The Rose of York: Love & War

by Sandra Worth

  “No, Galahad!” Richard screamed, running after him. “Come back, come back!”

  With all his might, Richard jumped for the leather strap dragging behind Galahad. He landed on the gangplank with a bruising thump, caught the end of it, and pulled hard to slow Galahad, but he might as well have been a plume in the wind, for Galahad, oblivious, dragged him out onto the deck.

  A gigantic wall of water crashed over the ship. Galahad lost his footing, went sliding across the deck, shrieking fiercely, and Richard followed, clinging to his strap, screaming “Galahad!” but his cries were blown from his lips by the wind that bore Galahad’s shrieks to him. He felt its icy blast in his face, the sting of the water like hot stones against his flesh, then water gushed into his nose, knocking the breath from his lungs and sweeping him away. He surfaced once, caught sight of the foaming sea, and knew he was going overboard. As he headed at breakneck speed for the side, something slammed into him. The stunning pain in his body forced his fists open and Galahad’s strap slipped out of his hand. It was something solid, curving, with a waist like an hourglass. He closed his arms around it and clung for his life as the ship pitched again.

  The water receded and he saw that it was the capstan that had broken his fall. There was no sign of Galahad. The icy water lashed at him, loosening his grip as the ship heaved. He stared at the white-streaked seas yawning below, and screamed, loud and long. The ship rolled again, threatening to shake him into the depths, and he would have been swept away in the next wave, had it not been for Warwick.

  Warwick was descending the ratlines when Galahad burst from below. He saw what was happening, understood there was only a slim chance to save Richard from certain death, and knew that if he took that chance, it might well cost him his own life. In the span of a single falling grain of sand, he made his decision. He grabbed the end of a dangling rope, swung from the ratlines to the capstan, reached down and snatched Richard up by the arm. The ship rolled again and the rope swung out over the sea. With the great lantern on the ship’s stern burning fiercely in the darkness, they hung over the surging waves while the wind whipped at them and the rain hammered. Then the ship rolled back on another wave and they moved over the planking of the aftercastle. Hands reached up, seized them, and pulled them down.

  As if Galahad’s life had appeased the dragons of the sea, the storm then subsided and the ship steadied. Warwick himself carried Richard below into the cabin and made sure he was secure.

  “That was a damn foolhardy thing you did, Dickon,” he said, not unkindly.

  Richard bowed his head so Warwick wouldn’t see how his lip trembled. For, all at once, he felt overcome with grief and despair. His father and Edmund were gone. Now, Galahad, too. He would never hear his whinny of greeting again; never feel his warm breath on his cheek. A choking sensation tightened his throat. He wanted to cry, but he didn’t. He had to be strong, as his father would have wished.

  “May I play my lute?” he asked, not looking up lest brave Warwick should see the cowardly tears in his eyes.

  Warwick snapped back the heavy brass locks on the coffer behind him, opened the lid, and took out the lute.

  “The men would like that,” Warwick said.

  Hugging his lute to his breast, Richard strummed the chords, sending a soft ripple of song into the harsh night, for Galahad.

  ~*~

  Bruges was an alien place. Richard wanted to go home more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. Sometimes the longing was so acute, it churned in his stomach like a hunk of sour cheese. He felt guilty. He didn’t mean to be ungrateful. A rich English merchant with ink-stained fingers by the name of William Caxton had taken them into his home, and Duke Philip the Good of Burgundy had shown them around his palace, which was filled with wondrous marvels. George had enjoyed it greatly, but a bare castle in England would have made Richard happier. He was lonely in Bruges. He missed his sister Meg, and Nurse, and his mother, but most of all, his brother Edward, who had stayed behind to fight Henry of Lancaster’s fearful queen, Marguerite. He didn’t think he could bear it if Edward died, too.

  Richard pushed his Latin assignment away, leaned his chin on his arm, and gazed out the window. Snow was falling, and along the canals that ran through the city by the score, people were rushing by, bent against the wind. He yearned for the curving Thames, which was wide, and blue, and lined with shiny pebbles that could be collected by wading in a short distance when the tide went out. Canals didn’t have tides.

