“Your point’s well taken, Dickon; I’d probably have to clap him in the Tower to keep him in England! But my informants tell me Meg and not Marie is the one pushing for this marriage. Marie seems distinctly cool to the idea. But I do mean to dispatch a letter to her this very day, making it quite clear that such a marriage be out of the question. The girl’s no fool, knows she does need me to keep Louis from swallowing her whole.” He signaled again to his cupbearer before adding casually, “I thought I would also suggest a bridegroom in place of Brother George. Lisbet’s brother Anthony.”
Richard choked, inhaled the wine he’d been about to swallow. Gasping and coughing, he struggled for breath as servants hovered solicitously around his chair and Edward helpfully leaned over to thump him on the back. By the time he recovered his composure, he was too shaken to do other than blurt out exactly what he thought. “Anthony Woodville! Jesus, Ned, you cannot be serious!”
He’d just broken the unspoken pact that had prevailed between them for some twelve years, that his contempt for the Queen’s kindred was understood and even tacitly accepted provided that it was not brought out into the open. Edward showed no resentment, however, looked lazily amused more than anything else.
“Don’t be naïve, Dickon. You don’t think I want to see Marie take Anthony, do you?”
“Why then…”
“It be simple enough. Lisbet would like to see her brother as a reigning sovereign. By putting forth Anthony’s name, I do please her greatly and yet take no real risk in so doing. You can’t imagine Marie would ever consider accepting him, do you? As Lucifer-proud as the House of Burgundy is?” He laughed, shook his head. “Lisbet was delighted when I did promise her I’d speak on Anthony’s behalf, though, and it’s not often I can content her so cheaply, Little Brother!”
Richard was relieved, but not by much. “But don’t you see, Ned? It’s going to drive George wild when you do forbid him to marry Marie. You know he’ll convince himself that she was willing, that you and you alone did sabotage his ambitions. To turn him down and then offer up Woodville in his stead…that’s just pouring salt into his wounds, is sure to make him all the more embittered.”
Edward shrugged. “So?” he said coolly.
9
Cayfored, Somerset
April 1477
Ankarette Twynyho was dragging her embroidery frame toward the window so she could sit in the sun. Entering the solar at that moment, her son-in-law came forward swiftly to help her, saying, “Here, Mother, let me do that for you.”
Ankarette gratefully surrendered the frame to him, settled herself comfortably with her sewing basket in her lap.
“There you are,” Tom said, and smiled at her. He supposed he should be off to the stables; the new stallion he’d just purchased was proving itself to be a hellion and the grooms seemed unable to soothe its tempers. But the sun was beckoning and he chose to linger awhile, to chat with his mother-in-law.
“You talk little about those last months with the Duchess of Clarence. Poor lady….Were you fond of her, Mother?”
“No,” Ankarette said truthfully. “But I did feel much pity for her. She had more sorrows than joys in her life, and her death was not an easy one.”
“Nor was her marriage, I’d wager,” Tom said, and chuckled.
Ankarette felt an instinctive unease, glanced up quickly to reassure herself that no servants loitered within earshot. Tom noticed and gave her a quizzical look.
“Do you fear Clarence as much as that?” he asked, surprised, saw Ankarette’s mouth tuck in at the corners, the way it always did when she was confronted with a subject she did not want to discuss.
“All in Clarence’s service did fear him,” she said quietly.
Tom pretended not to see her reluctance. “Why? Most great lords be demanding, quick to find fault with the lesser-born. That’s the way of things. What is there about Clarence that does inspire such fear?”
Thus pressed, Ankarette lowered her voice still further, said shortly and unwillingly, “With Clarence, you never knew where you stood. His moods did shift from sun to darkness in the span of seconds, and none knew why. There were those who…who whispered that he was bewitched from birth.”
Appalled by her own words, she hastily crossed herself and, as Tom opened his mouth to question her further, she signaled that no more disclosures would be forthcoming by ostentatiously directing all her attention to the contents of her sewing basket.
