The Rose of York (42 page)

Edward laughed. “When has it not been, brother?”

“So it’s true. The exchequer is empty and parliament in no mood to grant money for a campaign.” Richard cast Edward a sideways look. Having been fooled once, parliament no longer trusted him. “What will you do?”

“There’s no way around it, is there? I shall have to go to the people and beg—like a pauper!” Edward threw his wine cup against the wall.

Richard waited for the clatter to subside before broaching the subject that had brought him to Shene. “Edward… about George. I’ve reached a decision that should settle our problem.”

Edward looked at him expectantly.

“So he shall have everything,” said Edward when Richard was done. “The Countess’s properties, the earldoms of Warwick and Salisbury. You wish only Middleham, Barnard’s Castle, and Penrith. All else goes to him. You also surrender to him the office of Great Chamberlain of England, which he has not demanded… Is that right?”

Richard nodded.

“’Tis a remarkably bad bargain, dear brother.”

“Nevertheless, I am agreed.”

“You must love her very much.”

When Richard made no reply, Edward said, “A pity that such love must wait.”

Richard’s eyes widened, fixed on his face. A server entered, bearing a flask and another goblet for Edward. He ignored the goblet and grabbed the flask. He drank deep and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Dear brother, have you forgotten? You and Anne are cousins. You may not marry without a papal dispensation, and the Pope grows greedier as he greys.”

Richard’s heart sank. He had been so consumed with appeasing George, he had overlooked the obstacle of the Church. Before he could gather his thoughts, a derisive laugh made him turn. George entered, grinning broadly, his entourage crowding around him.

“Ah, Dickon, my poor brother,” he clucked. “You seem damned whichever way you turn. Why don’t you just give up and face reality? God Himself is against you…”

In one stride, Richard had him by the collar. “Watch me, George,” he hissed in his face. “I will marry Anne, and nothing you can do is going to stop me. As for God…” He pushed him aside contemptuously. “Take care, George, take great care. God hates traitors, and the way you’re going… Well, let’s just say I wouldn’t want to stand in your shoes. You’re going to meet a bad end, George. Mark my words.”

He strode to the door, turned back. “And I will marry Anne. I’ll bet your life on it, George.”

~ * * * ~

“And Arthur said, ‘Behold, thy doom is mine. Let chance what will, I love thee to the death.’”

At the Sanctuary of Martin-le-Grand, in the Abbess’s parlour, a nun kept her eyes discreetly averted as Richard held Anne close in his arms.

“My sweet heart, all is settled with George. Now ’tis the Pope whose price must be met,” he said, unable to suppress a trace of bitterness.

Anne pushed out of his embrace. “It’s no use, Richard. We’re thwarted at every turn… I’ve prayed much this past year and I’ve come to believe I should take the veil.”

“No, Anne, I’ll not hear of it!” He seized her arm.

She shook his hand off. “Richard, there’s no chance for us. Can’t you see? Heaven is against our union.”

Richard froze for an instant, hearing Anne echo George’s thought. He dismissed his unease. “What reason could there be, Anne? What difference could our union make in God’s grand design? How could it help the world if we are denied our happiness? ’Tis folly you speak! You must not think it. I’ll not listen.” He cupped her chin in his hand and tilted her face so that she looked into his eyes. “I love you, Anne. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t love you. Without you there is no sun above, no light in the world, and no hope anywhere. If you take the veil, you condemn me to a life of emptiness. Is that what you want?”

Tears clouded Anne’s vision, rolled down her cheeks. She gave a cry and sagged against him. His strong arms enfolded her tightly and she clung to him, feeling safe and protected as only Richard could protect her. It was when they were apart, in the loneliness of her tiny room, that such notions filled her head. Aye, why should Fate be against them? Maybe she was the problem, not Fate. She and her irrational fears, premonitions, and prophetic dreams.

She drew back, looked up at him shyly. “I gave you my heart a long time ago, Richard. For me, there’s only you, and when we’re together, all is well with the world. I won’t take the veil, not until I know you are lost to me. But what hope is there?”

“There is a way we can wed, my love,” he whispered. As pious as Anne was, he almost dared not speak the words. His eyes flicked to the nun in the corner of the room and back. “Marriages are made daily without dispensations. We could marry, then get one.” He added quickly, “That way we wouldn’t have to wait. But…” He bit his lip nervously. “But people would talk… Some might say I coerced you into marriage, or that it wasn’t a true marriage and I married you only to divorce you later for your lands.”

“I’m in Sanctuary. You can’t coerce me. And I have no lands.”

“That would make no difference… I know not what else they would say, but they’d find something. People always do.”

Anne’s gaze went over Richard’s shoulder, to the Cross glittering over the hearth, and in her mind’s eye arose a vision of a French queen’s cold black marble tomb in an abbey in Caen.
Without dispensation…
The cousins William and Mathilde had risked eternal damnation to wed without dispensation, chancing that God would forgive them their sin. Could she do the same?

With Edouard there had been dispensation, but no love. With Richard there would be love, but no dispensation. Which was more important? The popes were God’s earthly representatives, but they had human failings and erred despite divine guidance. But love… Love was balm for life’s wounds, God’s most precious gift to man. Surely He would forgive them if they followed Mathilde and William’s example and made atonement as they had done, by founding an abbey, or performing some great good work. And even if He did not, could she give up Richard now— and the chance to snatch some happiness after all the grief?

“Love is worth everything we have to pay, Richard.”

“Oh, my Anne, I didn’t dare hope…” He turned swiftly and called out to the nun sitting at the far end of the room. “Sister Beatrice, will you kindly fetch the Abbess? Lady Anne is leaving immediately! She will no longer be requiring Sanctuary.”

