The Rose of York (28 page)

John remembered little after the King’s announcement. He’d stood rooted to the floor, stunned, reeling from shock while the room darkened and the stone pillars around him wavered like reeds in a river. He barely heard Edward’s explanation, that his object was to bring peace to the unruly North, which was Lancastrian in sympathy and clamoured for Percy’s return. In exchange for the earldom, Edward promised John’s son George the hand of his eldest daughter, Elizabeth, and conferred on the little boy the title of Duke of Bedford. John was elevated to the marquisat of Montagu.

But no lands were bestowed. No means with which to support the marquisate were provided. Nothing but forty pounds a year from the county of Southampton. Edward claimed he was short of money and promised to take care of the matter one day. But Edward was always short of money and months had passed since John had lost his earldom. He couldn’t live on hollow titles and empty promises. With his coffers drained, he’d borrowed to survive. If it weren’t for the generosity of his friend and kinsman Lord Scrope of Bolton he’d have been reduced to beggary.

John swallowed the bitter gall that flooded his mouth. Lord Scrope had sided with Warwick and led the Redesdale rebellion with Conyers. From a foe, he’d received succour; from a friend, a foul blow.

He looked at Percy, remembering the tearful day when his family had quitted Alnwick and moved back into the leaky manor house his father had given him. As they could no longer afford many servants, Isobel and his daughters helped with the chores. Now Percy lived in Alnwick. Such was Edward’s thanks to him for going against his brothers, for fighting his kinsmen, for labouring day and night to crush rebellions in the North and keeping the border safe so Edward could take his ease.

Such was his thanks.

John didn’t respond to Percy’s taunt lest the pain and rage in his heart sound like fear, but his eyes blazed over the hostile crowd as he took the reins of his horse.

“Your clothes have seen some wear since we last met,” sneered Dorset over Percy’s shoulder. His ice-blue eyes glinted with amusement as they raked John’s chaperon and cote. John’s hat was devoid of gems, for he had long since pawned them, and though his cote was of finest blue velvet, there was a stain on the shoulder, the silver embroidery was frayed, and the fur was matted by weather. Hatred and humiliation coursed through John’s veins and the muscles of his forearm hardened beneath his sleeve. He turned his back and mounted his horse.

But Percy was relentless. “How fares your brother, Montagu? I hear the Bitch of Anjou kept him on his knees a full hour while he whined his pardons and begged her forgiveness.” Raucous laughter met the report sweeping England.

John trotted his horse closer and looked down on Percy’s sallow, pockmarked face. “The only whining I hear, Percy, is your womanly voice,” he said, breaking his silence at last.

Percy’s group jeered, but from the corner of his eye, John saw his squire smile.

“Your niece…” Percy shot back with a sneer. “I hear it took all Louis’s arts to persuade Marguerite to agree to the marriage! Called her a little mouse and wanted nothing to do with her—said the match was not to her profit and even less to her honour.”

John stared at Percy, but it was Anne he saw: tiny, fragile Anne, hiding her tearful face. “Why so sad, my little lady?” he’d asked as he’d scooped her up in his arms. “I’m nearly four,” she’d wept, “and I still can’t touch the moon.” He clenched his fist around his bridle, his breath burning his throat. How dared that lily-livered turncoat insult Anne! He met Percy’s rat-like eyes. Slowly, meaningfully, finger-by-finger, he drew the gauntlet from his hand. For fear of thinning the ranks of his supporters, Edward had forbidden the issue of challenges, but once offered, a challenge could not be rejected without dishonour.

John leaned on his pommel and curled his lips. “Any time you wish, Percy, we can settle this man to man.” He threw his gauntlet at Percy’s feet.

Percy’s mouth twitched. He gave no reply. Like everyone else, he knew John had yet to lose a fight, be it a battle, or mantoman. John’s gauntlet was a death warrant.

