The Rose of York: Love & War

by Sandra Worth

  Richard waited. “Do you really believe Warwick is behind the troubles in the North?”

  “If he is, there’ll be war before long. That’s why I must leave as soon as possible and see for myself.”

  Richard swept up his gauntlets. “I’ll go to him at once. He’s at Warwick Castle…”

  “No!”

  Stunned, Richard froze in his steps. “You doubt me?”

  “Experience is a hard teacher. I’ve already lost one brother to Warwick.”

  “I’m not George!”

  “How can I be sure?”

  Much as Richard hated to admit it, even to himself, the question was a valid one. Loyalty and honour were ideals. Men had died for them willingly from the time of Scripture. But Anne was real. Could he give her up? He’d never thought to be tested, had always believed it impossible for matters to reach this point. Safe in the cocoon of certainty he had spun for himself, he had felt confident of the choice he might be called upon to make. But in the end a man didn’t truly know himself until he confronted the point of the sword.

  “Do I have your permission to see Warwick, or not—Sire?” he demanded coldly so Edward would not guess how close to the mark he’d struck. He held his breath until his chest felt it would burst.

  At last, Edward inclined his head.

  With relief, Richard fled the room.

  ~*~

  Warwick Castle, where Anne was born, Richard thought, anguish flooding him like a mighty river about to charge its banks. A suffocating silence filled the stone-vaulted chamber where he stood alone with the Kingmaker. Nothing he had said had moved this will of granite: this man who’d been a father to him, who’d been his guide and his family, whose daughter he loved, in whose household he’d spent the happiest years of his life. Warwick had remained resolute against Edward.

  Splintered by the coloured glass border, the sun’s rays poured through the tall lancet window like a funnel from heaven, brightening Warwick’s hair and bathing his tall, crimson-brocaded figure in a strange play of light so that he appeared unreal, ghost-like. Richard could even see the tiny motes of dust that danced in the air he breathed. Behind him the River Avon wound placidly through the quiet countryside.

  “Edward has taken a serpent to his breast that will destroy us all unless we strike first,” declared Warwick in a tone ringing with finality. He moved out of the light.

  Richard blinked to focus his vision. Now he saw that Warwick’s face had an odd pallor, his skin was drawn tight across his cheekbones, and his mouth was set in a long tense line. In his vivid blue eyes an anxious question awaited Richard’s reply.

  Richard’s head pounded. The hourglass had emptied. The moment he had dreaded, had hoped would never come, hung expectant for his answer. Edward or Anne? Oh, God, Almighty Father in Heaven, no!

  Loyalty or love?

  His mind, his heart, his soul, shouted for love. For Anne. Without Anne, there was no song, no joy. Only darkness, a vast emptiness.

  Anne, Anne, Anne…

  But had he not chosen as his motto, Loyalty Binds Me? Loyalty, the foundation of honour, and law, and justice; the principle of his life. If that were a lie, then all was a lie, and he was no better than Trollope, who had betrayed his father at Ludlow and unleashed a nightmare of death, destruction and misery.

  Anne…

  Was there no one to guide him? No one to take the decision from his hands?

  No one. He alone held the answer. Could he truly turn against Warwick? His cousin was arrogant, aye, self-righteous and ambitious, aye. But he was Anne’s father. He was generous and courageous beyond all limits. He had once risked his own life to save his. He owed Warwick, maybe as much as he owed Edward.

  He stood in silence, the silence tearing at him, buffeting him in a desolate darkness, and gradually, out of the murk, formed an image from the misty past. It took shape dimly at first, then with increasing clarity, until he stood face to face with the truth; a truth he’d always known in some secret core of his being and had not wished to embrace. Lancelot had broken his oath to his king and chosen love over loyalty, and with that broken oath he’d shattered Camelot and destroyed all whom he’d cherished.

  There had never really been a choice. Oh, Anne, forgive me, Anne…

  “Edward is my brother,” Richard said.

  “So is George,” replied Warwick.

  “Edward is my King,” Richard said.

  “A king unworthy of such loyalty.”

  “A king unworthy of such disloyalty.” Richard felt as if a hand had closed around his throat.