Tom sighed, wishing his wife’s mother were not so loathe to gossip. He thought wistfully of the lurid tales told of Clarence, thought of the intimate scenes she must have witnessed as a member of his household. Scenes he knew she’d never share.
“Well, I’m off to the stables,” he began, as one of their young maidservants appeared in the solar doorway. She was too distraught for speech, but the terror on her face was more eloquent than any words of warning she could have uttered.
“Good God, girl, what is it? Is it your mistress? Speak, damn you, speak!”
“No, Tom, you’re only scaring her all the more. Tell us, Margery….”
Tom’s fingers were digging bruisingly into the girl’s upper arms, and the pain loosened her tongue. “Men-at-arms! Down below, they—”
“Tom! Tom!” It was his wife’s voice, but so shrill as to be almost unrecognizable. Tom took two strides toward the door, and then Edith was in the room, in his arms, sobbing incoherently.
Tom was given no chance to calm his hysterical wife. Men-at-arms were coming up the stairway after her, shouldering their way into the solar, unceremoniously shoving the terrified maidservant away from the door. Tom felt a throb of outrage that they should be taking over his house like this, but he felt fear, too, and it was in his voice as he demanded, “What is this? What do you here?”
Ankarette was more bewildered now than frightened. Why should her son-in-law be arrested? It must be a mistake, a dreadful mistake. She came forward, meaning to lay a restraining hand upon Tom’s arm, and then her eyes fastened upon the badge each man wore upon his sleeve.
“You come from the Duke of Clarence!” she gasped, and there was such shock in her voice that all eyes turned as one toward her. She’d gone so white that Tom reached out for her. A soldier intervened; there was a scuffle, and Tom stumbled backward, bleeding from the mouth. Ankarette heard her daughter scream, wanted to go to her, but she couldn’t move, could only stare at the man moving into the solar.
Roger Strugge. She mouthed the words, but the name stuck in her throat; her mouth was too dry for speech. Roger Strugge, who served Clarence without conscience or qualm, caring only for the gold that George did dispense so lavishly to those who did his bidding.
He was standing in front of her now, saying, “Mistress Twynyho,” his lips curling in a mocking smile, like one who held a secret all yearned to know. “You do remember me, I trust?”
Tom spat blood into the floor rushes, spat defiance at the men holding him. “Am I under arrest? If so, I demand to know the charge!”
Strugge’s eyes touched him in brief appraisal, dismissed him as negligible. “We’re not here for you, Delalynde,” he said coolly. “It be Mistress Twynyho we want.”
He signaled and hands gripped Ankarette’s elbows, propelled her toward the door. She was too stunned to struggle, unable to grasp what was happening to her or why. She heard Edith cry, “Mama!,” heard Tom curse, and then she was out in the hall, was being hurried down the stairs. It was only when they emerged out into the blaze of afternoon sun that she was able to rally her dazed wits about her. A horse was being led up for her; she balked, twisted desperately against the restraining hands.
“But why? What am I supposed to have done?”
Strugge snapped his fingers; the soldiers withdrew so that Ankarette stood alone. From the house she heard a steady pounding, realized that they had locked Tom and Edith in the solar. Strugge was regarding her with a strange smile; she knew suddenly that he was enjoying this, relishing what he was about
to tell her.
“You are charged with the murder of Isabel Neville, late Duchess of Clarence. It is the Duke’s pleasure that you be returned at once to Warwick Castle and there be tried for your crime. You are to be…”
Ankarette heard no more. She fainted, crumpling to the ground at Strugge’s feet without a sound.
“Get some water,” he said calmly, watched as two of his men reentered the manor house. Kneeling down by Ankarette then, he took her hands in his and stripped from her fingers the jeweled rings of her widowhood.
The palace at Westminster was dark, quiet. Edward was not ready for sleep, however, and torches still flared in his bedchamber. He was dictating some personal letters when one of his servants brought him word that Jane Shore was without, asking to see him.
Edward was surprised, but more intrigued than annoyed. It wasn’t like Jane to come to him without being summoned first; even after more than two years of sharing his bed, she never presumed.
“Send her in,” he said, and dismissed the scribe, the other servants.
