The Rose of York: Love & War

by Sandra Worth

  As she turned to watch the second course, she noticed the dagger glances slyly cast at her and the snickers quickly checked from the adjoining loges. Many among the crowd of old nobility resented them, but today she was determined to enjoy her happiness and dwell only on the positive. Had untold honours not been heaped on her family these past eight months?

  A loud chorus interrupted her reverie. The black knight had been unhorsed and the silver pronounced the winner. Hoisted to his feet by his squires, the black knight strutted angrily off the field as the silver knight advanced to the royal box for his prize. “Well done, Cheyney!” cried the King, tossing him a jewelled medal of St. George. “A fair course!” Twenty more knights entered the field on foot for the general melee and hand-tohand combat. The prize was a ruby to the winner.

  Amid the cheers of the crowd and periodic blare of the heralds’ trumpets, Jacquetta’s glance swept the boxes and rested proudly on her brood of thirteen children. Thanks to Bess, they had all made splendid marriages. Pardieu, but no one could fault her for not looking out for her family! One daughter had married a duke, one an earl, and four had married earl’s sons. Her eldest boy, Anthony, was now a baron, having wed the heiress of Lord Scales. Another had married the richest duchess in the kingdom; yet another was betrothed to the King’s niece, who had earlier been promised to John Neville’s new-born son.

  Jacquetta smiled inwardly. Warwick’s humiliation of her husband still rankled her after all these years and it gave her pleasure to see the Nevilles brought low. She patted her husband’s hand. He cast her a smile and her harsh thoughts fled. After all, they’d had the last laugh. Lord Rivers was now Earl Rivers and riches had gushed into their hands. She turned her eyes to the centrepiece of the lavish ceremony: cool, remote, beautiful Bess, seated on her velvet chair in the centre of their row. Once she had been lady-in-waiting to a queen; now she herself was queen. Her daughter was not only the fairest in the land, but very clever, she thought, reflecting on their conversation earlier that day…

  “To think, ma fille, of all that is now yours,” Jacquetta mused as she clasped a necklace of flashing gems around Bess’s smooth white throat. “The crown imperial of gold and pearls to which my husband, the Duke of Bedford, was heir would have made me queen. Now you are the queen in my place. When I fell from grace, I had no relatives to protect me. Now our relatives are everywhere and the land complains of it! How strange is life— as if it turns in circles as it moves along. ’Tis like a dream.”

  “Nay, ’tis the Wheel of Fortune, and the Wheel can bring us down again as quickly as it took us up,” Bess replied. “What you lost and I won back has come to us at a cost—everyone is against us. They say I’m lowborn. That I’m not good enough to be queen.”

  “That will change now we are linked in marriage to the most powerful of the noble families.”

  “That will never change, Maman, until people learn they cannot laugh at us.”

  “M’enfant, what does it matter? They laugh because they can do nothing else. The important thing is we are safe. You are crowned now, and blessed by God Himself.” Jacquetta fastened the last ruby button of her daughter’s gown. “No one dares harm us.”

  Bess turned her cool green eyes on her mother. “No, Maman. Not until Edward is mine—all mine—will we be safe. When he turns away from his friends—from the Nevilles, from his brothers—then are we safe.”

  “And when is that, Bess?” Jacquetta demanded, surprised again at her unpredictable daughter.

  “When I have a child, Maman. If anything happens to Edward before I have a child, George will destroy us—but when I have a child, then are we safe. Then shall we settle old scores with our foes. Then shall Warwick rue the day he called my father a knave! A child will make Edward a puppet in my hands. A child— a son—’tis what we need, but why does one not come? I’ve been trying, Maman. Oh, how I’ve tried!”

  “I have no doubt you will get your child soon, Bess. None of us is plagued with the barren condition, but for sure we can use the help of God. First, we will buy more prayers to win His favour. Then I shall consult Friar Bungey. His spells are said to be the most powerful. Meanwhile, m’enfant, you must endow a college. That is what queens do, and since it takes much money, God will look with favour on the sacrifice.”

