The Rose of York: Crown of Destiny (9 page)

Edward lifted his wine cup and downed it with a trembling hand. “The purpose of these colleges?” he asked, avoiding his eyes.

“To house priests and choristers to pray for you and the Queen, and for friends and kin who died in battle…” He hesitated, looked at Edward, “and for all those of royal blood, living, and dead.”

Edward rose heavily, dropped his hands on Richard’s shoulders. “Good brother,” he said with moist eyes, “your licence is granted.”

~*^*~

Chapter 9

“All is past, the sin is sinn’d, and I,

Lo, I forgive thee.”

St. John’s Day, 1480, was a happy one at Middleham. The castle gates and windows were flung wide to the summer sunshine and the feast was celebrated on the grassy slopes outside the castle walls amid laughter and song. Ladies strolled, children made merry, dogs barked, and young men picked wildflowers for their lady loves. Richard and Anne lounged on a crimson blanket, watching Ned frolic with the hounds while servants passed back and forth with food and drink, minstrels played, and men kicked balls and gambled at dice.

“How happy everyone is, Richard!” Anne said, rolling to her side and propping her chin on her hand to gaze at him. “I grew up here, yet in all my life I’ve not seen Middleham this way. In my father’s time our windows were shut, our gates barred against attack, for we were Yorkists in Lancastrian territory…” Her glance roamed over him lovingly. Dressed in his favourite dove grey, which complimented his dark hair and bronzed complexion, Richard’s eyes were clear as melted pewter in the sunlight. A smile played on his generous mouth, softening the clean lines of his jaw. “You’ve done this, Richard, my love.”

“Nay,” said Richard. “All I did was to get the city of York exempted from Edward’s taxes. ’Tis for that they love me, Flower-eyes.”

She laughed. He stretched out lazily and looked up at the sky.

Anne hugged her knees and smiled. How sweet it was to see her husband so content and little Ned play with such delight. And to hear Richard call her Flower-eyes. What a glorious day it was! A strong breeze blew, rustling leaves and bearing the scent of pine and the bleating of sheep from pastures below the village, and so many butterflies danced on the summer air it seemed wildflowers had taken wing. She wished there were more days like this for Richard. Thorough and painstaking in all he undertook, he rarely indulged himself as he did now. A curious thought struck her. He seemed to be drinking deep from the cup of pleasure as if he knew it would be empty for a long time. Was it because he had just returned from the Scots border? Or was it because he was bracing himself for the morrow?

“I wish you didn’t have to go to London, Richard,” she said, a trifle anxiously.

“I won’t stay long. You know ’tis only to see Meg that I go at all.” With a smile, he reached out and patted her hand. “Let’s not think on that now, my little bird. It only spoils the joy of the hour.”

She nodded, and he closed his eyes. But the bitter taste of court lingered in her mind. As Edward had predicted, peace had come to England with George’s death.
Peace—at least for Edward
, she thought. The Scots continued to give trouble, but it did not disturb him one whit. That heavy mantle fell on her husband’s shoulders, just as it had once fallen on her uncle’s, and while Richard kept peace in the North, Edward returned by day to his affairs of state, and by night to his sybaritic pleasures. It was rumoured he had a new mistress, a certain Jane Shore who had won his heart and was very beautiful and kind.

How different might it all have been had good-hearted Jane Shore come along fifteen years ago! But it was Bess who wore the crown, and now she craved another in France. As a result, Edward had never sent his sister Meg the help she needed to keep Burgundy safe from Louis of France. Mary of Burgundy had married Maximillian of Austria after George’s death, but not even that great prince could hold out against Louis alone. He’d sent many emissaries to Edward with pleas for help, but Edward continued to vacillate, to the detriment of England’s trade and the hardship of the people of both Burgundy and England.

And so, driven by desperation, Meg was coming to press her brother herself. She’d have no better fortune. Edward would choose wine over war, whatever the cost. With Louis’s fifty thousand crowns a year and George’s income of three thousand, he had grown complacent. There was even money enough to build a magnificent chapel at Windsor, a true masterpiece of architecture, which Edward had dedicated to St. George. In his brother’s memory, she presumed, to appease God for his fratricide. Aye, it would take a magnificent chapel to do that…

Anne pushed her sour thoughts away and tickled Richard’s nose with a wildflower. He smiled, caught her hand, and looked at her steadily with his deep grey eyes in a way that made her heart pound.