  During the silence that ensued, the distant hammering and clanging of the blacksmiths and armourers in the smithy rose to a din in the room, and the rowdy, drunken laughter of soldiers on the ramparts blended with the murmurings of the knights in the courtyard until they rang in Richard’s ears with all the shrillness of a war cry. He dug his nails into his palms against the panic that assailed him.

  Warwick smiled, a hard, tight-lipped smile. “We’re at an impasse then.”

  In a hoarse, cracked voice, Richard cried, “I’d do anything for you except betray my brother!” He closed his eyes, and again it was night and he was dangling from a rope over a raging sea with nothing around but lightning and thunder, the grip of Warwick’s hand on his own all that kept him back from the depths of oblivion churning below.

  Silence was Warwick’s answer.

  Richard put a hand to his dizzy head. There was nothing more to be said, nothing to be done. He willed one leaden foot before the other and felt his way to the door like an old man. He clenched his jaw to stifle the sob in his throat and laid his hand on the cold iron latch.

  Warwick called out, “Dickon…”

  Hope flared in Richard’s breast.

  “She means to destroy us all. I fear she will succeed.” Warwick flung the words out bitterly, with all the anguish of his soul. “You’re either for me or against me.”

  Richard swallowed, summoned all his will. “Then I’m against you.” He felt as if he had plunged a sword into his own breast.

  Warwick’s broad shoulders slumped and he looked suddenly tired, and very old.

  “What man ever trusted Edward and was not deceived?” he said, almost to himself. “Take care they don’t destroy you, too, Dickon. Farewell… son.”

  Richard felt as though the thread of his life had broken. He bit down hard against the crushing sense of loss that engulfed him. Not trusting himself to speak, he thrust the door open and left the great Earl of Warwick standing there, staring out the window, alone in the empty room.

  ~ * * * ~

  Chapter 22

  “…I care not to be wife,

  But to be with you still, to see your face,

  To serve you and to follow you thro’ the world.”

  Through the sleepless nights of the year of 1469, Richard lived on hope, prayers, and dreams. Edward and Warwick had to reconcile. War was impossible. Somehow they would put aside their differences.

  Three days before Midsummer Eve, in Norwich, where they had stopped on the way to Walsingham, Richard sat in a window seat in a secluded corner of a hall that teemed with courtiers and men-at-arms. He didn’t feel well; he was nursing a bad chill and his physicians wanted to confine him to bed, but he’d refused. He hated admitting he was sick. He’d been sick too much as a child. Picking up his lute, he strummed an old melody. Music offered solace and softened the gloomy mutter of conversation in the hall and the dismal patter of rain against the windows.

  Sweet is true love, though given in vain, in vain, he sang softly in his deep voice. And sweet is death who puts an end to pain…

  A girl stood before him.

  “’Tis beautiful,” she said. “But sad. Do you know a gay ditty?”

  Richard stared at her. “Someone else once asked me that same question.”

  “Well, ’tis indeed sad,” she said, taking a seat beside him, uninvited. “Too much is sad these days.”

  Richard suddenl
y realised she didn’t know who he was. He laid his lute aside. “Are you new to court?”

  She nodded her auburn curls. “I arrived yesterday. You’re a stranger here, too, aren’t you?”

  “In a way. How did you guess?”

  “You look as lost as I feel.”

  Richard’s drooping mouth curved up at the corners. “May I inquire your name, my lady?”

  “Katherine,” she replied. “Katherine Haute. You can call me Kate.”

  “What brings you to court, Kate?” inquired Richard, intrigued by her innocence and enjoying his newly found anonymity. It was refreshing to be able to talk to someone as an equal, without ceremony. As he used to do with Anne.

  “I’m to be trained as lady-in-waiting to the Queen.”

  Richard stiffened. “Are you related then?”

  “Very distantly. A cousin of a cousin of a cousin, by marriage. You know, that sort of thing. I imagine everyone at court is related in some way. If you dig deeply enough, I’ll wager you’d find you were related to the Queen yourself.”

  Richard suppressed a smile. “Would that be good or bad?”

