The Rose of York: Love & War

by Sandra Worth

  Richard made a proper bow to Isabelle. She was skinny and, though near his age, towered over him by almost a full head, making him feel uncomfortable. He didn’t like her bright pink dress or her pasty complexion; and anyway, he didn’t like girls. Girls were always preening like cats or jabbering like magpies— all except for his sister Meg. He turned to Anne.

  He blinked as if he gazed into captured light, so bright a glow bathed seven-year-old Anne Neville. She wore a gown of shimmery golden gauze that floated in folds from the high waistline, and her hair, unbound beneath a flower circlet, flowed behind her bright as a field of buttercups. Her eyes were huge and reminded him of flowers. Violets, he thought, for their lavender was flecked with brilliant blues and ringed with deepest purple. She dropped her gaze and Richard had a moment to observe her unnoticed. She was about his height— not quite, though, he was pleased to realise—and she brought to mind not jabbering magpies, but an angel he’d once admired in the dazzling coloured glass of Canterbury Cathedral.

  She curtsied with grace. He bowed, and caught the scent of lavender. Then the angel lifted her lids and gave him a shy look from beneath her lashes, as if she feared her full gaze would be too bold an intrusion, and what he saw there stunned him. The violet eyes shone with terror. Richard stared, speechless. Never had he expected a Neville to fear meeting him. He was seized with a fierce protectiveness towards the girl as he turned to climb the stairs of the Keep with his cousin Warwick.

  ~ * * * ~

  Chapter 4

  “But those first days had golden hours for me.”

  Anne followed her parents and Richard into the great hall, seized with excitement. She had dreaded the Duke of Gloucester’s arrival but when she’d looked up into Richard’s clear grey eyes, her anxiety had melted like icicles in the sun. The young duke was not what she had expected the King’s brother to be—not big and blond, loud and bold like Edward, whom she had once met and found fearsome. On the contrary, he wasn’t much bigger than she, and he seemed as shy as she was. She liked his thick dark hair and the funny little dimple in his chin, but there was a look about him that made her think he’d been hurt somewhere, though she didn’t see a bandage.

  She watched him enter the huge chamber beside her father and uncles. He stood awkwardly in their midst as if he’d lost his way. Suddenly, she wanted to make him feel better. Forgetting her manners for the first time in her seven years, she said, “I have a pet squirrel. He eats marchpane out of my hand. Would you care to see, my lord?”

  Richard was startled by the breach of etiquette, but even more by the sound of her voice, which was as sweet as the song of the lark on the morning air.

  The Earl of Warwick swung around at the interruption.

  “Very much, my lady,” Richard replied hastily, before Warwick could censure Anne. “If your gracious lord father permits?” He looked up innocently.

  Warwick knitted his thick eyebrows together, obviously torn between his desire to be a gracious host and the need to reprimand his daughter. “Is the Duke not tired from his journey and in need of refreshment? We have a table prepared.” He motioned to the dais, which was laden with silver trenchers, fruit and wine.

  In as firm and grown-up a voice as he could manage, Richard replied, “My lord, I am not very hungry or tired, although I’ve been riding a long time. I’d enjoy meeting the squirrel.”

  Anne grabbed Richard’s hand with excitement.

  “Nay, lady,” said the great Warwick sternly. “I believe your friend lives on the moors…”

  Anne’s smile faded. She looked up at her father with anxious violet eyes.

  “Therefore,” the Earl of Warwick continued, “it will be necessary to change your dress.”

  With a shriek of delight, Anne pulled Richard by the hand and out of the hall.

  ~*~

  Later that afternoon, wearing the crimson and royal blue colours of the House of York, Richard was escorted to the tiltyard by the Master of Henchmen and introduced to Warwick’s thirteen other apprentices in knighthood. They all came from noble families whose names Richard recognised, and they were all much taller. Richard’s discomfort grew as he joined them around a table outfitted with a variety of vicious weapons, terrifying in spite of their blunted ends. Panic flooded him. He wanted to run back to London.