Jane was enveloped in a long blue cloak. He wondered if it was the dark color that gave her face such pallor, moved forward to meet her. Before he could take her in his arms, however, she sank down in a deep curtsy. When he would have raised her up, she stayed on her knees before him, said huskily, “My dearest lord, forgive me for coming to you this way, but I did have to see you. It be urgent, my heart, could not wait.”
She made a very pretty picture, kneeling, her face upturned to his, soft red mouth highlighted by a trinity of dimples, blonde hair spilling out of the hood of her cloak. Edward was not indifferent to her appeal; he was very fond of this woman. Reaching down, he took her hands, drew her to him.
“You’re forgiven,” he said, and sought her mouth with his own. She kissed him back with her usual ardor, but as his hands slid up from her waist to her breasts, she said swiftly,
“My love, wait…please. I’ve brought someone with me, someone who does need most desperately to see you.” She saw him frown, put her fingers to his lips in mute entreaty.
“Please,” she whispered. “He’s been trying to gain an audience for days now, but with no luck. And he must see you, my lord. There is something you must hear, Ned. Please?”
She waited breathlessly for his response; her relief was considerable when he laughed.
“Hell and damnation, woman, but you do take advantage of the love I bear you,” he said ruefully. “I’ll give this petitioner of yours five minutes, and no more.”
“Thank you, my love, thank you!” She kissed him feverishly, repeatedly, his neck, his chin, wherever she could reach, and then whirled for the door. A moment later, she ushered in a frightened-looking youngster of seventeen or so. Under Jane’s prodding, the boy came forward shyly, dropped to his knees before Edward.
“My liege, this be Roger Twynyho, of Cayford in Somerset. He has a tale of horror to tell you. Go on, Roger, tell the King’s Grace what you did tell me.”
The youngster seemed unable to speak, however, and accurately gauging Edward’s patience, Jane said hastily, “His grandmother, Ankarette Twynyho, was acting as one of the Duchess of Clarence’s ladies. She returned to her family after the Duchess died, had no more contact with your brother of Clarence. Then on Saturday last, Clarence did dispatch some eighty men-at-arms to Cayford, and there arrested her, accusing her of bringing about the Duchess of Clarence’s death by poison.”
“What!”
The boy found his voice, nodded vigorously. “It be true, Your Grace. They refused to allow my aunt and uncle to accompany her, and took her by force back to Warwick Castle.”
Edward had recovered his composure. “Go on,” he said in a hard voice.
“The morning after their arrival in Warwick, she was brought before a Justice of the Peace sitting in petty session and charged with murder. My lord Clarence accused her of giving the Lady Isabel a drink of ale mixed with poison on October tenth, which poison caused her to sicken and die on the Sunday before Christmas. At the same time, one John Thursby of Warwick was charged with poisoning the baby son who died on January first.” The boy’s voice was emotionless; he recited the facts like one quoting from memory, kept his eyes steadily on Edward’s face.
“My grandmother did deny the charges most vehemently, but it availed her naught. The jury did declare her guilty and sentence of death was passed upon her. She was taken at once to the gallows beyond town and there hanged. John Thursby was hanged with her.”
He stopped speaking, watched Edward. So did Jane.
“And she was innocent,” Edward said softly. It was not a question, and Roger Twynyho expelled his breath with an audible hiss; his shoulders slumped with the sudden easing of tension.
“Indeed, my liege,” he said quietly. “The Lady Isabel did die of consumption, weakened by a most difficult childbirth. My grandmother never harmed her, never harmed anyone.”
“The entire proceedings from start of trial to execution lasted no more than three hours,” Jane now interrupted, her face flushing with indignation. “Several members of the jury did come up to Mistress Twynyho afterward and beseech her pardon, saying that they knew her to be innocent but for fear of Clarence they could not do otherwise than find her guilty!”
There was a silence. Edward seemed to have forgotten them both. Roger’s fear began to come back. He knew that Clarence was this man’s blood kin, knew that Princes did all too often make their own law. But then Edward motioned him to his feet, said, “You’re a brave lad, Roger Twynyho. I shall remember that. Go back to Cayford; you’ve done all you can for your grandmother here.”
