The Rose of York: Love & War

by Sandra Worth

  Then there was the queen. She lost no opportunity to fan Edward’s jealousy. In his presence she’d questioned Richard about Archbishop Neville’s feast in the North, which Edward had been unable to attend. It had been held at Cawood Castle on Michaelmas Day, a celebration of George Neville’s promotion to the Archbishopric of York.

  “They say it was the largest feast ever,” Bess said, playing a game of ninepins with her son Thomas Grey in the garden at Windsor. “More splendid than any royal feast in living memory, correct, Dickon?”

  Thomas Grey looked at Richard sideways and a corner of his mouth twisted upwards. With his insolent eyes and permanently mocking grin, Bess Woodville’s elder son was nearly as unpleasant as his mother, Richard thought. And he hated that the queen used the familiar with him. She had a way of making it sound demeaning. Richard knew she regarded him as her rival for Edward’s favours, and though she pretended affection in front of Edward, she made her disdain evident when he wasn’t present.

  “I don’t know what they say, my lady,” Richard replied courteously. “I don’t listen to gossip.” He watched Edward step up to take his turn at the pins.

  The Queen smiled sweetly. “You sat at the head table in a chief chamber of estate—with Lady Anne. A high honour, wasn’t it, Dickon?”

  Richard hesitated, an eye on Edward, who was readying his club. “Aye, my lady,” he replied. Edward missed.

  “Good that you are better on the battlefield, my lord,” the Queen remarked to Edward, then turned back to Richard. “How many guests were there, Dickon?”

  There was no relief for him, he thought. “Many, my lady.” He watched Edward ready his club for another throw.

  “Was the great hall full?”

  “Quite full, my lady.”

  “The great hall at Cawood is known to hold seven thousand. So six thousand—which is the figure most mentioned—would be no exaggeration?” Edward threw and missed again, his wooden club landing with a great thud against the stone base of a fountain. A servant ran to retrieve it.

  “I suppose not, my lady,” Richard said as Thomas Grey stepped into position.

  “And what did these six thousand guests eat?” she asked.

  “Bulls and boar mostly, my lady, and some swans and peacocks,” Richard replied. Thomas Grey knocked down an ivory pin.

  “Well done, Thomas!” the Queen exclaimed. She turned narrowed eyes on Richard. “There were four thousand sheep, and hundreds of bulls and oxen. Even porpoises and seals, were there not?”

  “Aye, my lady.”

  The Queen stole a glance at Edward, who was examining a platter of refreshments offered by a servant. Porpoises and seals were a delicacy, expensive and difficult to come by.

  “A dozen porpoises and seals, in fact,” she continued relentlessly. “Four hundred swans, and over a hundred peacocks. For dessert there were thirteen thousand sweet dishes and a magnificent marchpane subtlety depicting St. George slaying the dragon. Life-size, so I hear.” Bess Woodville took a step forward and readied her club. She addressed herself to Edward with a sigh. “It must be wonderful to be as rich as Warwick and never have to worry about money, as we must do, my lord.”

  Richard could have strangled her. Edward’s eyes were blazing. She threw her wooden club, knocked down five of the nine ivory pins, gave a gleeful cry, and clapped.

  And so it continued the entire time he was at Windsor. Bess told Edward about a rumour on the Continent that Warwick had become his enemy, and Edward kicked a dog. When Bess informed him that King Louis of France sent Warwick copies of all his official correspondence with Edward and that on one of the embassies Louis had received Warwick as if he were King himself, not an emissary, Edward yelled at Richard and found fault with his soup, his squires, his scribes, and his tailor. “He even sent Warwick a hound, my lord, and asked Warwick to do him the honour of sending him a fine English hunting hound,” Bess persisted as she worked on her embroidery. “Why did he not ask you, my lord? You are King Louis’s equal. Not Warwick.”

  Edward had thrown his goblet against the fireplace.

  Then there had been that scene between Edward and Bess when Richard sat unnoticed, reading a book in a corner alcove of the royal apartments at the Tower.