  She placed a hand on Bess’s arm. “But most important, Bess, remember: Use only soft words and sweet ways with the King. ’Tis unwise to demand from him. He is stubborn, that one. If you try to push him in one way, he will go in the other, like a mule. But if you accept everything, he will deny you nothing, ma fille.”

  Bess peered at herself in the looking glass Jacquetta held. Carefully she rubbed cochineal paste into her high cheekbones. She lifted her chin.

  “You need have no fear, Maman. I know how to manage Edward. I’m prepared to wait for my revenge, but I shall have what’s mine, though I walk through Hell to get it.”

  A roaring cheer brought Jacquetta back to the present. She lifted her hands and clapped for the champion of the tournament, Lord Thomas Stanley. The stout bejewelled baron stepped up to claim his prize. Bess rose to award him the ruby. Jacquetta watched with approval as the powerful lord bowed most humbly to her daughter. The King watched, too, but he was gazing only at Bess, an adoring look in his brilliant blue eyes. Having fulfilled her duty, Bess sat back down in her velvet chair. Turning to her husband, she smiled shyly at him with lowered lashes.

  Ah, indeed, we need have no fear, Jacquetta thought. Her daughter was very clever.

  ~ * * * ~

  Chapter 13

  “I found Him in the shining of the stars

  I marked him in the flowering of His fields

  But in His ways with men I find Him not.”

  In the Painted Chamber of Westminster Palace, Richard waited by the gilded entrance, listening to the minstrels and watching guests assemble for the banquet. Plump bishops, their robes sewn with jewels and gold, conversed with lords richly arrayed in satins and fancy shoes, some with points so long they were caught up at the knee with golden chains. Ladies swept past, holding their fur-trimmed trains and nodding their headdresses in greeting. Their perfume assaulted his nostrils. He sneezed.

  “Ah, Dickon,” said a gentle voice, “you’ve caught another cold and you’ve no handkerchief again.”

  His sister Meg proceeded to wipe his nose. He pushed her away. “It’s not a cold, Meg, and I’m not a babe anymore.”

  She drew her hand back awkwardly. “Pray forgive me, Dickon. Old habits die hard.”

  “Well, indeed, they may,” said a high bright voice behind her with a trace of laughter. “But are you too grown now to give your long-lost sisters a kiss, Dickon?” It was his second-oldest sister, Liza, bouncing a toddler in her arms. “And your new nephew, Johnnie?”

  Regretting his rudeness, Richard embraced Meg warmly, gave Liza a hug, and admired her first-born.

  “Have you seen Nan?” inquired Liza, referring to their oldest sister. “I’ve been looking for her all evening. She hasn’t met my Johnnie yet either.”

  “She’s over there, talking to St. Leger,” replied Meg.

  Through an opening in the crowd, Richard saw his eldest sister standing by one of the many windows, deep in conversation with a knight. Richard had seen Nan but three times in all his life, which suited him well enough. He didn’t think his haughty sister liked him much, and he always found himself ill at ease and tongue-tied in her presence. Meg claimed Nan’s coldness was not personal, she was just bitter at having been abandoned by her husband, the Lancastrian Duke of Exeter, who’d fled to France with Marguerite d’Anjou. Richard wasn’t so sure. Guests milled between them and the opening closed like a folded spyglass.

  “Time you met your oldest aunt, isn’t it, sweet babe?” Liza cooed. “Come with me, Meg, tell me your news. I’m dying to know; is there a handsome prince hovering on your horizon?”

  Richard bowed as Liza led a blushing Meg away. When he lifted his head, his sisters were gone
but he heard an echo of Liza’s merry laughter. Aye, laughter was everywhere tonight, for there was cause to celebrate. Much good news had arrived on the heels of the queen’s coronation. On St. Swithin’s Day, in the warm month of July, Henry of Lancaster was captured in the North, where he had hidden for a year disguised as a monk. Warwick had tied Henry’s heels beneath the stirrups of his horse and paraded him around London for the people to mock him. Then Edward had locked him up in the Tower to pray to his heart’s content. That same month, the deputy lieutenant of Ireland, the Earl of Desmond, came to make his report to Edward.