  Twit-whoo, twit-whoo!

  Richard gave a shiver. “George,” he whispered. “George, an owl just whooped.”

  “I know,” replied George, who was busy examining his outfit in the mirror, a gift from Philip the Good.

  “But it’s only noon. Does that mean woe? Does it mean Marguerite has killed Edward?”

  George arranged his green velvet hat on his golden curls at a jaunty angle, adjusted the black feather, and looked at him. “Dickon, you worry too much. Remember last night, when you saw a star fall from the sky? You thought it meant the death of one we loved, but you were wrong, weren’t you?”

  “Aye,” Richard said with relief. “You said it means a foe falls, not a loved one.”

  “And this owl in daytime comes to bring us tidings of joy.” He came to Richard’s side, rested a gentle hand on his shoulder, and leaned close. “I daresay, Dickon, victory bells are about to peal for us.”

  “Victory?” Richard’s heart almost leapt out of his breast. “That means we’re going home, doesn’t it, George?”

  “Aye. How about a game of butts?” George said, picking up his archery set, a Yuletide gift from Caxton.

  Richard regarded him uncertainly. How could George be so casual about such wonderful news? It didn’t make sense, unless he had just made it up. George sometimes did that, thinking to cheer him. He felt suddenly wretched. He shook his head and watched George leave for the courtyard, his bow slung over his shoulder. A moment later, there was a shout of glee. An arrow must have hit its mark.

  How he wished he had George’s light heart. Nothing ever seemed to bother him, when all he himself could do was worry. How went the war for the Yorkists? Was his brother Edward safe or had he been killed like Edmund? Warwick—how did he fare? What would become of him and George if Edward and Warwick were dead? They’d be alone in the world then, without money or means. Would Caxton keep them, or would they be thrown into the streets to fend for themselves like the ragged orphans he saw begging their bread in the depth of winter? Worse, would he and George be handed over to Henry of Lancaster’s savage queen?

  His breath caught in his throat. Without Edward, they were lost. Edward was everything, all that stood between them and the horrors of Lancaster. Edward was their last hope. O, Edward…

  Pray God his brother still lived!

  With a trembling hand, he drew his Latin book close and bent his head to memorise the Latin verse his tutor had assigned for the afternoon.

  ~*~

  Easter came and went. Richard found solace in his lute and the missives that came from England. His mother had written that Edward had won a battle at Mortimer’s Cross early in February, but his sister Meg wrote days later that Warwick had lost one near St. Alban’s. Warwick’s own captain, Trollope, who had turned traitor at Ludlow, had led the Lancastrians against him and, in defiance of both honour and convention, had attacked at night, catching Warwick by surprise and routing his army. The Queen’s seven-year-old son, Edouard, in a suit of golden armour covered with purple velvet, had judged the captives and watched their executions.

  Thankfully, better news followed. Before the month of February was out, Edward had entered London to cheering crowds and was proclaimed King. The last Richard had heard, in early March, both York and Lancaster were recruiting large numbers of men. Edward himself had written this time. There would soon be another battle, he said, and Richard should pray for him. Edward had added a postscript. He’d put a high price on Trollope’s head, and no doubt the
ravens would be dining well shortly.

  Richard laid aside his lute. That was Edward. Always trying to make him laugh, even when matters were at their worst. He hugged his knees and swallowed hard. There had been no word since. Nothing. The battle must have been fought by now. What if York had lost? He screwed his eyes tight and began a prayer.

  “My lord...”

  Richard jerked up his head. Edward Brampton, his brother’s trusted man-at-arms, who had fled London with him that awful Yuletide months ago, stood at the door. Brampton’s face was pale and very grave. Richard’s heart began to pound.

  “My lord, you are wanted in the Hall. A messenger has arrived. There is news from England.”

  ~ * * * ~

  Chapter 3

  “And Arthur yet had done no deeds of arms, But heard the call and came.”

