The Rose of York: Love & War (36 page)

Edward exchanged a glance with Richard. The poor idiot no longer remembered ’6
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when Warwick humiliated him after his capture by tying his feet to his stirrups and parading him around the city like a common felon. He remembered only Warwick’s recent kindnesses. “Warwick is dead, Henry.”

“Oh, dear, dear, a shame,” Henry clucked sadly. “Poor Cousin Warwick, I shall pray for him. He was a good man.”

“Good?” demanded Edward sharply. “Too ambitious for his own good would better describe Warwick!”

The comment failed to register on Henry. “How did he die?” Henry inquired on a note of surprise, as if the thought that had just occurred to him was of sudden great importance.

“In war, fighting for you.”

Henry tilted his brow, looked at him uncertainly. “But war displeases me. I am a man of peace.”

“For a man of peace, you’ve been the cause of a remarkable number of battles, Henry.”

“’Tis God’s will then,” murmured Henry.

“’Tis not God’s will, Henry. ’Tis yours!”

Henry smiled blankly. “I’m not wise or strong, but God tells me what to do.”

“Not God, Henry!” raged Edward. “Marguerite—Marguerite and Somerset! Do you know how many died at Towton because of you? Forty thousand!” He slammed his fist on the table. The bird shrieked, flew from its perch in a panic. “Do you care how many died for you at Barnet, or Tewkesbury? At St. Albans, Hexham, Edgecote, Blore Heath, Wakefield?” Edward’s bright blue eyes blazed. “Why didn’t you renounce your throne for an abbey, Henry? Then you could have prayed to your heart’s content and all would have been well with the world!”

“Fair cousin, you know a king is God’s anointed until the day he dies. God put me here to rule, therefore everything that happens is His will.”

“You half-wit, God also gave you a brain to reason with, therefore all evil that has been done is your fault!” Edward stormed. Then he fell silent, realising the folly of his remark. When he spoke again, there was resignation in his tone. “Henry, all would have been different had you renounced the throne to my father years ago. As you did not, I regret that Fate has forced us here, to this point.”

He hesitated.

“Farewell, cousin.”

Henry tilted his head again and gazed at him quizzically. The silver crucifix hanging from his belt glinted in the candlelight. “Farewell, Cousin Edward. Peace be with you.” He moved back to his altar. Opening his Bible, he knelt again at his devotionals.

Edward swept his gauntlets from the table and strode out the door.

Richard stared at Henry’s crouching back, seeing there merely a harmless old man mumbling his prayers. When Richard was newly born, Henry had made a visit to Fotheringhay, had cradled him in his arms, and blessed him. Pity twisted his heart. Poor, gentle Henry must die; he who had only wanted to feed the sparrows at his windowsill and pray to his God, who had never wilfully harmed a living soul, who’d been so generous a king that he’d bankrupted his treasury and once given away the only robe he owned. Henry, who had been so distraught at the sight of a traitor’s torso rotting on a pole, he’d demanded that the body part be taken down, given decent burial, and the practice be stopped. Poor, innocent, saintly Henry whose only crime was to be wedded to Marguerite d’Anjou. Even that was not of his own choosing.

It wasn’t fair.

Richard followed Edward out the door.

That night, Henry VI died in the Tower. The next morning, Anthony Woodville requested permission to go on pilgrimage to Portugal. After angrily denouncing him as a coward for wishing to leave while the Bastard of Fauconberg was attacking Kent and so much remained to be done, Edward granted his request. Throwing an arm around Richard’s shoulder, he said, “Dickon, what would I do without you? Who would I send to deal with Fauconberg? With the Scots? Now that John’s gone, there’s no one to guard the border. God knows, Percy’s too damned fond of his own skin to be a soldier. You’re my best general, my most trusted advisor. The only one I can count on, brother!”

~*~

Richard had no need of his armour in Sandwich. When the Bastard of Fauconberg learned of Henry’s death, he sought and was granted Edward’s pardon. Richard received him warmly, called him friend, and took him into his service. After all, he was a Neville, and Nevilles would always claim his heart.

There was yet one more Neville who needed his help. On his return to Westminster in early June, he immediately secured Archbishop George Neville’s release from the Tower. Of the other rebels, his sister’s husband, the Duke of Exeter, while badly wounded, had survived Barnet and was imprisoned in the Tower; Oxford had managed to reach France; and Jasper Tudor was still in Wales, fomenting trouble with his fourteen-year-old nephew, Henry Tudor, at his side. But the Lancastrian threat was dead for the present. Only the Scottish threat remained.

Matters on the Scots border were so urgent Richard couldn’t stay in London past the day, not even for a special ceremony dear to Edward’s heart. Richard’s little nephew, seven-monthold Prince Edward, born to Bess in Sanctuary at Westminster during the troubles with Warwick, was to be created Prince of Wales. Edward was sorely disappointed that Richard would be absent for the ceremony. Richard didn’t share his regret. The child might be his brother’s son, but Bess would see to it he grew up a Woodville, infected with her own destructive avarice.

Urgent as Scotland was, however, Richard had decided not to wait to see Anne, but to delay his departure and go to her after he spoke with Edward. He found Edward in a corner of the Painted Chamber, laughing with his courtiers and a blubbery cleric. Edward caught sight of Richard, disengaged himself from the group, and with an arm around Richard’s shoulder, drew him to a far window where they could converse privately. He arranged his magnificent form comfortably in a tapestried chair, and Richard took up a position in front of him. Servants bore them wine, which Edward accepted and Richard declined.

