The Rose of York: Crown of Destiny (3 page)

Day is already ending
, she thought. How late it was. How quickly the seasons had flown! In this happy period of her life, time had a way of vanishing, and already the enchanted summer of 1474 that had brought her child into the world had yielded to the spring of 1475.

Servants entered to light the torches. She closed her eyes and nuzzled her sleeping infant, seeking strength from his warmth. Exhausted, she had taken a moment to rest from the endless stream of petitioners that filled the antechamber, but dismissing those who remained was out of the question. She could not turn her back on need. Once she had laboured as a scullery maid herself, and now, even her exalted status as Duchess of Gloucester failed to erase the memory of that desperate time in her life.

She took the sleeping child from her shoulder and laid him gently into his cradle. He stretched and gave a yawn. Anne smiled tenderly and adjusted his blanket with a gentle touch. Christened Edward, in honour of Richard’s royal brother, the babe was a beautiful child, with Richard’s dark hair and Neville-blue eyes that brought to mind her father, the proud Kingmaker, Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick. But it was the babe’s dimples, which could only have come from her uncle John, Lord of Montagu, that caught the heart.

She smiled as she rocked his cradle. Reluctant to be parted from her little one, whom they affectionately called Ned, she used the nursery as a state chamber, giving orders to stewards and chamberlains, answering letters, arbitrating quarrels, and receiving petitioners. Her little Ned didn’t seem to mind, and cooed or slept peacefully most of the time.

She felt a hand on her shoulder, and looked up from the cradle. “Let me dismiss them, my dear. Just this once?” said her mother, Anne Beauchamp, Countess of Warwick.

“No.” Anne struggled to her feet. “I’m their only hope, Mother, or they wouldn’t have made the arduous journey. You know I can’t turn them away. Tomorrow there will be as many more.”

“If George had not left me a pauper, I could help you,” the Countess said.

The mention of George’s name seemed to blow a cold wind into the room. Anne shivered. George was Richard’s brother, who, after the civil war ended, had spitefully abducted her and hidden her away as a servant in a London kitchen so that she couldn’t wed Richard. He had also stolen—there was no better word for it—her mother’s lands and wealth, leaving her impoverished without even a roof over her head, and forced into Sanctuary. George had also tried to take Middleham Castle from them—Middleham, so full of memories, so much a part of them! She and Richard had met at her father’s castle of Middleham when she was seven and he was nine, and they’d grown up to fall in love. Fortunately, Richard had won that dispute, and then invited the Countess to live with them.

“I know, Mother, but this is the way it is, and we must carry on as best we can. I just wish Richard hadn’t left. I miss him so.” She cast her sleeping babe a look of yearning as she tore herself from his side. Richard’s absence ached in her heart as fiercely as it had during those terrible years when their families had been swept apart by war, but here, in this babe, lay solid remembrance of him, and a reminder that the fearsome past was dead.

It was a reminder she found herself needing constantly. She was secure now, happily wed to her childhood sweetheart, but the harsh memories of a past laden to the breaking point with loneliness, loss, and grief still rose up to torment her at odd hours of the day and night. Now that Richard had left for war, only little Ned could chase away those dark memories and bring her comfort.

With a soft sigh, the Countess took Anne’s place at the cradle. Delicate as her daughter was in appearance and in health, there was nothing delicate about her will. She would see the petitioners, every last one, and argument was futile.

Guessing the train of her mother’s thoughts, Anne gave her an apologetic kiss on the cheek before moving to take up her stance at the centre of the dais. Heaving a sigh, Richard’s old hound, Percival, followed her and arranged himself on her skirts.

Anne turned to a man-servant. “Ask Sir James to send in the nuns.”

He withdrew with a bow. A moment later, the door opened and her steward, Sir James Tyrell, entered with a scrivener and two nuns in tow. The scrivener resumed his seat at his desk, Sir James stood beside him with a hand resting on the man’s shoulder, and the nuns curtseyed, their habits crumpling to form two grey puddles on the bare floor. Anne bid them rise. “How can I help you?” she asked.

“I am from the Convent of Startforth,” said one. “A boarder has come to us, Your Grace—an orphan. She is a deserving child, but without means. Her parents died of the plague and she has nowhere else to go, no family left. We cannot keep her without help, my lady. Times are hard, and we have barely enough to feed ourselves as it is.”