“I wish I could make love to you right here,” he said under his breath. “If only we were alone.”

“And that, my Lord, we certainly are not!” she laughed, taking a candied rose petal from one servant and a cup of sweet wine from another. She sipped daintily, her glance moving over the crowd. Small groups stood around mummers and men on stilts, laughing and munching, and children romped together, giggling. A knight strolled through the crowd with a pretty lady on his arm, and they paused to watch a monkey entertaining a group of noble ladies. Closer by, in the shade of a mulberry tree, her mother sat in a carved chair, stroking old Percival’s ears, a contented smile on her lips as young George Neville read to her from Sir Thomas Malory’s manuscript on the tales of King Arthur’s court. Anne wondered if John’s son knew that what he read had, in part, been drawn from Malory’s own life experience during the Wars of the Roses between York and Lancaster. First a Lancastrian, later a Yorkist adherent of her father, Warwick, Malory had run afoul of Edward’s Woodville Queen and had been imprisoned without trial for ten years. During this time he wrote Morte d’Arthur. Richard had obtained his release after Warwick’s death at Barnet, but Malory, old and frail, had died soon afterwards.

To Anne, the similarities between Malory’s portrait of the damsel who besotted Merlin and Bess Woodville were undeniable, but no one had ever dared mention the resemblance. To do so would be a foolhardy act of suicide. Edward’s vengeful and detested Queen had shown her power when she annihilated the House of Neville, the mightiest barons in the land. Now the Woodvilles ruled supreme in the realm, the power behind Edward’s throne.

John’s son was fifteen now, a fine-looking lad with tawny hair and topaz eyes.
But what marvel in that, when John and Isobel were his parents?
She blinked to banish the sudden ache that came to her at the memory of her beloved aunt and uncle, and turned her attention to Ned, throwing twigs for the hounds to retrieve.
Beloved Ned
, she thought. He always chased away the sorrow and brought a smile to her lips.

Richard followed her gaze. Ned was five years old now, a small mirror of themselves. His dark hair stamped him firmly as his own son, but in the vivid blue of his eyes, the shyness of his smile, and the flash of his dimples he could find John, Warwick, and Anne—all whom he loved. No doubt the resemblance to Anne’s father and uncle bound the child even more tightly to Anne’s own heart, for she fussed and fretted over Ned constantly and her eyes never left him. Sometimes she even sat by his cot as he slept, staring fixedly.
Watching him breathe
, he thought with a smile. Yesterday he had seen her strolling along the ridge of the hill with Ned following and old Percival dragging up the rear. They had been etched in sharp relief against the vivid blue sky, and a thought had come to him with an ache. She seemed like a duck with only one duckling. But God be thanked that they had Ned. It didn’t have to be so.

He leaned back on his elbows and raised his face to the sky. Wispy clouds drifted across the blueness and flocks of blackbirds winged overhead, their distant cries mingling with Ned’s laughter to make sweet music in his ears. He fastened his attention on that music so his mind might not stray to what he must tell Anne before the day was out.

Beside him Anne felt the effects of sunshine and wine. She gave her empty cup to a passing servant and stretched out on the crimson blanket, savouring the muted sounds and fragrant scents borne by the wind. Soon her lids grew heavy and she closed her eyes.

Ned’s sudden shriek pierced the air. Richard and Anne both bolted upright at the same moment.

“Lady Mother, Lord Father, see, I have a sword!” Ned cried out, dragging a large twig. “A big sword!”

Relief flooded them and their hearts began to beat again. “And big it is, that branch; longer than you are tall, my Ned,” said Richard, still recovering from the shock. “But you are a strong boy and can manage it, can’t you?”

Ned nodded proudly.

“My Lord Earl!” announced a voice sharply. Ned swung around. It was Richard’s bosom friend Francis Lovell standing legs wide, arms folded across his chest. “My Lord Earl, I challenge you to a duel!” Francis flung his gauntlet at Ned’s feet, his lips twitching as he strained to keep a grave face.

“I accept!” Ned said with great excitement. He picked up the gauntlet, handed it decorously to his father and, using both hands, lifted his pretend sword. Francis lumbered forward on his club foot and grabbed a twig. They began a careful dance forward and back, taking turns lunging at one another. “Surrender, my Lord!” cried Ned, tiring. “I am the best knight in the land and you are no match for me!”

“Indeed,” replied Francis, lunging to miss. “And who are you?”