  Richard had heard a great deal about the Earl of Desmond, Thomas Fitzgerald. So close a friend had he been to his father that even Richard’s mother, who rarely attended court functions anymore, had come to pay her respects. Warwick, of whom little had been seen at court since Edward’s marriage, had also made the journey. Only John was absent, though he’d sent word that he’d attend if the border remained quiet. The festivities in Desmond’s honour were to be spread over several days, with hunting, feasting, and much music making and reading of poetry, for the Earl loved music and was a patron of the arts in Ireland.

  George appeared out of the throng and closed the distance between them. Richard smiled happily. “Edward has made everything very fine tonight, hasn’t he, George?”

  George cast a bored look around. “He’s spent a few groats, but even with that, he can’t match Warwick’s splendour.”

  Richard threw him a sharp glance. Besides the hall’s magnificent painted walls, tracery windows and gilded angels, cartloads of flowers perfumed the air and candles flickered over the gleaming marble pillars and tapestries by the hundreds, while the colourful murals around the room that set out scenes from the Old Testament and Edward the Confessor’s coronation sparkled from the scrubbing they had received. Richard decided to ignore George, who was obviously in bad humour for whatever reason, and turned his attention to the paintings.

  As he looked, the smile that had begun to curve his lips faded. A grave series darkened the wall with bloody battles and beheadings that depicted the Vices in harrowing detail, and every glint of gilt and jewelled colour seemed to tell a tale of violence and suffering. All at once he wished he was back in the North. He had never cared much for court. Court was like a beautiful song—full of trills, rippling and gay, but beneath the lilting melody rumbled distant chords, warning of danger to the straining ear.

  Trumpets sounded. Amid a swish of silks, lords and ladies bowed as the glittering King and Queen entered the hall. As always, Edward looked as handsome as a god. He wore a tunic of yellow shot silk beneath a tabard of heavy brown velvet edged with sable. The puffed sleeves and open sides suited his broad-shouldered frame, but it was not a style for the short of stature, like Richard. He favoured the simple doublet, such as the dove grey he had chosen for the evening, embroidered with motifs of black and gold.

  His mother, Duchess Cecily, followed Edward and Bess on the arm of the guest of honour, the darkly handsome Irish earl, who was attired in white velvet tissue of gold, and they distributed themselves on the steps around the canopied throne.

  A movement caught Richard’s attention. Ten-year-old Thomas Grey, the queen’s older son by her first marriage, was snickering with his younger brother. Richard thought Thomas looked like a gillyflower in his short doublet of orange and lime with alternating green and orange stockings. The fashion was the rage at Edward’s court but Richard found it lewd, for it was cut above the buttocks and manly organs, leaving little to the imagination. Hastings, standing nearby, was another who chose to sport the disgusting new fashion.

  Around the queen’s two sons clustered more Woodvilles: the Duchess Jacquetta and her husband, Earl Rivers, with their brood of seven daughters, five sons, and newly acquired noble spouses. Among these the queen’s oldest brother, Anthony Woodville, stood out like a peacock in a field of pansies as he conversed with his youngest brother, John.

  John Woodville and his new wife made a ridiculous looking couple, Richard thought. The marriage between the sixty-yearold Dowager Duchess of Norfolk—who could barely stand even with the aid of a silver cane—and the queen’s eighteen-yearold brother had scandalised the world, and infuriated Warwick. The duchess, his aunt, had fallen prey to the Woodvilles because she was the richest widow in the land. Richard recalled Warwick’s rage. “A diabolical marriage!” he’d roared, stomping back and forth across the great hall in Middleham like an enraged bull.

  Warwick was right. The Woodvilles were looting the land like locusts, and their greed was all the more revolting because they made no effort to hide it. His glance moved to the queen. She had grown even more haughty in these months and sat with her back rigid, gripping the gilded armrests of her throne, her chin held so high she seemed to be looking down her nose through closed lids. He knew she was displeased. There were many here tonight whom she disliked, including him.

  Trumpets blared again. “George, Duke of Clarence!” the herald announced.