  “I’ve had a belly-full of your spies and their reports about Warwick!” Edward had stormed. “Lady, I order you to stop meddling in my affairs!” She had thrown herself at his feet. “My dearest lord, pray forgive me,” she’d wept. “I shall never speak of such matters again. The reports come not from spies— for I employ none—but from my royal uncle, the Count St. Pol, who was at the French court and learned of these matters. He bade me tell you for your own good. But never shall I mention them again, for never would I distress you.”

  Seeing tears sparkling on Bess’s lovely face, Edward had taken her into his arms and begged forgiveness.

  Richard knew that Bess lied. She employed an army of spies. He’d overheard her give them instructions on several occasions, and how else could she have known about his conversation with Desmond? She had asked Richard whether the Earl of Desmond had ever sent the tale of Tristan and Iseult he’d promised. A seemingly innocent question, but in that same conversation George had likened Bess to a rat. It was the Woodville’s way of telling Richard she knew. The Earl of Desmond had been right. There were no secrets in a castle— except from Edward. He was blind when it came to his queen.

  Richard bit his lip. Whatever his misgivings about Warwick and Edward, he had to allay Anne’s fears.

  “No doubt it’s a good sign that your gracious father will be godfather to my niece.” He looked up at her standing before him. She was twelve now, looked more a maiden than a child in her fitted green gown, and the summer sun, glinting through the leaves of the sprawling chestnut, threw darts of gold through her hair. Behind her the little brook babbled gently. Unable to restrain himself, he added with a rush of emotion, “I wish I could stay here at Middleham forever, Anne!”

  Anne sat down and rested her cheek against his hand, suffused by joy, then quickly by guilt. At least Richard came often to Middleham, even if his stays grew shorter in duration as strained relations between their families made the King claim his presence elsewhere, but poor Bella lay pining for George, whom she hadn’t seen in months. “Has the King changed his mind about George and Bella?” she ventured. “Is there hope they might marry?”

  Richard hesitated. Implicit in her question was the thought, ever at the back of their minds: Is there hope we might marry? He didn’t want to tell her the truth. She’d find out soon enough that Edward had tried to marry George to the daughter of Charles of Burgundy. The negotiations had failed. Warwick had headed the embassy to Burgundy and everyone knew he was against the marriage. He wanted George to marry Bella, not nine-yearold Mary of Burgundy, and he wanted Richard’s sister Meg to marry a French royal, not the recently widowed Charles of Burgundy, whom he despised. But while Warwick favoured France, the queen favoured Burgundy, the ally of her mother’s family, the St. Pols of Luxembourg. The question was, Who would win? France or Burgundy?

  Warwick or the Queen?

  And if it were the queen, would Warwick the Kingmaker accept a second humiliation at Edward’s hands?

  Richard decided to tell Anne part of the truth. “Edward won’t hear of a match between George and Bella. He fears a union with your mighty father will make George more powerful and fill his head with even more dangerous notions. I think Edward would like to see George abroad. He’d be less trouble there.” He fidgeted with his ring. “Anne… I leave for London tomorrow.”

  “So soon?”

  “I must attend the queen’s churching with your lord father. It is politic, Anne.”

  “Will you be back?” she asked in a choked voice.

  A silence.

  “Whatever happens between our families, Anne,” he replied at last, “know that I will raise Heaven and Earth to see you again.” A sickening sensation knotted his stomach. Nowadays each time they par
ted, he feared he might never see her again, and without Anne, the world was such an empty place. He looked up through the leaves at the shining sun. A bird stirred in the branches and a gust of wind rustled the leaves.

  “Remember the afternoon we picnicked in the heather by the windmill?” he said, reaching into the past for comfort.

  Anne smiled down at him.

  There are moments you never forget, he thought. Images that are forever. Part of the music of the North that would always be with him, like the roaring of the winds through the trees, the rushing of the rivers, the pine-scented freshness of the air, the cries of birds over the moors. And Anne, smiling at him with her flower-eyes.

