The Rose of York (2 page)

Virtually all the figures of the period, both major and minor, have attracted the interest of historians and writers of fiction, but none so much as Richard III, the last Plantagenet king. He has aroused the greatest passions, both for and against him. Beginning with Sir Thomas More, through the Tudor chronicles of Hall, Holinshed, and others, Richard III was portrayed as a murderous, deformed monster who clawed his way to the throne over the bodies of Henry VI and his son, his own brothers, and his two nephews. The most vivid of all these portraits came from Shakespeare, whose depiction of the king stamped itself on the consciousness of all future generations.

This view, however, did not go unchallenged. In the seventeenth century, George Buck and William Cornwallis published defenses of Richard III, as did Horace Walpole in the eighteenth century. In the nineteenth century, Sharon Turner, John Heneage Jesse, Caroline Halstead, and others also come to Richard’s defense, but the most spirited challenge to the so-called Tudor myth came in the twentieth century, with both historians and writers of fiction joining the fray. Probably the most influential of the king’s defenders were historian Paul Murray Kendal, whose
Richard the Third
and other books on the Yorkist period viewed him in a sympathetic light, and Josephine Tey, whose novel
The Daughter of Time
vigorously challenged the traditional view. The Richard III Society, founded in England in 1924 to educate people about the king’s life and times, now has chapters in many countries, and has been responsible for much of the increased interest in the subject.

As interest in Richard III has grown, so has the number of books written about him, both fiction and nonfiction. Although some historians, such as Alison Weir and Desmond Seward, cling to the old stereotype, most historians have generally taken a more balanced view, but the greatest change can be seen in the many novels written by his partisans. Although some novels still portray him as Shakespeare’s monster, the great majority of those written in the past thirty or forty years are much more sympathetic, portraying Richard as a human being who lived through troubled times, showing great courage, devotion, and occasional faulty judgment, while attempting, usually successfully, to live up to his motto,
Loyaulte me lie
, Loyalty binds me.
Love & War
, the first novel in
The Rose of York
trilogy, is a worthy addition to this growing body of work.

~*~

Roxane C. Murph is an independent researcher and freelance writer in fifteenth century English history and the Wars of the Roses. A former Chairman of the U.S. Richard III Society, she is the author of
The Wars of the Roses in Fiction: An Annotated Bibliography, 1440—1994,
Greenwood Press, Westport, Conn., 1995, and
Richard III: The Making of a Legend,
Scarecrow Press, Metuchen, N.J., 1977, reprinted 1984.

~*~

In a tumultuous era marked by peril and intrigue, reversals of fortune and violent death, the passions of a few rule the destiny of England and change the course of history…

Richard:
Alone in a dangerous world, he is an orphan who has known exile, loss, tragedy, and betrayal. When at last he finds love, his loyalty is first challenged by war, then by the ambitions of a scheming queen.

Edward:
A golden warrior-king, reckless, wanton, he can have any woman he wants, but he wants the only one he can’t have. When he marries her secretly and makes her his queen, he dooms himself and all whom he loves.

Bess:
Edward’s detested and ambitious queen. Gilt-haired, cunning, and vindictive, she has a heart as dark as her face is fair.

George:
Richard’s brother. Handsome, charming, and consumed with hatred and greed, he will do anything it takes to get everything he wants.

Warwick the Kingmaker, aka Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick:
Richard’s famed cousin, maker and destroyer of kings. More powerful and richer than King Edward himself, he attracts the jealousy of the queen and seals his fate.

Anne Neville:
The Kingmaker’s beautiful daughter. She is Richard’s only love, his light, his life…

John Neville, aka Lord Montagu:
The Kingmaker’s brother. Valiant and honourable, he is Richard’s beloved kinsman and Edward’s truest subject, but when the queen whispers in the king’s ear, he is forced to confront what no man should have to face.

~*~

First and foremost, my thanks go to my publisher who accepted this book in August 2003 and, undaunted by the Herculean task of a three-month turnaround necessitated by the unusual circumstances of this book, made the impossible happen in November. I also extend heartfelt appreciation to those special people—many of them strangers—who went out of their way to help turn a false start into a good outcome. They know who they are. No acknowledgement would be complete without thanks to Ricardians Dale Summers, Myrna Smith, and Roxane Murph who wrote the foreword of this book at short notice, as well as P.W. Hammond who granted me an interview in London, and the Yorkshire branch of the Society, which includes John Audsley, the late Anne-Denise Worsnop, and Moira Habberjam who, eight years ago, welcomed a complete stranger into her home to tour the Ricardian North. I also wish to thank the ever-helpful staff of the British Library and the Manuscripts Room, as well as the staff of the university libraries of Berkeley, Boston College, Harvard, Houston, Rice, Stanford, Texas and Toronto. –
August 2009

~*~

For Richard
,
for John
,
and for all who shine a ligh
t
across the dark chasm of Tim
e

~*~

Live pure, speak true, right wrong, follow the King—
Else, wherefore born?

