Marguerite, yet he came every day— because he knew we were frightened. When Father died, he was our lifeline—all that stood between us and the revenge of Lancaster. Does that mean nothing to you, George?”

“Edward was different then. Before that Sorceress sank her fangs into him.”

“He’s still our brother. Don’t shame him. Aside from ingratitude, it’s dangerous.”

“He shames Warwick who made him king! He shames me by denying Bella and I the right to marry!
He
married for love but he won’t abide anyone else doing so. Not even you, Dickon. I’ve seen the way you look at Anne—you love her, yet you’d give her up if he asked you to. You’re naught but a milksop. A milksop, Dickon!”

“Edward is king. We took an oath. The king’s word is God’s law. To go back on an oath is to put your soul at risk.”

“Then Edward broke his own oath and God’s law by deposing Holy Harry.”

Their eyes locked. Richard was the first to look away. He moved to the hearth and picked up a cherrywood branch. He stoked the fire. He had yet to win a battle of words with George. George was too clever.

The House of York had indeed unseated an anointed king, but Richard knew what that decision had cost his father. He’d been at Fotheringhay Castle, unnoticed, oiling his lute when the matter had been decided. His mother, Cicely, had sat in his father’s bedchamber, at the foot of his trestle-bed, one thick golden braid falling over her shoulder, her posture as rigid as if she sat on a throne. The Duke of York had stood before her, his face anxious, his back to the fire that raged in the hearth, throwing light and shadow into the room.

“We must be patient, my lady,” he’d said. “Sooner or later Marguerite’s rash conduct will lead the people to call me to the throne and save me the hateful necessity of unsheathing my sword against Henry.”

“My lord, there must be an end to patience, for where has it led you? As soon as you disbanded your army after the Battle of St. Albans, Somerset was reinstated in all his authority.”

“Nevertheless, we can’t act rashly. Too much is at stake. We must explore every venue to end this peaceably.”

“Too much patience is as foolish as rashness. Your claim is stronger than the King’s, and your army larger. Seize the throne that’s rightfully yours, my lord. Another chance may not come again.”

“If I do, my lady, I’ll plunge England into civil war. Bloodshed must be avoided at all costs. It always leads to anarchy.”

She leapt to her feet. “Look around you, my lord. There is already anarchy. County fights county, bishops are murdered, men are executed without trial.”

“True. But I am Henry’s heir. All will be righted in the end.”

“Somerset was found in the Queen’s apartments,” she said quietly. “Soon there may be a bastard prince. Will you remain Henry’s heir then?”

“By God, lady, if that should happen, I’ll not stand by and do nothing!”

Richard dropped the cherry branch, turned away from the fire. “Father’s mistake was waiting too long, not acting too soon,” he said. “Holy Harry wasn’t fit to be king.”

“Neither is Edward.”

“Your word that he’s not our father’s son doesn’t make him unworthy of the crown.”

“And Bess—is she worthy of the crown?”

No, Richard wanted to cry out. No! Aloud, he said, “I will not go against Edward.”

He picked up his book,
Tristan and Iseult
, a tale of the conflict between loyalty and love. Good Desmond had sent his own treasured volume immediately upon his return to Ireland— Desmond, his father’s faithful friend, murdered for the truth he spoke. He winced. George’s epithets followed him to the door.

“Lily-livered coward! Faint-hearted milksop! Little rabbit— we don’t need you. Woodville-lover, damn you to Hell!

~*~

“Did you see her at her churching?” Warwick raged as he paced the gleaming tiled floor of the Chapter House at Yorkminster.

Richard sat on a marble seat carved into the wall, across the empty octagonal chamber from Archbishop Neville. Everyone was fuming about the Woodvilles. There was no escaping the subject.

“She lounged in a golden chair and ate alone, not deigning to say a word to anyone. She kept your royal sisters and her own mother kneeling for three hours. Power has driven the woman mad, by God! Now she’s pushing for an alliance with Burgundy— ’tis folly.” He halted, looked at them, blue eyes flashing. “Philip the Good of Burgundy grows old. His son Charles is an idiot. Has the King met him? God’s blood, I have— the man’s almost as crazy as Holy Harry. If Louis wants Burgundy, I predict he’ll have it one day. That fool Charles will deliver it to him on a gilded platter!”