  He stood up, and took her hand into his own. “London is a foul place. Filthy. Malodorous. The court swarms with greedy, grasping, scheming Woodvilles. There’s whispering everywhere, deceit everywhere. I loathe London. If I had my way, I’d never leave you… never leave Middleham, or the North.” Under his breath, he added, “I fear trouble, my lady. If you go away, leave me a message here, on our tree. I shall do the same.” He fumbled in his doublet, and drew out a ring. “Wear this for me, Anne. As a remembrance.”

  Anne gazed at the delicate ring worked in a motif of silver leaves. The gift meant one thing: trouble lay ahead. Tears welled. She averted her face blindly.

  Richard put his hand under her chin and turned her head to the old tree that had been struck by lightning in its youth. The deep gash had never healed, and there, in its hollow heart, they had sheltered in many a rainstorm. “Look, Anne… it’s survived all kinds of storms, and so will we.” He slipped the ring on her finger. “Someday we’ll be together and never have to part. We must believe that.”

  He couldn’t deny he had his own doubts sometimes, but like a beacon that guides a sailor safely back to shore at night, there was a certainty at his core that saw him through the blackness of his fears. Somehow, like their tree of Avalon, they would survive. Someday, somehow, they would be together.

  ~ * * * ~

  Chapter 15

  “The meanest having power upon the highest, And the high purpose broken by the worm.”

  The frantic blare of trumpets, the galloping hoofs through the gatehouse, and the shouts of men in the courtyard drowned out the mellow chanting of monks in the chapel. Archbishop Neville, in Middleham for the weekend, interrupted the Mass he was conducting to hurry to the courtyard with Warwick. The Countess followed with Richard and Anne. They reached the west door in time to hear Warwick groan. Beside him the Archbishop stood as if turned to stone, ashen as a ghost. Two messengers were kneeling, heads bowed, sobbing. A crowd had gathered around them, faces wet with tears.

  “What is it, my lord?” the Countess cried, running to her husband’s side.

  “Evil, evil tidings, my lady…” Warwick took an unsteady step towards her. She seized his hands and looked up into his stricken eyes.

  “The Earl of Desmond is dead. Executed by Tiptoft. His two small sons with him.”

  The Countess blanched. “How could such a thing happen?”

  Silence.

  Richard’s stunned gaze flew from the Countess, to George Neville, to Warwick. Events had moved swiftly after the birth of the little Princess Elizabeth and messengers had streamed to Middleham for weeks. The most disturbing report was that Edward had relieved the Earl of Desmond as Deputy Lieutenant of Ireland and appointed in his stead the Earl of Worcester, the harsh Tiptoft, to the post. The move bore the mark of the queen’s hand, for Tiptoft had carved himself a fearsome reputation for cruelty since his return from Padua and was a man distrusted by everyone —except the Woodvilles.

  The Countess turned on one of the messengers. “Tell me this is not so!”

  “I fear it is too true, my lady. The Earl of Worcester accused the Earl of Desmond of treason and Desmond came in bravely to answer the false charge. He was immediately cast into prison and condemned to death. His two sons, mere schoolboys, eight and ten years old, were sent to the block with him.” The messenger paused. “One of the boys had a boil on his neck. He asked the executioner to pray be careful, for it hurt.” His voice cracked; he dropped his head.

  The second messenger spoke. “’Tis said that the Queen stole the King’s signet ring to seal the Earl’s death warrant, my lady. The King was not pleased.”

  “But why should the Queen wish such a thing? It makes no sense…” The Countess searched their faces: all were blank, except her husband’s. He said nothing, but fury now mingled with the grief in his eyes.

  Silently, wretchedly, Richard made his way into the chapel to pray for the dead Irish earl, his father’s beloved friend. Anne followed him, tears rolling down her cheek.

  ~*~

  “So what that Edward was angry with her? He forgave her soon enough, didn’t he?” George fumed to Richard on a visit to Middleham. “She’s a witch from the bowels of Hell, she and Jacquetta both! ’Tis said they practise the Black Arts with the help of a certain Friar Bungey, who is in truth a Warlock.”

  I wouldn’t doubt it, thought Richard. Aloud, he said, “Don’t believe that foolery, George.”