  “Have you chosen your weapon yet?” inquired a rusty-haired boy, whom Richard knew to be Robert Percy. Richard shook his head. A Percy was a strange sight in a Neville household, since the Percys and the Nevilles were bitter enemies, but the fellow, whose load of freckles reminded Richard of himself when he’d caught the pox, no doubt came from a branch estranged from the main line. Such a thing was not uncommon. Warwick himself had an irreconcilable feud with his cousin, Sir Humphrey Neville, a staunch Lancastrian and even stauncher foe.

  “I suggest the battleaxe,” whispered another boy who bore the emblem of a hound on his breast. This was Francis Lovell, whom Richard knew to be fatherless, like him. He had a swath of wavy dark hair that fell over his forehead, and deep brown eyes that reminded Richard of a troubadour. The boy added, “Since it’s your first time, ’tis a bit easier than the mace.”

  Richard nodded his thanks. The troubadour moved ahead in line with a jerky gait. Richard was stunned. He had a club foot! How could he even think of making knight? Admiration and a sense of kinship flooded him. They were both reaching for the same dream against great odds, and they were both outsiders. Except Francis wore his difference like a badge in plain sight, and his own lay hidden, a secret fear that stirred in the murky waters of his mind and which he suppressed by force of will. It was at night, when he lost control over his thoughts, that his demon emerged to haunt his dreams and accuse him of being a bastard.

  As far back as Richard could remember, he’d suspected he was no Plantagenet. In a family of blonds, he was dark. His brothers were all young lions: large-boned and self-confident. He was short, puny, unsure of himself, and ill at ease in a world in which he found no true place. Yet his problems paled next to the troubadour’s, for they were in his head and he didn’t have to walk on his head. If the troubadour were willing to battle to be a knight, he had to overcome his fears and deficiencies!

  The Master of Henchmen strode into the centre of the tiltyard, placed his muscular arms on his hips, eyed the boys, and roared, “Don your helmets and choose your sides!”

  Someone called out, “What’s the prize for winners, my lord?”

  “An hour’s hunt in the woods,” came the reply. A cheer of approval rose from the boys.

  “And for losers?” demanded someone else.

  “An hour’s ride in full armour.” This was met by a chorus of groans.

  The troubadour gave Richard a mischievous wink. “Our backsides will be raw for a week if we lose.” Richard picked up his weapon and followed his new friend with a smile.

  “My Lord of Gloucester!” the Master of Henchman roared.

  Richard gave a start. What had he done wrong already? There had scarcely been time to do anything.

  “Your axe must be held in the right hand, not the left!”

  “But,” Richard protested, “I’m left-handed, my lord; I can do nothing with my right.”

  “Then you must learn! Learn! ’Tis what you’ve been sent here for.”

  A nightmare followed. The weapon proved unwieldy in his right hand. His aim was poor, his reaction slow, his blows without force, and he found himself on his knees as soon as he engaged an adversary. To rub nettle into the wound, the Master of Henchmen called the apprentices’ attention to each of his many mistakes.

  At the end of the session, his face smeared with dirt, Richard lay down his weapon, unable to look his new friends in the eye. They’d lost because of him. God’s bones, lame would be better than left-handed! I’ll never be a knight; never be able to serve my brother the King.

  When everyone left for refreshments in the great hall, Richard disappeared around a corner and sat down in a small recess of the wall,
between two water barrels. Resting his cheek on his knees, he relived his dim performance. Eventually a distant door creaked open. Footsteps crunched on the hard ground, grew louder. He dug deeper into his recess, praying that whomever it was would pass him by. But the footsteps turned the corner and stopped. Then a hound barked.

  “My lord, so there you are. I’ve spoken with the Master of the Henchmen. There’s been a grievous error,” said John Neville, the brilliant general and valiant soldier who, like Lancelot, had never lost a battle.

  Richard held his breath. He knew what John Neville had come to say: A grievous error, my lord. You were never meant to be a knight. We are sending you back to London at once, to spare you further humiliation.

  Richard shrank back. John crouched down beside him.

  “My lord, we didn’t know you were left-handed. That changes everything.”

  Startled at the kindness in his tone, Richard lifted his head and looked at him.