“Who’s the cleric?” Richard inquired.

“Bishop Morton,” replied Edward, sipping his wine. “You’ve heard of him. He was one of Marguerite’s advisors. Now he’s seen the true way and wishes to serve me as diligently as he served her.”

Something about the man bothered Richard. His face was hard as an iron pot and his protruding dark eyes watched them carefully across the distance in a way that made Richard uncomfortable. “I don’t like the look of him,” he said.

Edward laughed. “Neither do I, but what difference does that make, little brother? If I depended only on those I liked, there would be precious few to help me govern.” He held out his wine cup and a servant hurried to refill it.

“I wouldn’t trust him,” Richard persisted. “There’s something unsavoury about him.”

Edward followed the direction of Richard’s gaze. “Now that you mention it, he does resemble a toad somewhat. Nevertheless, there’s a good brain behind that ugly face that I can use quite well. Now, tell me about Kent.”

Richard made his report on Fauconberg and received his instructions regarding Scotland. Their talk concluded, Edward gave him a grateful smile. Then the smile faded from his face and his expression grew serious. “I suppose you’re going to see Anne now, Dickon?”

Richard was caught off guard by the anxiety in Edward’s tone. “Aye, briefly. I could make it to George’s house and back by noon if I hurry.”

Clearly uncomfortable, Edward rose, went to the window.

Richard followed. ““Dickon…” Edward said. “Dickon, I must ask you to wait.”

“Wait?” Richard demanded, a trifle loudly. From the corner of his eye, he saw heads turn across the hall, but he didn’t care. “Wait for what? God’s curse, I’ve been waiting all my life! I’ll not wait any longer. You said…”

“I know what I said, the Devil be damned!” Edward snapped. Aware of the sudden silence in the room, he lowered his voice. “Dickon, we have a problem. Can you not guess what it is?”

Richard frowned, his tension mounting.

Edward drew an audible sigh. “Then you’re even more blind than I knew.”

“What are you talking about?”

“George.”

“What about George? He’s been sulking more than usual lately, but that’s just George. He’s always been moody.”

“He demands that you not see Anne.”

Richard stared, dumbfounded. He found his voice at last. “Demands?” he echoed with disbelief.

“He fancies himself her guardian, and as her guardian he can deny her company to whom he chooses.”

“You never appointed him her guardian.”

“No. But ’tis how he sees himself…” Edward held up a weary hand to forestall Richard’s heated protest and continued in the same tired voice, “because as her guardian, he is master of her wealth.”

“She has no wealth. She’s a traitor’s daughter, for God’s sake.”

“I know that, and you know that, but George lives in his own mad world. Since I haven’t attainted Warwick—and have no plans to do so—he thinks of Anne as her father’s heiress, which I suppose she is, in a way.” He passed a hand over his eyes. “Frankly, Dickon, I can’t deal with him right now—his lunatic ravings, his insults, his tempers, his foul accusations…” He dropped his hand, met Richard’s angry gaze. “I can’t manage him alone. I need you here beside me. I need respite, Dickon… Grant me respite and I swear that nothing will keep you from marrying the girl once you are back.”

Richard opened his mouth to protest, but changed his mind. In the morning light, Edward’s mouth was deeply grooved, the lines around his eyes merciless. He looked haggard and far older than his thirty years.

“But once Scotland’s behind me, I marry Anne.”

“You marry Anne,” Edward replied.

~*~

Richard stood amidst his packed coffers, rolled carpets, and dismantled trestle bed being readied by the servants for his journey north. Half-dazed by fatigue, weighed down with his disappointment over Anne, he found himself unable to keep his thoughts from returning to Henry. As Constable of England, he’d had no choice but to carry the King’s order to the Constable of the Tower and arrange the matter with him. How he had made his stiff lips utter the dreadful command, he could no longer recall. He held himself accountable for Henry’s death, but now some in London were saying that he had murdered him with his own bare hands.

He had always known that, for most people, rumours were the spice of life, to be devoured with relish, but until now he had not felt their sting himself. He found that it bothered him more than he cared to admit. He lifted a hand to his brow, and his glance caught and held again, as it often had in recent weeks, on his father’s ruby ring. The bright crimson stone glinted wickedly. He rubbed his eyes. Had he Henry’s blood on his hands?

No more than Edward.

Poor Henry.
Peace be with you
, were his last words. Peace, which had been bought with his blood. An uncanny choice of words. A thought flashed through Richard’s mind: Without benefit of pilgrimage, would God forgive him his part in Henry’s death, or would he send fitting retribution? He tore the ring from his finger and strode to his writing table. A servant hurried over with a key and unlocked the silver casket that held his jewels. He flung the ring inside. The servant locked the casket and withdrew a respectful distance. Richard clutched the edge of the table, and bowed his head. He was not some dread monster without conscience! Damn the malice inherent in men’s nature that made them believe the worst of others. Damn his own helplessness to defend himself against their preposterous allegations.

It wasn’t fair.

He slammed a fist on the desk. He was no longer a child to cry that life wasn’t fair! He was a man who had seen battle. A man who had carried out his King’s orders. He should have outgrown his childish terrors by now. God’s blood, but Edward had reason, years ago, to fear that the company of women had softened his character! If Edward didn’t fear God’s wrath, why should he? He was no less a man.