  She cast a quick glance around and leaned close. “Don’t you know you mustn’t talk like that?” she demanded in a low, horrified whisper. “You’ll end up in a dungeon.”

  “So it’s good?” persisted Richard.

  She straightened primly. “Unless you enjoy dungeons.”

  Richard found himself smiling. He studied her profile. He judged her age at fifteen, like Anne, and though she was nothing like Anne with her red hair and green eyes, there was a sweetness about Kate that brought Anne to mind.

  “You’ve not told me your name,” she said, blushing beneath his steady gaze.

  “Richard.”

  “Are you training to be a knight, Richard?” she asked, lowering her lashes shyly.

  “Aye,” sighed Richard. “I’m training…”

  ~*~

  From Norwich they went to Newark, arriving a week before St. Swithin’s Day. Five weeks had passed since Richard had seen Warwick, almost a year since he’d last seen Anne. Only letters connected them now. He knew that Merlin, her pet raven, had caught a fever and died suddenly one night; that she’d found a stray kitten and named her Elaine. He knew that Anne longed for him, as he longed for her. But letters didn’t fill the emptiness of his life. They were no substitute for the sound of her voice, the warmth of her company. The months pressed down on him like lead. He was seventeen, as lonely as he’d been at seven when he’d lost his father and brother and fled into exile in Bruges. He’d spent those months with George, not knowing whether Edward lived or died, whether or not he’d ever see England again. But George had comforted him and made him laugh. Only now, George was lost to him, too.

  Maybe due to loneliness, he had become prone to bouts of panic that sucked the air from his lungs and sent his stomach churning, drenching him in sweat and leaving him at once burning hot and shivering with cold. When herbal cures failed to help, and the oppression that accompanied these fits became more than he could bear, he took his horse and galloped from the safety of the castle into the surrounding countryside, his hound from Westminster at his heels. He’d named the dog Percival, and many a lonely hour had been made bearable by his company. At other times he drowned himself in music, even allowed himself a smile when Percival howled in accompaniment. But more often, he distracted himself with Kate’s company. The fits eased when he was with her, and he had found that if he closed his eyes, he could pretend he was with Anne.

  With Anne. Even when they made love.

  He’d come a long way from that first night of initiation with Edward and Hastings, though he would always bear its mark. Except for Anne and Kate, he was still ill at ease with women. But when despair swept him, need overwhelmed him; and he had learned that women could make him forget. If Kate’s arms failed to give him respite from the pain, he sought out the painted whores of the taverns. They, with their artful ways, drove the memories away—for a time. He’d become a good lover, so they told him, able to give pleasure as well as to receive. Though he no longer kept his lips closed, or pushed his teeth against their mouths when they kissed, he suspected their flattery flowed not from his expertise, but his generosity. A generosity that owed as much to guilt as to gratitude.

  Poor Kate. He called her friend, listened for her coming, regretted her leaving. He held her tenderly, but he couldn’t love her. Dear Kate. No matter how hard he tried, the shackles of the old love would not be broken. And Kate, Richard knew, loved him as he loved Anne.

  The world was a harsh place, he thought. No pity in it.

  ~*~

  It was while they were in Newark that the stunning news came. In Calais, two days before the feast of St. Swithin in July, George had been married to Bella by Archbishop Neville, in the presence of Edward’s sworn enemy, the Earl of Oxford, and five other Knights of the Garter.

  Edward was astounded. “’Tis impossible that Warwick—that George—that they openly defied me! For all our differences, Warwick’s my friend, George, my brother—surely, ’tis all some mistake?” He turned bewildered eyes on Bess, who lowered her lids, a barely perceptible smile on her lips. Anthony Woodville averted his gaze. Edward turned to Richard, and Richard gave him a bleak look.

  “And the Earl of Oxford,” Edward muttered under his breath. “I returned his title and estates after his father’s treason— intervened when Tiptoft would have cut off his hand. Only last year I pardoned him a second time! Is there no gratitude in men’s hearts? No loyalty left?”