Anne turned her gaze on the second nun.

“I am from the convent of Shildon, Your Grace. Our walls are crumbling. I come to beg a benefice to repair them.”

“You shall both receive what you need,” Anne said without hesitation. “Be it so noted, Sir James.” Her steward nodded to the scrivener, who began scribbling. Anne gave her hand to be kissed.

“Thank you, my lady, thank you!” they cried in joyful unison. “May God bless you for your goodness, Your Grace. May the bounty of Christ be yours.”

The nuns were ushered out. Other petitioners came and went: a poor knight seeking relief from his taxes, a prior who couldn’t afford the fee for a royal licence, a free-holder whose sheep had died of disease and who needed a loan to get back on his feet. As the last one left the room, Anne was swept with a sudden bout of dizziness. The Countess leapt to her feet in alarm. Taking her daughter by the shoulders she led her to a chair.

“You shouldn’t have gone to the village today! You’re wearing yourself out, dear child. I keep telling you to stop visiting the sick—you’re never been healthy, and whether you believe it or not, your charity in York can distribute food and clothing to the poor without you. But do you listen? No, you go and found another for the lepers…”

“Mother, you know why I do it,” she managed, her voice a whisper. “The lepers are pitiful. And the poor are so happy to see me. How can I not go? It gives them comfort.”

“Nothing you do is ever enough to stem the need. The sick and the poor and the desperate are always with us. Your charity will be the death of you!”

“Now, now, Mother,” chided Anne, closing her eyes. It felt good to rest.

But she knew her mother was right. She’d set herself a cruel pace. Often, Vespers had passed and darkness had fallen by the time she could retire to the solar for a few precious moments with Richard and little Ned. But what joy in those moments! Sometimes she’d sing along with Richard as he played the lute for the little one, and sometimes she’d just sit, content to watch her mother bounce Ned in her lap. They all delighted in the simplest things he did. When Ned had smiled that very first time, it had seemed to her that the sun had risen at night…

There is joy in remembrance
, she thought, her head clearing and calm settling over her as she came back to the present. She looked up at her anxious mother. “I’m fine, Mother. Truly. Whatever it was is gone now.”

“Why do you drive yourself so, my child?” pleaded the Countess, concern evident in her eyes.

“Because I’m happy, Mother, and in my happiness I wish everyone happy.”

“Your privy purse is drained making everyone else happy,” she scolded, “while you scrimp.”

“Yet there’s nothing I’d do differently.” Still a trifle dizzy, she went to the window seat and pushed the window open for air. The night was refreshingly cool, and a full moon shone in the dark sky. How she missed Richard! Edward had saddled him with such responsibility that they scarcely found leisure to admire the twilight or stroll in the moonlight together, as they had done when they were first wed. But despite his burdens, Richard was happy, too. She knew, because he called her “Flower-eyes” with ever-increasing frequency. Indeed, the castle glowed with joy and laughter, and like sunlight striking a mirror, the radiance reflected back on her. Now when she reviewed the past, she always paused at the wisdom of her decision in the abbey of St. Martin Le Grand—to elope with Richard and not wait for a papal dispensation.

Aye, love is all that matters. Love is everything. God understands, and will forgive
. She had no doubts about that. Only one cloud marred her near-perfect horizon: little Ned was sickly. “Fret not, Flower-eyes,” Richard constantly reassured her. “Remember that when I was small, I was always so near death that the steward in writing to my Lord father would add a postscript: ‘Richard liveth yet.’” Then they’d laugh and turn their smiles on their child.

But the King’s business took Richard away from Middleham far too often these days, and on those occasions when he was home, he was often preoccupied. For on his shoulders rested the weighty affairs of war and peace.

In the year since Ned’s birth, Richard had accomplished wonders in York. His Council of the North, which he had set up to dispense justice to the poor, had grown into a body well-regarded by both rich and poor, righting many wrongs in the vast region under his control. And the border with Scotland, which was always troubled, had grown quieter. Thanks to his tireless efforts, England had secured a treaty and sealed it with the betrothal of James of Scotland’s heir to Edward’s five-year-old daughter, Princess Cecily. Even the seizure of English merchant ships on the high seas had eased. Other accords were also made, netting England peace with all her neighbours. All except France. With France, Edward had decided on war.