Roger yearned to ask Edward what he meant to do. Would Edward give Clarence the justice that had been denied his grandmother? Or was this to be yet another crime for which Clarence would not be called to account? But he dared not push it further. He’d been dismissed. In a turmoil of conflicting emotions, he made an awkward obeisance, and then fled the chamber.
Jane didn’t move, kept her eyes upon her lover. “Ned?” she ventured at last. “Was I wrong, my lord, to bring him to you?”
Edward turned to face her, and she caught her breath, seeing then the deadly controlled rage that thinned his mouth, filled his eyes. Pray God he does never look thus at me, she thought and shivered.
“No,” he said flatly. “No, you were not wrong.”
Since childhood, the Duchess of York had been an early riser. She loved the expectant hush, loved the soft pale haze that glimmered in the eastern sky in that brief hesitation between dark and day.
This morning, however, she’d given little thought to the fleeced brightness of the sky. Rising at six, she’d had Low Mass in her chambers, and after breaking her fast with bread and wine, she heard divine service and two Low Masses with her household in the castle chapel. She generally preferred to spend those hours till dinner in meditation or in religious readings; just as she now shunned plush velvets and bright silks for more somber shades of grey and brown, so did she eschew the familiar amusements of her youth. Always a deeply pious woman, she found as she aged that her greatest contentment came in denying herself the pleasures that once meant much to her and now meant little. But on this Tuesday in late May, she’d chosen neither to meditate nor to read, had withdrawn, instead, to her solar to write to her daughter Margaret, dowager Duchess of Burgundy.
The initial passages came easily enough. The turmoil in Burgundy seemed to be subsiding somewhat. There appeared to be widespread approval for Marie’s choice of husband and consort, Maximilian, the son of the Holy Roman Emperor. Addressing these issues, Cecily expressed herself so briskly that her scribe was hard put to keep up with her.
But when she began to speak of her son, her voice and manner changed abruptly. She fumbled uncharacteristically for words, hesitated, backtracked, and at last took the pen herself. Dismissing her scribe, she sat down in the violet-tinted light of her oriel window and willed herself to tell Margaret about George.
What I do
have now to tell you, Margaret, is as painful as anything I have ever written and yet you must be told; you must be prepared for what is to come. You know how bitterly George did resent your brother Edward’s refusal to permit his marriage with your stepdaughter Marie. George’s behavior is intemperate in even the best of times, and when he did learn that Edward had proposed Anthony Woodville as a prospective husband for Marie…well, it was like jabbing a blade into a festering sore.
George proceeded to make himself as unpleasant as possible. At a banquet held at Windsor to celebrate the birth of Edward’s newborn son, he insisted upon dropping a unicorn horn into his cup before he would let the cupbearer pour his wine. All do know unicorn horn is meant to protect one from poison, so such an insult was impossible to misconstrue. Edward was furious. What passed between them I do not know, but after that, George withdrew from the court, secluded himself at Warwick Castle.
It was then that he did commit a crime so grievous, so shocking that it does defy all understanding. I refer, of course, to the murder of Ankarette Twynyho, the gentlewoman who’d been in service to George’s wife Isabel. I cannot tell you whether he believed his accusations to be true, would to God I could. But George’s perception of reality is frighteningly flawed. Could he have cold-bloodedly sacrificed an innocent woman? Or did he convince himself that Isabel truly was poisoned?
I’ve thought of little else this month past, am no closer to the truth now than ever I was. It may be that George does not even know the truth himself. He is my son, of my flesh, and yet a stranger to me. I cannot stop caring, not as long as there be burned into my mind and soul memories of the child he once was. But I cannot forgive him, either….
Her pen faltered. After a second’s reflection, she rapidly scratched out the last three sentences.
Edward was as angry as ever I’ve seen him. Even had Ankarette Twynyho been guilty, George’s action would have been outrageous, an offense both to the King and the Almighty.
The Sunne in Splendour Page 76