  In the tender spring of 1462, amid the dust of falling pebbles, as sheep bleated gently and church bells rang the hour of Sext, nine-year-old Richard ascended the steep slope to Middleham Castle’s east gate. His cavalcade of knights followed, horse hoofs clattering and harness bells jingling. For three hundred years this northern castle, which the Earl of Warwick favoured above his many others, had dominated the rolling hills and meadows of Wensleydale. Richard had expected an imposing grey fortress, not the pearly jewel-box framed against the azure sky, and he stared, as wonderstruck as when he first crossed the River Trent.

  His journey from London had unfolded a North that was like a song. There was music in the rustle of aspen leaves, the rushing of rivers, the thundering of waterfalls. Winds swept the endless moors and dales with a loud roaring in the ears, bending low wildflowers, heather and flowering may. Even birds sang a fiercer note in the North and wheeled with wilder freedom.

  He drew a deep breath and inhaled the scented air of May. He had feared leaving London, for London was familiar and safe, but now he didn’t care to see London ever again with its crowded streets and evil smells. As his brother Edward had said—King Edward the Fourth (he would never get used to thinking of him as King)—Middleham Castle lay in the loveliest part of England, Wensleydale: the heart of North Yorkshire near the Rivers Ure and Cover.

  Richard squinted expectantly into the sun. Pennants fluttered from the turrets but Warwick’s Bear and Ragged Staff was merely a splash of scarlet and gold in the distance. His herald galloped ahead to trumpet his approach. In spite of his excitement he was seized with fright. What if he disappointed his cousin? He held no hint of another Edward, and Warwick would be shocked at how little he’d grown since Burgundy. To worsen matters, a spring shower had soiled his grey velvet doublet and his boots were caked with mud from the journey. He looked like a stray cat.

  Richard flushed with shame, remembering how disgusted Warwick had been with him on that night two years ago when they’d fled for Burgundy. A snivelling coward, he’d called him. Warwick was right. Only cowards were afraid, and since Ludlow and the storm at sea, his own shadow could send him trembling like custard pudding. He hated being afraid. It was as though he’d been born with a piece missing—a hole in his gut where his courage should be. If only he hadn’t asked to come. If only Edward hadn’t agreed to send him! But Edward had agreed, and heartily so. With a slap on the back that nearly felled him, Edward had declared it was time he left Nurse and his sister Meg to be with men, lest the constant companionship of women weaken his character.

  Richard glanced up at the captain of his guard anxiously.

  “Did you know,” said Sir John Howard, his broad face creasing into one of his easy smiles, “that it was right here, in your royal cousin Warwick’s household, that King Edward learned to be a great knight? And so shall you, m’lord.” He was a powerful warrior and one of Edward’s most favoured knights, a jolly man with a wavy mane that the years had darkened from yolk to amber and dusted with silver. Richard thought of him as Sir Friendly Lion.

  But his words brought no comfort. Though Edward had knighted him on his return from Burgundy, Richard didn’t feel like a knight. He couldn’t wield a sword, and if he didn’t grow, he might never manage it. Then he’d never sit at the Round Table that Edward had promised him he’d bring back. Tightening his hold on the reins of his palfrey, and chewing his lip as he did when he was nervous, he returned his gaze to the castle.

  They were less than a bow shot away. Kingmaker, people called his cousin Warwick, for it was Warwick’s support that had made Edward king. Kingmaker, too, because Warwick was richer and lived more like a king than Edward, who was always fretting about money, for Edward had many debts from the war he’d waged to win the throne from Henry of Lancaster.

  The iron-barred portcullis rose with a loud grinding of chains that sent a flock of doves scattering from the ramparts. He bit his quivering lip and reminded himself that his cousin Warwick, though proud, stern, and courageous, was only an earl, while he was a duke, and Warwick was descended from only one of the five sons of Edward III, not three, as he was. But that scarcely helped.

  The lowered drawbridge clanged into place. With a flourish of trumpets, he clattered through the arched stone gateway, followed by his knights. Crowds of people lined the inner court, the ladies in colourful silks, the knights in furs and velvet, the squires and servants in bright red jackets bearing the Warwick badge. He’d never seen such a retinue, even at the royal court.