“As you’re so reluctant, Percy,” said John, “perhaps Dorset here—renowned through the land for his valour—is willing to take your place?” He turned hard blue eyes on Dorset, who blanched and backed away. John smiled coldly. “I’ll take both of you snivelling cowards at the same time. What say you?”

At that moment a window was flung open on the second floor of the palace and someone yelled, “Northumberland!” The window slammed shut again.

Percy recovered, leered at John. “I must go, Montagu. The King needs me.”

John watched him swagger across the courtyard with his retinue. Revulsion tightened his stomach into a painful knot. He swung his stallion towards the gate. His squire handed him his dusty gauntlet and mounted his horse to follow him. John raised a hand. “I go alone.”

“’Tis not safe, my lord! You are a…” George Gower broke off.

John knew what his squire was about to say.
You are a Neville!
He spurred his horse and galloped blindly out of the palace gates, Roland following at his heels. Men ran, chickens clucked out of his path, a cart nearly overturned, dogs barked, children fell. John heard nothing, saw nothing. He had only one desperate wish.

To leave behind the painful world of men.

~ * * * ~

“He walked with dreams and darkness.”

At Westminster Richard took the narrow stone steps up to the private chapel of the royal apartments. The beautiful room had octagonal walls, many windows, and a reed mat on the tiled floor. A wooden cross stood on one windowsill between an icon and an urn of blue periwinkles, and a Bible lay open on a stand before the small altar. Richard shut the door and drew the crimson velvet curtain for privacy. He knelt and said a prayer of thanks for the safe delivery of his newborn daughter Katherine.

The child had been born during the spring revels in May, in the small house he had bought for Kate on Beech Hill near Pontefract Castle. He was proud of the sweet babe with the rosebud mouth, yet his joy in fatherhood was tainted by an inexplicable guilt. Somehow, he felt unfaithful to Anne.

That was ridiculous, of course. Nobles begot bastards. It was the way things were and there was nothing shameful in that. If Anne had not been lost to him, he would never have known the need that drove him to other women. And that need existed. He was no anchorite. He was made of flesh and blood. While he didn’t revel in orgies as Edward did, he didn’t spurn the women of the taverns. But Kate was no bawdy wench to be paid and dismissed. He cared about her, knew she hoped for more than he could give her. Had not Edward made Bess his queen? Had not his own great-grandfather, the Duke of Lancaster, married Katherine Swynford, a herald’s daughter?

With hope in her heart, Kate had named the babe Katherine— but not in her own honour, as haughty Bess had done with her first child. Kate’s thought had been for the lowborn girl who’d wed a duke. But there had been love between Katherine and her duke. He loved only Anne. He would go to his death loving only her. He made the sign of the Cross and rose from the altar. Taking a seat on the velvet-cushioned window seat, he slipped his hand deep into the bosom of his doublet and withdrew Anne’s letter from a pleat pocket in his shirt.

After Wales he’d gone north to aid Edward against Robin of Redesdale, but once again their cousin John, that valiant soldier, had quelled the rebellion without help. Returning to London, he went by way of Middleham. He’d received no word from Anne in months and he needed to know if she had left him a letter.

Gulping deep breaths of cold fir-scented air, he’d panted into the woods and made for their tree. Leaping over the gorse, stumbling over rocks, he’d run past the grove of poplars, across the gushing brook. Twice he fell in his haste. The chestnut finally loomed into view. He stumbled to a halt. It hadn’t changed. Split down the middle and hollow at its heart, the old tree still stood tall, wounded but healed, stretching out its limbs with the proud dignity he remembered. His eye fixed on the carving he’d cut into the gnarled old bark as a ten-year-old boy:
Richard and Anne, King and Queen of Avalon, where all is Justice and Joy
. Here had stood their mythical kingdom where, in their childhood innocence, they had ruled supreme. His heart began to race. Inside the hollow a white ribbon fluttered down from the little shelf he’d nailed there so many years ago, in that other lifetime. Trampling the stinging nettles he didn’t feel, the brambles that ripped his hose and pierced his flesh, he made his way to the tree and reached up into the hollow. He flung the stone aside and seized the letter. He slashed the ribbon and bent his head to read.