Anne remembered how Edward had laughed when he’d learned the French king’s response to his proposed invasion: “I declare,” Edward had said, wiping a tear of laughter from his eyes, “Louis’s discomfort is such consolation, I am ready give up my bed for a soldier’s pallet!”

No, Edward didn’t care for war. The “Battle of the Boudoir” remained his passion of choice.
His lance always stands firm there
, she thought with a rare tightening of the mouth. Meanwhile, Richard toiled. It irked her that he didn’t seem to mind Edward’s failings. She still remembered how he had chuckled at Edward’s missive. To raise money for the war, Edward had written that he’d been obliged to travel the realm and cajole his subjects for contributions. “What’s so funny, my Lord?” she’d asked Richard as she’d made a game of dangling coloured baubles in front of Ned and snatching them away before he could grab them. She loved the sound of his giggles.

“A London dame offered Edward twenty pounds, and Edward thanked her with a kiss, whereupon she doubled her gift,” Richard chuckled.

“Before, or after, the boudoir?” she had asked.

Engrossed in the letter, Richard had failed to rise to her bait. His brothers were the only subject they fought about and usually she tried to avoid giving offence, but sometimes things slipped out. She hated his adulation of Edward, whom she deemed unworthy of admiration.

“…All who went into their audience with frowns came out with smiles, wishing they could have given more to their king,” Richard had continued, reading from the letter. “I vow Edward can pluck the feathers of his magpies without making them cry out. He jests with the people, embraces them, treats them as equals no matter how low-born, and wins their hearts. The soul is not born who can resist his charm! Edward expects to have the money by Easter.”

“I shall take Ned for a stroll in the garden,” Anne had said, rising abruptly, angry Richard could be so happy about the prospect of war. Did he care so little that she would be left behind to wait and worry? He gave no thought to her, only to Edward!

She bundled Ned tightly in his velvet blanket and gathered him up from the cot. Richard didn’t notice her departure. At the door, she had paused, looked back.
Damn Edward
.

“Anne…”

Her mother’s voice pierced her reverie. She blinked, startled.

“My dear, why so cross? What were you thinking about? Come away from the window; you’ll catch cold. Let us go to the solar and read the missive Richard has sent. Nurse Idley will bring Ned.”

In the solar, warmed by the flicker of numerous candles, wine, and the music of minstrels, Anne took a window seat with her mother while Percival stretched out to sleep on the Saracen carpet. Richard’s news was not as good as she’d hoped. England’s allies, who had promised Edward help against Louis XI, had so far failed to join them. Even Charles the Rash of Burgundy, who was wed to Richard’s sister, Meg, had not come as he’d promised. They were still waiting for him, and increasingly fearful that they would have to fight the French alone.

She remembered the high promise of that day in May when Richard’s battle cry had sounded across the dales of the North…

Horses neighed restlessly, plumes fluttered in the wind, and armour shone in the sun as Anne offered her husband the stirrup cup by the drawbridge of Middleham Castle. Clad in the white Milan armour he had worn into battle at Barnet, his dark hair stirring in the wind, Richard sat astride the magnificent white Syrian that Anne had chosen with King Arthur’s white horse in mind to mark Richard’s twenty-second birthday.
He looks his best on horseback
, Anne thought; a princely figure on a princely horse, though it required a firm hand to curb the restive stallion that whinnied with excitement, anxious to be off. Richard had become so devoted to the charger, White Surrey, that he rarely rode another. The spirited beast reciprocated the affection that had been won with gentle handling and many an apple and slice of marchpane.

Anne’s proud gaze swept Richard’s army. Men had answered his call to arms so willingly that he had found himself with three hundred more than he had promised Edward, and now the entire hillside blazed with silk-fringed banners of the White Boar.

“My Lord, I am not the only one who loves you. It seems all Yorkshire holds you in its heart,” she said as he drank. Percival, standing by her sable-trimmed skirt, barked as if he, too, heartily supported the statement. Richard’s gaze had followed hers to the ranks of plumes and bows waiting below the drawbridge.