The Rose of York (39 page)

Richard’s tense shoulders relaxed. He gave a deep bow. “With your permission, Edward…”

Edward nodded.

~*~

Armed with Edward’s order, and with his retinue at his side, Richard galloped to George’s house. Bidding them wait in the courtyard, he pushed George’s servants aside when they tried to tell him Anne wasn’t there and took the steps two by two to her chamber on the upper floor.

The room was empty.

His stomach clenched. The bed was made and the hearth swept. The stone-and-wood room had the cold air of a place untouched by human habitation. From the window he could see the bare branches of the trees stripped of their foliage, the thin lawn, and the muddy river flowing past, dark and threatening in the stinging rain. The startling difference from the night before filled him with dread. He turned quickly from the window.

George stood at the door, a thin smile on his lips. He wore a velvet doublet of purple and gold trimmed with miniver and he was studded with jewels from his fair curls to the points of his red shoes. “So, Dickon, you’re back, I see.”

Without a word Richard closed the distance between them and held out Edward’s missive. George leaned against the stone embrasure of the doorway and broke open the royal seals.

“Where is she?” demanded Richard, when George had finished reading.

George let the royal letter flutter to the floor and folded his arms. “Since I hold no right of wardship over Anne, I’m not responsible for her whereabouts. Therefore, I neither know nor care.”

For a moment Richard stared, dumbfounded. He realised suddenly that for him, as for Edward, the bond of brotherhood that had bound him tightly to George all his life had been so battered by years of wounding hurts and cruel demands that it had frayed into fine threads which would not hold much longer. He grabbed George by his fancy doublet and shoved him backwards into the room. “What have you done with her?” he demanded through clenched teeth.

George was seized with a moment’s fear. He had never seen Richard this way, but he recovered quickly and shoved back. “She left of her own accord. I don’t know where she went.”

They circled one another warily like panthers. “There are ways to find out,” Richard hissed. “Edward supports me in this. You’d best not push him too far, George.” He landed a punch to George’s left ear and his brother yelped. They hadn’t fought since they were boys and it felt strange to Richard, brought back memories.

“He’s always supported you!” cried George. “Always favoured you! I’m sick of it, I tell you! He’s going to pay!” He let go with his fist, and missed Richard’s jaw.

“You’re mad!”

“You’re going to pay, Dickon!”

“No, George. Get one thing very clear. You’ll pay. If anything happens to Anne, I’ll kill you.”

George lunged at him then, a bold strike that came as unexpectedly as lightning out of a blue sky. The punch landed hard in his gut. Pain exploded in his side and flashed to his right shoulder, which had never mended properly after Barnet and sometimes ached, especially in damp weather. The breath went out of him. He doubled over, clutched his stomach, bit down hard on the bile that flooded his mouth and stumbled to the bed. He grabbed the bedpost to keep from falling. George’s voice came in his ear. “Are you all right, Dickon?—Sit, Dickon, sit…” George eased him down on the bed.

Slowly the room stopped spinning and air returned to Richard’s lungs. He looked up at George.

“I didn’t mean to…” George swallowed, his misery in his eyes. “I didn’t want to hurt you, Dickon.”

Though breathing bruised his ribs, Richard gave him a wan smile. “You always… did win… our fights.” With George’s help, he struggled to his feet. After a moment’s unsteadiness he found he could stand. Focusing his gaze on a rose carved into the stone above the doorway, he placed one foot in front of the other and forced his way forward. His stomach throbbed with burning pain, but he managed to reach the door. He inhaled deeply, turned around. “But this time, George, you won’t win. I’ll find her. And I’ll marry her.”

Standing as erect as he could, he exited the chamber. When he reached the staircase, he let out his breath and leaned his weight against the stone wall as he descended the steps. To his left three high arches opened into the great hall, where varlets scurried around with napkins, silver salt-cellars and trenchers, setting the tables for the noon meal. On the distant dais, ladies were rolling with laughter at the antics of a dwarf. A movement caught his eye deep in a corner by one of the arches. He halted.

Dressed in sombre black, her sparse hair hidden by a grey velvet hennig, Bella was barely visible in the shadows. She must have been waiting for him, for now she inched carefully out of her corner. He hadn’t seen her since before she married George and he was shocked by the change in her. She had aged ten years in the short span of two, and she was paler, thinner, sadder than he remembered. He caught the surprise on her face and realised that she’d had the same thought about him.

Aye, she had buried a child, and he’d seen men die in battle. Life had marked them both.

She came out of the shadows. Their eyes met. Hers were red with weeping. He stood quietly, appealing to her with his. For a long moment their gaze held each other. Then her mouth quivered, and she gave a nod. She would help him find Anne.

He acknowledged her consent with a barely perceptible nod and continued out the door silently so that no one would know they had met.

~*~

Christmas arrived. Windsor Castle filled with music, boughs of greenery, and much feasting, but little merriment. In the months since Anne’s disappearance in September, George’s bitter arguments with Richard had broken the peace and poisoned joy. George refused to tell where he had hidden Anne, and Bella, unable to discover her whereabouts, had sent no word. In the meantime, Richard’s newly won offices and grants of Warwick’s northern lands infuriated George, who wanted them all—every title, every scrap of land, every groat of income. “You can have Anne,” George had shouted at Richard, “but you shall take her without a pence!”