Beloved, My heart is heavy and the world filled with darkness since I learned the news. Father says we must flee for our lives, that there is no other way. God has chosen to part us, but you will be with me always for I will carry you in my heart until we meet again. If that day comes not on this earth, I shall wait for you in Heaven, for you are my love, my only joy, all that I treasure in this world and the next. – Anne

He slid to the hard ground, clutching the letter. In a bramble bush, an animal squealed and darted away. Deer approached and fled, cracking dry twigs underfoot. The woods fell silent again except for the cawing of ravens. The light grew cold; the sky lit with purple and darkened. He got up stiffly. Folding the letter with cold, clumsy fingers, he slipped it into a breast pocket deep inside his velvet doublet.

He had carried it with him ever since.
He looked down now at the delicate, evenly-formed black script and traced the small flowing letters gently with a fingertip. Resting his head against the window, he shut his eyes, his mind flooded with Anne. Her warmth came to him, and he could hear her voice, feel her touch. He was closer to her than at any time since their parting, closer even than when he’d found her letter by their tree. The love and the longing he felt overwhelmed him, and for a moment he forgot where he was.

He tucked the letter safely back into his doublet. Despite everything that had happened, despite all the doubts that at times drowned his hope, he continued to believe they’d be together some day. How or when he would win Anne, he couldn’t fathom, but the old conviction was still there at his core, radiating hope amidst the darkness, giving him will to go on.

~*~

“Sire! An emissary from the Duke of Burgundy with urgent tidings!” cried a herald.

“Send him in,” commanded Edward, seating himself on his throne in the Marculf chamber at Westminster.

Richard hurried to his stance beside Edward while his old friend Howard, the Friendly Lion, and other knights gathered at the foot of the dais. It was the morning after the Feast of St. Swithin, three months after Northumberland had been restored to Percy. They had been conferring with Edward on the situation in the North, which was as unsettled as ever, but news about Warwick took precedence over all other troubles.

The messenger strode in, knelt before Edward, and confirmed that a pact had been made in Angers and that the proud Warwick had indeed prostrated himself before Marguerite d’Anjou for a full half-hour.

Edward laughed. “Warwick will be as true to Marguerite as he has been to me.”

“Sire,” the messenger said gravely. “The Earl of Warwick swore on a splinter of the True Cross to be Queen Marguerite’s faithful subject.”

A choked gasp escaped Richard’s lips. Gone was hope of reconciliation; gone, all hope of winning Anne! Warwick had chosen his side and now his choice bound him unto death. Before he could stop himself, he exclaimed, “The Cross of St. Laud has the power to strike him dead within a year if he breaks his oath.”

Edward slammed a fist on the armrest of his chair. “I’ll strike him dead myself if I get the chance!” He signalled the messenger to continue.

“The Earl of Warwick agreed to place Henry of Lancaster back on the throne. In return, on July 15th at the Cathedral of Angers the Lady Anne Neville was betrothed to Prince Edouard of Lancaster.”

Richard’s pulse pounded in his ears and his legs buckled beneath him. He clutched hold of the throne. Edward’s words came to him dimly. “Marguerite agreed to that?”

“She would not hear of the marriage at first, Your Grace. King Louis is a persuasive man but it took all his powers to get her to accept the offer. In the end, the King prevailed, though two conditions were placed by Queen Marguerite. First, as Prince Edouard and Lady Anne are cousins, that a papal dispensation be obtained before the marriage is consummated. Second, that—that…”

“Proceed, good man. However ill the tidings you carry, you are pardoned,” Edward said.

The messenger swallowed. “Second, that the marriage not be consummated until the Earl of Warwick has won England for Lancaster.”

“I see,” said Edward, a hard edge to his voice. “I don’t envy Warwick. Marguerite neither forgives nor forgets. If he succeeds in getting Henry back on the throne, I wouldn’t wish to be in his shoes… What of my royal brother, Clarence?”