  John Neville’s heart twisted at the suffering in his little cousin’s face. To his astonishment, faint lines ringed Richard’s eyes and mouth. But why not? These wretched wars of succession between York and Lancaster had stripped the boy of childhood. He had been born in violence, had learned early that men died and that the world was a dangerous place, full of cruelty and wickedness. At six he’d been taken prisoner at Ludlow; at seven, he’d been left fatherless; at eight, he was an exile. Each blow had taken him a stride away from infancy until he’d sloughed off innocence like a mantle that no longer fit.

  He tore his gaze from the heartbreaking dark eyes. “You’re left-handed. That can’t be changed. The question is, what’s to be done? Most believe that such a person must learn to overcome his deficiency. That’s the view of the Master of Henchmen.”

  Richard nodded. “He said that until I learn to use my right, I shall always be beaten. And if I do learn, I’ll never be as good as those who are born right-handed.”

  “Because you’d be going against your inclination and would always be at a disadvantage. But I believe there’s another way.”

  Richard held his breath.

  “Your left-handedness, far from being a handicap, can serve you well. See, while an opponent has to reach across his body to get at you, you can use the hand nearest your foe and take him by surprise. ’Tis a natural advantage.”

  Richard’s heart thumped wildly in his ears.

  “The best soldier I knew was left-handed—it was camp fever that killed him, not the sword. I learned a thing or two from him myself. So it seems I’m the one to instruct you.”

  “You?” Richard exclaimed in delight. Then his heart sank. “But aren’t there battles you must fight?”

  “There are always battles I must fight, but only one Richard of Gloucester who needs to learn to wield his sword like a true knight. I shall tell my brother Warwick that the King’s brother has urgent need of my services here at Middleham. He can’t refuse the request.”

  “My gracious cousin,” Richard said, scrambling to his feet, “I shall never forget this.”

  John grinned. “’Tis no more than I’d do for any great Duke.”

  ~ * * * ~

  Chapter 5

  “In that fair order of my Table Round,

  A glorious company, the flower of men,

  To serve as model for the mighty world.”

  From a high window at Barnard’s Castle, John Neville watched Richard as he sat on a ledge overlooking the forests and river. His lute was laid aside and his arms were clenched tightly around his knees. A humiliating defeat at the mock tournament the day before had devastated him and he had left the field to laughter and snickers. Worse, from the barricades crowded with common folk, someone had called out, “Hey, Gloucester—duke you may be, but knight you’re not!” Then something had struck Richard’s breastplate. A rotted apple. The small figure, so vulnerable and solitary, tugged at John’s heart.

  “Richard asked me again how his father died,” he said, almost to himself.

  Warwick looked up sharply from his ledger. “You didn’t tell him, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Good. He’s not ready yet. Now, about this accursed war. It’s making a pauper of me.” Warwick scribbled into his ledger. “Aah, wait… perhaps we can cut expenses here. Aye, this way supplies will last the men much longer. Excellent.” He looked up. “Well, John? Is it agreed?”

  John shook himself free of Richard and gave a hasty nod. Since his brother always thought his own answers best, there was no need for him to have heard the question, only to agree. He inhaled a deep breath. The time had come to broach the subject he hated before he lost his nerve.

  “Dick—I need a loan. Could I borrow fifty marks?—only until the harvest, you understand. What with the repairs to the roof at Seaton Delaval, and the sickness that killed the sheep… Well, it’s been difficult for the family.”

  Warwick offered him a forgiving smile. “Seems to have become a regular problem, John.”

  “I regret that,” John said in a small voice. “I’ll repay as soon as I can, I assure you. It’s just that the house is old and the girls are growing. If they didn’t need new gowns…”

  “As I said, this infernal war is draining my resources, but very well. I’ll do what I can.” Warwick slammed the ledger shut.

  “My thanks, brother… By your leave, I’ll take some air.” Relieved to be done with the unpleasant matter, John made for the door, anxious to be off to Richard’s side. Ever since the tournament on the previous day, his little cousin had avoided him, but there was no time for the child’s wounded pride to heal. The Scots border beckoned and he had to do something for the boy before he left. As Rufus bounded to join him, he halted sharply. In his haste to leave, he’d almost forgotten the matter that had weighed on his mind of late.