“Sir Percival,” shouted Ned. At the sound of his name, old Percival rose from beside the Countess’s side, trotted slowly over to Ned and Francis on his arthritic legs and, exhausted by the effort, collapsed between them with a heavy sigh. Francis turned to grin at Richard. At that moment Ned poked him in the groin with his branch. Francis coloured and lifted one eyebrow in surprise.

“A mortal wound, my Lord Earl…” he exclaimed while Richard and Anne chortled. “I am undone—undone—aaah!” He fell to the ground as if dead.

“Well done, fair son!” cheered Richard.

“You crossed branches most elegantly, my lords!” Anne cried, throwing a shower of daisies over them.

Ned laughed and ran off to chase a hound, and Francis sank beside them on the long grass. “Nothing like a child to make us play the fool, eh Francis?” Richard grinned. Just in time, he caught himself from adding,
Time you had one of your own
. Francis had long been ready for children. The trouble was that his wife, Anne Fitzhugh, refused him her bed. She had never forgiven Francis his club foot and the years had hardened her into a cold and carping woman any man would wish to shun. Richard thought how fortunate he had been, not to have met the same fate.

A woman with red hair strolled by with her knight, laughing.

For Richard, it felt as if someone had slapped him in the face with a gauntlet. That red hair, that laughter, stabbed at his breast, leaving him awash in guilt. He had no more heart for merriment; he forgot the sweetness of the day. There was only Kate, as she had looked the previous week at Pontefract. Poor Kate. God forgive him, he had not known how much he had hurt her. Though he visited his two bastard children whenever he was in Pontefract, by mutual agreement they had not seen one another since that day in September ’71 before his marriage. Then came Kate’s summons. He had gone to her with deep unease, and it had turned out even more painful than he had feared.

He stole a glance at Anne, conversing with Francis. Before the night was over, she would have to know about Kate. Partly from his own cowardice, and partly because he knew how it would wound her, he had put off telling her until time had run out and left him no alternative. He gnawed his lip and toyed absently with the gold griffin ring John had given him. His head throbbed and his stomach clenched into a knot. He felt hot and dizzy. He’d had too much time to think today, that was the trouble. Suddenly leisure seemed an intolerable burden and he rose abruptly, desperate for something—anything—that would keep his mind off the task that lay ahead. Francis and Anne stared up at him in surprise. “I’m going for a hunt. Care to join me, Francis?”

Francis scrambled to his feet. “Why not?”

Anne’s smile was forced. She had sensed a sudden strange disquiet in Richard. As she watched the friends walk off together, her heart no longer felt so light. Richard had never cared for the hunt.

Anne did not move. She stood at the window, staring down at the dark garden as if carved of stone. At a loss, Richard didn’t know what else to do, what to say. He had expected tears, accusations, anger, but not this. This stillness. He had never seen her like this before. They’d had their little spats now and again, mostly about his family, but she had never withdrawn from him this way.

“Anne… I was only seventeen… I believed you lost to me forever… That was the only reason, I swear it! I never loved her—never pretended to…” He moved to take her shoulders, and dropped his hands helplessly. There was no forgiveness in her. It was as if an invisible shield separated them.

All Anne could think of as she stared into the dark night was that she was barren, her only babe sickly, and this woman had borne Richard healthy children, one each year. By now there would have been a full bevy. Healthy, laughing children. This other woman had triumphed where she had failed. And she hated her for it.

“Anne, they’re innocent, Johnnie and Katherine… They didn’t ask to be born; they have a right to be loved. There’s no one else to take them… Kate…” He almost choked on her name, knowing how much pain it had to cause Anne. “Kate’s going into a nunnery; the children have no one but me… Us…” He stood awkwardly, waiting for something, anything. There was no response. “Christ, Anne, Johnnie’s named for your own uncle of Montagu! Does that not make a difference?”

Silence.

Richard closed his eyes, utterly bereft. She had every right to be angry with him, but it was the children who would pay: sweet, loving eight-year-old Katherine, and lively, even-tempered Johnnie. Kate had done well with them. He felt the nauseous sinking of despair and pressed his hand over his face. He’d hoped to give them a good home at Middleham, and that Anne might come to love them as he did. He had wished Ned to know his brother and sister so he wouldn’t grow up alone. Now they would have to be sent away—Katherine into a convent to be raised and educated, and Johnnie into an abbey. They would be cared for well enough; that was comfort. Their physical needs would be met, and they would learn about God and history, Latin and Greek.