He resumed pacing. “An alliance with Burgundy means we are against France, and France is a mighty enemy. They don’t call King Louis the ‘Spider King’ for nothing. He’ll spin his web and devour everyone against him, including Edward. What can Burgundy offer us? Trade, Edward says. But we can have that, and more, with France…” He halted, waved a hand broadly. “I’ve tried to make Edward understand that he can’t turn his back on King Louis of France, not while the Bitch of Anjou and her confounded son dally there, waiting for Louis to nod support to a Lancastrian invasion. I tell you England must make a treaty of peace that will dash Marguerite’s hopes, or England will pay!”

Richard had no wish to believe the dire prophecy, but he knew that Warwick believed it, and that it was tangled in Warwick’s mind with his famous pride. An alliance with Burgundy would show the world—and Louis of France in particular—that Warwick was no longer
le conduiseuer du royaulme
, Master of the realm. Richard knew that if matters between the King and Kingmaker didn’t go well, he might find himself forced into choosing sides. Warwick or Edward?

Anne or Edward
? His breath caught in his throat.

He lifted his eyes to Warwick. “Make my brother see the wisdom of sending you to France. Negotiate an agreement so favourable to England that he’ll have no choice but to accept it, my lord.”

An expression of surprise fixed on Warwick’s sharp features. He stared at Richard as though seeing him for the first time. “You speak truth, Dickon. Will you come with me to London and support my cause?”

“Aye, my lord,” Richard said quietly. “For much depends on it.”

~ * * * ~

“The dirty nurse, Experience, hath foul’d me.”

Edward was hunting when Richard and Warwick arrived at Westminster in the full sunlight of a late April afternoon. They awaited him in the White Chamber, crowded with glittering Woodvilles. As they stood stiffly at an oriel window, looking out at the river, the Woodvilles laughed and whispered together across the room and sent them barbed glances. Richard turned his back and tried to focus on the tall-masted ships that filled the harbour, some bearing English wool for sale to Burgundy, others returning with gold. Trade had flourished in these last two years of relative peace and the people seemed content.

Followed by his attendants, Edward strode in at last, magnificent in a topaz velvet riding jacket and high brown boots of Italian leather. He clasped Richard to him heartily and did the same with Warwick, as if they had never quarrelled. He removed his jewelled gauntlets and smiled at a group of damsels giggling nearby.

“Charming, aren’t they?” he said, tearing his gaze away with marked effort. “So what brings you to London, my lords, pleasure or business? If it’s business, I fear it shall have to keep till the morrow. The day’s too fine.” He turned and grinned at the damsels.

Richard averted his eyes. He had heard, and apparently it was true, that Edward was unfaithful to Bess, though it didn’t seem to affect her power over him or lessen her charms. She was with child again.

“May we talk privately, Sire?” Warwick inquired.

Edward laughed. “I should have guessed it was business, Warwick. You and my solemn little brother are not made for pleasure, it seems. Very well, follow me.”

The anteroom of Edward’s royal chamber was scented with lavender and hung with lavish tapestries. A chess set of intricate coloured glass stood on a table between the hearth and a lancet window, the game unfinished. Edward leaned against the window seat, arms crossed. His gaze strayed as Warwick made his case, but the Kingmaker failed to notice. To Richard’s surprise, Warwick quickly won his agreement to a diplomatic mission to France. Edward had given in too easily, Richard thought. There had been no argument, no counter-proposal, no need for compromise, yet Warwick suspected nothing. “That’s the spirit, Edward!” Warwick boomed. “I knew you’d see that I am right.” Flush with his effortless victory, he smiled broadly as he left.

As soon as the door had shut, Edward laughed. “Let him go to Louis with his magnificent retinue. No doubt the Spider’s eager to spin his web of flattery around this splendid fly!”

“But you must give him a fair chance, Edward,” Richard exclaimed.

Edward’s eyebrows lifted a fraction. “So it’s true, Dickon. You love his daughter.”