~*~

They were married by Archbishop Neville at the chapel in his exotic manor of The Moor in Hertfordshire. Anne’s reunion with her uncle was bittersweet. Though Richard had tried to prepare her, she was shocked at the change in him. She had not seen him since before Barnet and could not accept that his once erect and bouncing walk should have slowed to such a stooped and plodding gait, and that he should be so drawn and weathered, with all semblance of youth wiped from his face. Richard had ached for her as she gazed on him. Time and troubles had indeed done their work. The flesh was melted around chin and jaw, and beneath his drooping lids the Archbishop’s faded blue eyes spoke of remorse. That much was no surprise, thought Richard. Betrayal of one’s brother was a heavy burden to bear and guilt had taken its toll.

After a light meal in the great hall, they followed the Archbishop into his chapel, and the marriage ceremony began.

“You may kiss the bride,” said the Archbishop when it was over. His mouth curved gently, and from the friends gathered together came smiles and sighs of relief, sending a rustle of garments and clink of armour through the chapel. Sunlight streamed through a coloured glass window, drenching the stone floor in jewelled beauty like a Saracen carpet, and doves cooed on the snowy windowsill. Fountains splashed in the garden, a peacock screeched, and a dog ran barking, but these sounds came to Richard dimly, as if muted by a vast distance. So swiftly had events unfolded that he was somewhat incredulous that Anne was finally his. He gathered her into his arms and crushed his mouth to hers for their first kiss as man and wife. Still in a daze, he walked her to the gatehouse and waited for the groomsmen to bring their horses. The Archbishop made the sign of the Cross over them, murmured a blessing, and embraced them in farewell. Richard helped Anne into the saddle of his bay destrier, and mounted behind her. They waved to her uncle till he disappeared from sight.

“Now we go north, Flower-eyes,” Richard said, covering her with his heavy woollen cloak to protect her from the cold March wind. Anne laid her head against his shoulder and watched the birds wheel in the blue sky, their song more ravishing than any she had heard before.

~*~

They stopped at Barnet. Anne wept silently and laid snowdrops and jonquils on the field. Holding her close, Richard led her into Hadley Church, where they bought masses for the souls of her father and uncle. After a prayerful vigil at the altar, they took their leave.

“Don’t look back, dear Anne. No one can go forward if they keep looking back. ‘In last year’s nest, there are no eggs,’” Richard said. “Your Uncle John told me that, God assoil his soul.” Anne glanced up at his face and caught the pain that darkened his grey eyes. She tightened her hold of his hand.

Their first night was spent in a little inn on the edge of the forest in Epping. Richard looked around the rush-strewn room at the wood-beamed walls, trestle bed, and rough-hewn chair. A fire crackled in the hearth. “’Tis not what I had in mind, but at least it’s warm and all about us are well-wishers.” Suddenly nervous, he added awkwardly, “I shall leave you for a few moments.”

A rush of pink stained Anne’s cheeks. A maid entered. The woman washed her with rosewater, helped her change into a linen shift, and perfumed her body with lavender. Anne climbed into bed and dismissed her shyly. The last time she had waited for a husband was in Bayeux. She drew the sheet up to her neck and shut her eyes against the memory of her humiliation. “I’d be a fool to get you with child,” Edouard had sneered, ripping her shift open and leering at her, “but I did wish to see what I was missing.” With a snicker he’d added, “Nothing but a bag of puny bones.” That was how it had begun.
But not how it ended, not what brought the pain…

She bit down hard. A fierce trembling seized her and her teeth began to chatter. They were still chattering when Richard returned. He checked her brow for fever. “Beloved! What is it? Are you not well? I’ll send for a potion…” He turned to call for the maid, but Anne restrained him.

“’T-t-tis nothing a potion can m-mend… H-hold me, Richard,” she stammered. He sat down on the bed, enfolded her gently in his arms. “Never l-leave me, Richard,” she whispered against his sleeve.

“I’ll never leave you, Flower-eyes,” he soothed, pulling back to look at her. “But why this fit, dear one, what can ail…” He broke off with sudden realisation.
Edouard
. Edouard must have done something vile! Marguerite had extracted a pledge from Louis that her son’s marriage not be consummated until Warwick had won England for Henry, and though Warwick had driven Edward out for eight months, he had failed to secure the land for Lancaster. Until now, Richard had not allowed the thought to cross his mind that Anne might have lain with Edouard.

“Dear Anne,” he said roughly beneath his breath, “I know not what you have suffered, but if the marriage bed brings you such pain, I will wait as long as it takes, my love.”

Anne burst into tears and, clinging to him, sobbed against his chest.

~*~

All the way from Epping to Barnard’s Castle, Anne rode pillion behind Richard. They avoided as much as possible the big cities, choosing instead to spend their nights in small towns. The skies were blue as crystal, squirrels chased one another around the trees budding for spring, and when they were lucky, deer darted out from the forests into their path. Happiness felt like a strange new gift, as if a hand had suddenly opened and thrown them a bouquet of sunbeams.

The sun was a fiery orange when they arrived at Barnard’s Castle and wound their way up the hill to its white turreted walls. The townsfolk had turned out in force to welcome them, throwing white iris and narcissus over their small procession, and the mayor presented them with a silver chalice. Richard noted how softly the man’s eyes rested on Warwick’s daughter. Aye, Anne was finally home. As the servants went to work unloading their belongings and preparing their rooms, Richard led her up the tower steps to the ramparts. Twilight had descended and the sky was like a faded rose. The river thundered past, shining a molten silver in the dusk, while the wind swept the trees with a loud rustling and birds shrilled in their ears with the din of a flock of minstrels.