  Richard tightened his grip on his tasselled reins and strained his back trying to appear tall, for everyone was staring. But the eyes disappeared as he drew near, swept away into deep bows. Flooded with relief, he trotted past the chapel to his left and onward to the massive stone Keep. His gaze fell on a group at the foot of the sweeping outer staircase that led to the great hall. They held themselves as erect as he and their eyes never wavered. With a mixture of fascination and dread Richard realised that here, in their golds and scarlets, stood the awesome Nevilles. He recognised Warwick, and his youngest brother George who was Edward’s chancellor and came often to court, but he wasn’t sure about the tall, lean knight in silver with a hound at his feet. The knight stood straight as a lance, a hand to the dagger at his belt, his tawny hair blowing in the wind, reminding him of the rendering of Sir Lancelot in his illuminated manuscript.

  Far too soon he closed the gap to find himself face to face with the Neville family. Fearing to speak in case his voice trembled, and not daring to look at Warwick, he focused on Lancelot. Close up, the silver knight was not young. He had the weathered face of a soldier and there were crinkly lines around his arresting blue eyes.

  Lancelot grinned. “Welcome to Camelot, my fair cousin,” he said with a twinkle. “I’m John Neville. And this…” He looked down at the bright-eyed wolf-hound who sat wagging his tail, “is Rufus.” The hound barked in greeting.

  So this is Warwick’s brother, the famous Lord Montagu! thought Richard. He had a prince’s bearing to go with his lion’s heart, this military genius of courage and chivalry. Feeling his colour rise, Richard dropped his gaze to the chirping sparrows flitting about the stone steps. Lancelot could probably see straight through his stomach to his missing guts. Then, unable to hold back his curiosity, he braved a look up at John Neville’s face and was surprised to find Lancelot surveying him, not with the contempt he expected, but with a kindly expression. “Is it true you cannot be bested in a feat of arms, like Sir Lancelot, my Lord of Montagu?” he blurted out, voicing the question always linked to his famed cousin.

  John Neville laughed, a deep laugh that dimpled both sides of his generous mouth. Richard’s heart warmed. His Cousin John’s good looks reminded him of his mother Cecily, called “The Rose of Raby” for her beauty, though his mother’s hair was gold, and John’s the colour of sand, and her eyes were blue periwinkles, while his were a twilight sea. There the resemblance ended. John’s brow was lofty, his jaw square. He was well-made and sun-bronzed, as someone would be who spent much time outdoors. For this reason, and in some other intangible way Richard couldn’t explain, he reminded him of his dead father, the Duke of
York. Richard sensed that here was someone worthy of trust. Someone who could be a friend.

  “I may have shared Lancelot’s good fortune on the field of battle,” John Neville smiled, “but Lancelot never had the pleasure of being entertained in a dungeon.”

  His eyes looked sad to Richard beneath his merriment. Now Richard remembered that John had been taken prisoner when he chased a fleeing Lancastrian straight into enemy territory after a victorious battle. For his recklessness he spent time in a dungeon in the city of York and was freed only when King Edward won the city back from Henry of Lancaster and his vicious queen, Marguerite d’Anjou.

  Rufus barked, and Lancelot’s voice cut into Richard’s thoughts. “My lord Duke, may I assist you to dismount?”

  Shy as he was, smiles rarely came to Richard, but he gave one to John, and put out his arms.

  “Benedicite,” said George Neville, the youngest of the three Neville brothers and a bishop at twenty-three. “’Tis joy to see you again, fair cousin of Gloucester.”

  Richard thought the holy smile hovering on his lips strangely out of place on his rosy, youthful face, and he inclined his head in solemn greeting, unwilling to risk speech again.

  With a flash of jewels, the majestic Warwick bowed. “Joy and good wishes, worthy cousin Gloucester.” Like his brother Lancelot, Warwick was handsome, but the lines of the Kingmaker’s face were sharply drawn, his demeanour stiff, and the nasal quality of his voice hinted of his famous arrogance.

  “God’s greetings to you, my lord,” Richard said with a courtly bow, remembering his manners.

  “May I present my Countess, Your Grace…”

  Anne Beauchamp, Countess of Warwick, curtsied, rustling her high-waisted gown and fluttering the gauzy veils of her butterfly headdress.

  Warwick continued. “My eldest daughter, Bella. And Anne.”