  Richard watched his brother saunter up to the throne in his pointed plum-coloured shoes. George cut an elegant figure in his ducal coronet, his cloth of gold surcoat blazing with the royal arms, but his manner bordered on insolent. A hush fell over the crowd and there was an uneasy rustle. George threw Edward and his queen a perfunctory bow, made no move to kiss their hands, then greeted Desmond with marked warmth. Unlike Warwick, George didn’t cloak his feelings, and everyone knew that he despised his brother’s lowborn wife. Richard thought his show of hostility unwise and had said as much. But George had laughed. He was heir to the throne, he said, and could do as he pleased.

  Heir to the throne, aye, Richard thought, but heir only until the queen has a child—doesn’t George think that far ahead? Yet, in spite of himself, he admired his brother’s courage. George wasn’t afraid of anyone. Richard wished he had his guts. His glance moved to the queen’s mother, Jacquetta, near the dais, and he felt a stab of unease. He didn’t like the way she looked at George.

  “Richard, Duke of Gloucester!” cried the herald.

  Richard marched up to the King’s chair. He knelt before Edward and the queen and kissed Bess’s icy hand. Edward leapt from his throne and embraced him. “Dear Dickon, how joyous we are to behold your face! You’ve been gone too long from my sight, fair brother.”

  Richard beamed at Edward as he took his place a step below George, but his glance, moving back over the dais, touched, and held, on the queen. Her hooded green eyes regarded him coldly, and for a fraction of a second—so quickly that he might have imagined it—a thin smile twisted her mouth into an ugly line. He thought of Melusine, the serpent from whom she claimed descent.

  One after another gorgeously dressed nobles and their ladies came up to the dais, gems glittering, silks shimmering, gauzy veils flowing, but the queen’s malicious look had spoiled his pleasure in the evening. He chewed his lip as he always did when he was nervous, and forced his attention back to Edward, who rose to give a speech of welcome. When he was finished, the minstrels and jugglers began their performances. Without warning the music ceased and a shocked murmur ran through the crowd. Heads turned towards the entrance. A man with a long white beard and leather pants cut high above knobbly knees thumped his way through the room with the aid of a staff.

  Edward’s hand froze with his wine cup halfway to his lips. “Whoa!” he called, the smile vanishing from his lips. “What’s this?”

  The man ambled up to the King.

  “Why, ’tis George’s Fool!” muttered Edward.

  “Fool I may be,” replied the Fool, “but tonight, Sire, I am the King of Fools!”

  “A dubious honour, I assure you,” said Edward with narrowed eyes. “Tell me, Your Foolish Grace, why are you dressed in this bizarre fashion?”

  “Sire, my journey here was full perilous as any knight’s. Many times I came near death.”

  “How so?” demanded Edward, warily.

  “I was near swept away by the currents, so high
were the Rivers!”

  A deadly silence fell over the room. Everyone stared at the rigid Queen. Then Edward let out a roar of laughter. The silence shattered, and everyone laughed. Music sounded in the minstrels’ gallery. With relief, Richard fled the dais. Jesu, but George had made his Fool take a dangerous chance!

  Richard danced a pavane with the Countess of Desmond, his mind returning to the queen. She was smiling now and seemed to have forgotten her displeasure at the jest, but Richard suspected she rarely forgot or forgave anything. When the dance ended, he retired to a corner beneath the minstrel’s gallery to observe the revelries. He wished he knew where Anne had gone. He hadn’t seen her all evening.

  A feather tickled his ear. “Can you never be still?” laughed a voice behind him.

  “Anne!” he exclaimed. Then, lowering his voice to a whisper, he added, “Let’s leave.” He seized her hand, but as he dragged her to the door they bumped into the Earl of Desmond. Behind him came Bella, and, spotting Anne, spirited her off to see a newborn hound, leaving Richard alone with Desmond.

  “You’ve made quite an impression on my Countess, my lord of Gloucester,” the Earl said, a twinkle in his brown eyes. “She seems unable to talk of anything but you. No doubt all Ireland will soon know the King’s brother is near as handsome as he is.”

  Desmond was a fine-looking man, Richard thought, with his generous mouth, aquiline nose, and touches of humour around his eyes and mouth. “My lord,” Richard replied, “the Countess is kind.”

  “Nay, Lord Richard, not so. You resemble your dear father whom we all loved, God absolve his soul.”