—Idylls of the King, Alfred, Lord Tennyson

For the whole earth is the sepulchre of famous men;
and their story is not graven only on stone
over their native land,
but lives on far away without visible symbol,
woven into the stuff of other men’s lives.

—Thucydide
s

~*~

Caen Castle, 1470

“I won’t!” Anne cried. “I won’t wed him, Mother!” “What’s this?” demanded a harsh voice behind her. Anne whirled around. Her father stood at the threshold of her bedchamber. “She says she’ll not wed Prince Edouard, my lord husband. I can’t make her see reason…”

Warwick’s expression hardened. He entered with long, angry strides, stopping in front of her. “Are you mad, girl? Do you not comprehend? I have arranged a marriage for you with a prince. A future king!”

“I wish no marriage, my lord father,” entreated Anne. “I don’t love him. I love Richard.”

“What has love to do with marriage?” he thundered. “King Edward married for love; ’tis the reason we are here! Had he done his duty, we would not have been exiled, deprived of all we hold dear. I see now that we’ve indulged you, you insolent little fool. God’s blood, but you shall marry. You shall do your duty!”

“I wish to be a nun, Father. Let me take the veil, dear Father…”

“A nun? A
nun
? You choose to be a nun instead of a queen, you unworthy wretch?” He took a threatening step towards her.

Anne gathered her shift around her and backed away. “I’ll not wed! I don’t love him!”

“You shall be Queen of England one day! Are you not proud? Do you not count yourself blessed?” Warwick blustered, reddening. A vein throbbed in his temple. “Is this our thanks?”

“Father, I beseech you on my knees!” pleaded Anne. “Don’t make me do this.”

“You will do it, or by God, I’ll have no more to do with you!”

“Let me take the veil,” she sobbed. “I pray you, Father…”

“You’ll do as I say or I’ll throw you into the streets, you disobedient wench!” He stepped forward, raising his hand to strike her. Anne shrank against the wall, trembling. She didn’t know this glowering, fuming stranger. The father she’d known could never have hit her. She shielded her face, braced herself for the blow.

The Countess threw herself between them. “Nay, my lord! Let it lie. She’ll come to her senses, I promise you. She’s a good child. She’ll do what she must. She’ll wed him.”

“She will indeed, or I’ll turn her out,” he raged. “You can beg, die, hang, starve in the streets, for on my soul, you’ll not see my face again! I’ll have nothing to do with you. I have given my word to King Louis, and I’ll not go back on it. By God, you shall marry Edouard!”

~ * * * ~

“Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel…”

The messenger tore through the night. The desolate, snowy streets of London posed little danger in the comforting dark, but at London Bridge he reined in his nervous mount. Torches flared along the bridge, casting lurid shadows on the traitors’ heads lining the poles. They leered at him with mocking grins as snowflakes melted into their empty eye-sockets and rotting flesh, pervading the eerie night with menace. He calmed his horse and braced himself. Cautiously, he trotted past the chilling sight, averting his face from the light. The sound of lapping water drew his attention to the inky river below where a boat was bearing a prisoner to the Tower. The man’s chains glittered a warning as he passed beneath the bridge. The messenger wondered if it was someone he knew, and shuddered.

Once over the bridge and safe again in the shadows of the night, he spurred his mount. Minutes later, at a stately stone mansion on the Thames, he gave the password and gained hasty entry. Racing up the steps, he was surprised to find himself face to face, not with the captain he’d come to seek, but with the Commander of the Yorkist army who was said to be fighting in the Midlands, the mighty lord known to all England as
Kingmaker
. He fell to his knees and delivered his fearful tidings.

The Kingmaker paled. Barking orders, he grabbed his cloak and made for his horse, his retinue in hot pursuit. Together they galloped along the deserted streets and drew up before a gabled home set behind a wall.

“Who goes there?” demanded a guard.

“
The Kingmaker
, Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick.”

“Password?”

“White Rose Vanquishes Red.”

“Enter!” The gate was thrust open.

The small courtyard filled with the shouts of men and the neighing of horses. Two young faces, one blond, one dark, appeared at the window above the entry, noses pressed against the glass. The boys’ eyes widened when they saw the Kingmaker. He entered the house, and the faces disappeared from the window.

~*~

“It’s Cousin Warwick, Dickon!” exclaimed the older boy.

Richard choked back a cry. Their cousin, Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, had fled London months ago. If the Lancastrians caught him, he’d lose his head. No doubt he’d be chopped into pieces first, as traitors always were unless their sentences were commuted.
She
would never commute Warwick’s sentence. She was England’s Queen, the savage Marguerite d’Anjou, and she was very angry with their cousin Warwick, maybe because he had called her the
Bitch of Anjou
. He wasn’t sure what a bitch was, but Nurse had scolded him when he’d asked and told him he must never use the word himself.