  “Dick—one more thing. Is all well between you and Edward?”

  This time it was Warwick who hesitated. “That confounded wanton drunkard?” he muttered finally.

  John glanced around, relieved to see no servants. He closed the distance between them and grabbed his brother’s sleeve. “Dick, be careful, I pray you. Remember, Edward is king now.”

  Warwick snatched his arm away. “And I am Kingmaker.” He gave John his back and picked up a document from the desk.

  John burned to swing him around and shake sense into him. God’s Blood, he wanted to cry, your damned rivalry with Edward to prove yourself the better man will be the ruin of us all! Edward’s not just a lad with an eye for women, as you think he is. His victories in battle are not just due to luck, as you say they are. He’s a man who’s done the impossible, and he’s not to be taken lightly—or provoked.

  But he said nothing. His brother hated to have his judgement questioned, and any effort to reason with him always ended in a shouting match. And why should Dick respect his opinion when he always came hat in hand, begging for loans he had trouble repaying? The truth was, he could ill afford a fight right now. He desperately needed the money.

  Cursing his brother’s pride and his own helplessness, John swung on his heel and crossed the hall, followed by his faithful wolf-hound. He took the privy stairs down to the courtyard and left by the postern gate. The cold wind blew in his face and the river thundered in his ears as he circled the castle walls to the ledge where Richard sat staring miserably at the River Tees rushing below.

  “May I?” John inquired, feeling almost as despondent.

  Richard shrugged without looking up.

  John sat down and clasped his knees like Richard, while Rufus stretched out to watch them. “’Tis a fierce wind that blows, isn’t it?” A damn fierce wind, he thought.

  No response. The silence lengthened. “We younger sons have much in common,” said John. “’Tis not easy being a younger son.” Indeed, it wasn’t.

  Richard lifted his head.

  John threw a pebble into the angry river below. “Younger sons have nothing given to them. They must earn by care and pains what comes to first-
borns without effort.” Richard’s dark grey eyes were fixed on him. Such intelligent eyes—so wise, so old, John thought. The boy might be only nine, but he knew much of life, and he was gifted beyond his years. “Younger sons must be inured to self-denial and dependence, for they shall not inherit. They can’t have their will in weighty matters…” John broke off. Damn Dick’s pride! Why was he always so certain he was right?

  “They can’t have their will,” prompted Richard.

  “In matters such as marriage,” John resumed, dragging his thoughts back to Richard. The boy’s obvious affection for Anne had led Warwick to hope for a royal marriage alliance but Warwick had been unable to get Edward to discuss the matter. Poor child. Much heartache lay in store for him. How well he remembered his own misery! The girl who’d won his heart had been the orphaned daughter of a Lancastrian knight, a ward of the Bitch of Anjou, and the Bitch had demanded almost a queen’s ransom to give her hand in marriage to the son of a Yorkist lord. Never had a year seemed so long, or life so pointless and irrelevant. Then his father met the Bitch’s price, though he was a younger son and not entitled to the consideration. No such impediment faced Dickon, but his case did not look hopeful. It was becoming apparent that Edward might not care for his brother’s happiness in the way John’s own father had cared for his.

  He realised the boy was staring at him, waiting for him to continue.

  “Younger sons tread a harder path in life and so they become reflective. ’Tis the younger sons who dream of righting the world, of riding the path of great knights of yore, of making their mark by deeds of chivalry… The world denies us much, but not the chance to do good with our lives. To win honour.”

  “Like Sir Galahad, who went in search of the Holy Grail?” Richard offered.

  In spite of his heaviness, John smiled. In some ways the little lord who thought himself a man still retained the innocence of childhood. “Aye, like Sir Galahad, and all King Arthur’s men who burned to right the wrongs in their path.” He picked up another pebble and threw it over the cliff, noting that Richard copied him. “Sometimes I think first-borns are like gaudy peacocks, and we younger sons like dowdy wrens. No matter what they do, the world will applaud and admire, and no matter what we do, the world will as likely forget us.”