Richard couldn’t accept that. Middleham and Barnard meant as much to him as they did to Anne. He had promised to take her North to live and was determined to do so. To these demands, George, already the richest in the land beside the King himself, had added one other. He demanded to be given the Countess’s lands, as if she were already dead. And the Countess had appealed to Richard for help. So the bickering continued, weighing down Richard’s spirits and turning the season sour. The realm watched uneasily, mindful that disputes between royals often ended in bloodshed. Even Edward was despondent.

Returning to the great hall five days before Christmas with a letter he had received from the Countess, Richard halted at the entry, gripped with anxiety.
What ill tidings have come now?
he wondered, for silence hung over the crowded chamber like a shroud. So heavy was the mood that even the minstrels had laid down their instruments for fear of offending. Richard looked around for Edward. He stood alone by the window, deep in thought, clutching a book. He was surrounded by his lords, yet no one spoke to him. As Richard watched, Edward’s oldest daughter, Elizabeth, approached her father. She was a beautiful child with hair of darkest gold, and Edward doted on her. Now he swung her up and sat her on a window ledge. Richard went over to join them but found himself reluctant to interrupt. He halted nearby, close enough to hear them speak.

“Why are you sad, my dear lord father?” Princess Elizabeth asked.

“This prophecy, dear child,” Edward whispered, his voice cracking in a way that Richard had never heard. He showed her the book, for the child was well schooled. “Can you read?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “I am only six, my lord father,” she said.

Edward almost smiled, then his face fell again. “It says, my dear child, that no son of mine shall be crowned king, but that you shall be queen and wear the crown in their stead.”

“My lady mother likes being queen, so maybe I shall like it, too,” the child replied, misunderstanding the reason for his sadness.

Gently, Edward stroked her hair.

So the book Edward held was on astrology. How strange that he should be so affected by a prophecy. He’d never shared the queen’s interest in the occult or shown much patience for portents when they didn’t accord with his wishes. He’d even had himself crowned on the ill-omened Holy Innocents’ Day, the festival of Herod’s massacre of the babes—a day on which even King Louis of France refused to conduct business—merely because he didn’t wish to tarry in London any longer. Richard lifted his eyes to Edward’s face, grim and battered by experience. The years had changed him much. He had moods now and one never knew what to expect. But one thing hadn’t changed: he was still the same brother who had come every day to see him at his London lodgings when he was a small boy, alone and afraid during the civil war.

“Edward,” Richard said gently.

Edward turned, aware of him for the first time.

“Prophecies don’t always come true, Edward.”

“I must be growing old, Dickon…” Edward sighed, dropping into a chair. “Looking back too much… No use looking back, Dickon, can’t change anything…” Then in a burst of forced gaiety, he slapped his knees. “Welladay, is it pleasure or business that brings you here?” He was smiling, but his tone held anxiety.

Richard slipped the letter from the Countess behind his back. There would be time enough to speak of it later. She had written yet again, begging Richard to intercede for her with Edward, a heart-rending entreaty not to be sacrificed to George and left a pauper. “Pleasure, Edward,” he said. Turning to the gallery, he gave the minstrels a signal and they struck up a merry tune.

~ * * * ~

“…thee, the flower of kitchendom ”

A louver in the roof ventilated the cookhouse and let in the bitter cold air of March, yet the kitchen was unbearably hot. Bread baked in the brick oven and a boy on a stool turned a side of beef on the spit in the hearth, filling the room with smoke. The pleasant aroma of cooking, however, failed to drown the stench of animal entrails as chickens and starlings were gutted on a table in the middle of room, near the cellar
alcove that stored wine and meat.

Anne’s stomach recoiled. She who had nursed injured birds back to health could find no appetite in this mortuary. Mealtimes had become an ordeal as she forced herself to chew dark bread and swallow peas and a mouthful of boiled cabbage and potherbs. Weight had dissolved off her in the six months she had been in this place where George had hidden her, and she was now past slender to the point of being dangerously thin.

Her eyes stung with smoke and the seething steam from the cauldron of salt-beef she stirred at the fire. Sweat poured down her brow in a steady stream, clouding her sight, wetting her tangled hair, and soaking her gown, which stuck to her body and gave off an evil smell. She was filthy, had bathed only once in all these months, and itched from dirt and flea bites. In spite of all her scratching, her scalp burned beneath the thin cook-maid cap she wore. Her shoulders, already sore from carrying buckets of water from the well down the long flight of narrow stairs to the kitchen, ached with fatigue though it was only morning. Months of arduous labour had hardened the blisters on her hands into calluses and firmed her muscles but were depleting her energy. She had been prone to more colds and fevers than usual this winter, and she could feel her strength ebbing as her hope of rescue faded. Only last week that hope had been cruelly fanned.

A minstrel had come to sup with them. In a curious coincidence, he happened to speak at length about her father, the great Kingmaker, for whom he claimed to have once played. The Earl’s eyes had been as blue as speedwells, he said, but everyone knew that. Afterwards, however, he proceeded to dazzle them with a description of the Kingmaker’s banquet and the fragment of a song. It was the lament about love and death that Richard had sung on his eleventh birthday,
Call and I follow…