  “It’s true! She’s a sorceress. If I were king, I’d burn her at the stake.” His blue eyes blazing, he added, “And I should be king! Edward has no right to the throne. He’s not our father’s son.”

  “You’re mad, George. Why do you say such things?” Richard rushed to the open window and looked down at the foot of the tower, where a gathering of nobles stood talking in the garden. He slammed the window shut, his heart racing with guilt. It was not Edward who was the bastard.

  “Because it’s true! Our mother was with child when our father married her. Why do you think Edward’s so tall—so much taller than our father? So much taller than the rest of us? Because he’s no Plantagenet!”

  “Edward takes after Mother’s grandfather, Lionel, who was a giant. You’re losing your mind, George. For the Blessed Virgin’s sake, you must stop this. ’Tis treason what you speak! If Edward knew…”

  “Edward does know. I’ve made no secret of it.” He plopped down on a bench.

  “More fool you, George. If he hasn’t clapped you into prison, then he’s a better man than you.”

  “Why do you always defend him, Dickon? Are you so blind to what he is?”

  “He’s our brother—and King. You’re wicked to slander him with lies. Have you no gratitude? Have you forgotten that he came to our lodgings every day to visit us when we were alone in London? He was fighting Marguerite, yet he came every day— because he knew we were frightened. When Father died, he was our lifeline—all that stood between us and the revenge of Lancaster. Does that mean nothing to you, George?”

  “Edward was different then. Before that Sorceress sank her fangs into him.”

  “He’s still our brother. Don’t shame him. Aside from ingratitude, it’s dangerous.”

  “He shames Warwick who made him king! He shames me by denying Bella and I the right to marry! He married for love but he won’t abide anyone else doing so. Not even you, Dickon. I’ve seen the way you look at Anne—you love her, yet you’d give her up if he asked you to. You’re naught but a milksop. A milksop, Dickon!”

  “Edward is king. We took an oath. The king’s word is God’s law. To go back on an oath is to put your soul at risk.”

  “Then Edward broke his own oath and God’s law by deposing Holy Harry.”

  Their eyes locked. Richard was the first to look away. He moved to the hearth and picked up a cherrywood branch. He stoked the fire. He had yet to win a battle of words with George. George was too clever.

  The House of York had indeed unseated an anointed king, but Richard knew what that decision had cost his father. He’d been at Fotheringhay Castle, unnoticed, oiling his lute when the matter had been decided. His mother, Cicely, had sat in his father’s bedchamber, at the foot of his trestle-bed, one thick golden braid falling over her shoulder, her posture as rigid as if she sat on a throne. The Duke of York had stood before her,
his face anxious, his back to the fire that raged in the hearth, throwing light and shadow into the room.

  “We must be patient, my lady,” he’d said. “Sooner or later Marguerite’s rash conduct will lead the people to call me to the throne and save me the hateful necessity of unsheathing my sword against Henry.”

  “My lord, there must be an end to patience, for where has it led you? As soon as you disbanded your army after the Battle of St. Albans, Somerset was reinstated in all his authority.”

  “Nevertheless, we can’t act rashly. Too much is at stake. We must explore every venue to end this peaceably.”

  “Too much patience is as foolish as rashness. Your claim is stronger than the King’s, and your army larger. Seize the throne that’s rightfully yours, my lord. Another chance may not come again.”

  “If I do, my lady, I’ll plunge England into civil war. Bloodshed must be avoided at all costs. It always leads to anarchy.”

  She leapt to her feet. “Look around you, my lord. There is already anarchy. County fights county, bishops are murdered, men are executed without trial.”

  “True. But I am Henry’s heir. All will be righted in the end.”

  “Somerset was found in the Queen’s apartments,” she said quietly. “Soon there may be a bastard prince. Will you remain Henry’s heir then?”

  “By God, lady, if that should happen, I’ll not stand by and do nothing!”

  Richard dropped the cherry branch, turned away from the fire. “Father’s mistake was waiting too long, not acting too soon,” he said. “Holy Harry wasn’t fit to be king.”