  Silence. He picked up a silver wine flagon and flung it across the room. It landed with a shrill crash, drenching the rushes with red wine. “Warwick is indeed behind the troubles in the North! We must round up more men—Dickon, Anthony, get to work. No, wait—first, a drink! Wine…”

  Servants scurried in with flagons, hurriedly poured the cups and passed them around. Edward lifted his in a salute. “Drink, my friends! Drink till we roll on the floor and vomit.”

  ~*~

  In later years, whenever Richard looked back on this period of his life, he saw it as a blur, a tangled maze of events whose timing and sequence appeared confused, muddy. What news there was came in the form of rumours brought by peddlers, wandering minstrels, and itinerant friars; one rumour contradicting another. Even official messengers bore reports that were scarcely more reliable. To Croyland they came as the king’s small army of two hundred horsemen pushed through the watery fen country; to Fotheringhay, the place of Richard’s birth and his father’s burial; through Stamford, and Grantham, where Edward attempted to raise troops: Warwick had landed in London, the messengers said; nay, Kent. He is the King’s enemy, sworn to rid the land of Woodvilles, they declared; nay, he is the King’s friend and will aid him in crushing the rebellion in the North. Warwick’s reception in London was warm and the people cheered his cause, they said. Nay, it was warm in Kent, and London is for the King.

  Through the blur, only one memory endured: his wrenching misery at the decision he’d been forced to make, and his loneliness without Anne.

  On a bright July morning, a week after St. Swithin’s Day, while the court still reeled from the news of George’s marriage, the queen’s young brother, Sir John Woodville, burst into the King’s solar at Newark, a messenger at his side. “My Liege…” he panted. “There’s shocking news!”

  The messenger swept off his cap, sank to his knees. “The Earl of Warwick entered London yesterday and Robin of Redesdale is rapidly marching south to meet him with an army twice the size of yours, Sire. The Earl has issued a proclamation damning the Woodvilles and their friends Lord Herbert and Lord Stafford as avaricious favourites. One of his proclamations fell into our hands.” He presented a rolled parchment.

  Edward snatched it from him in an angry motion. He glanced down briefly and looked up, his face dark as thunder. “Warwick and George have likened me to the deposed monarchs Edward II, Richard II, and Henry VI—and we all know t
he fate that awaits deposed kings!” He crumpled the proclamation in his hands, hurled it across the room. “Traitors!” He turned to the Woodvilles. “Anthony, John, Rivers—seek your own safety; I can assure you none with so few men.” He swung on Hastings. “Send missives to Herbert and Stafford, tell them to hurry to our aid with what forces they can muster. We’ll meet them in Nottingham.” He gripped Bess by the shoulders. “My love, get back to London at once—this is no place for you. Dorset, go with your mother.” He strode to the door. “Come, Dickon. We’re off to Nottingham.”

  ~*~

  Through the month of July, Edward waited in vain at Nottingham Castle for reinforcements. On the day after Lammas in August, he left for the south himself. Instead of aid, he encountered fugitives fleeing for their lives who panted devastating news: Robin of Redesdale had defeated Herbert of Wales and Stafford on their way North. On George and Warwick’s orders, the two lords had been beheaded at Northampton. Edward turned in his saddle and looked at his men. Of the two hundred who’d set out with them in the morning, fewer than thirty remained. It was hopeless. “We’re outmanoeuvred but undaunted,” he said. “This is not the end. Seek safety and live to fight another day!” They galloped away in a cloud of dust.

  Hastings leaned on his pommel. “What now, Edward?”

  “We go to Olney and wait,” replied Edward. “They’ll soon find us, I doubt not.”

  “And then?”

  “Then, as I can no longer play the lion, I shall play the fox,” laughed Edward.

  Richard sat on his saddle rigidly as they trotted their horses to Olney, fighting his inner turmoil, still disbelieving that it had come this far. He’d hoped for reconciliation between those he loved—and prayed, begged, bartered, and promised God to endow innumerable chantries, to perform innumerable good deeds. To wear a hair shirt and make a dozen pilgrimages. When it became clear that he wouldn’t be spared the ordeal and that Anne might be lost to him forever, he’d prayed for strength to bear his cross. But the burden was proving a crushing weight. The fits of panic came more frequently now and were harder to vanquish. The expenditure of energy left him drained, but he fought on, though inside it was as if he were scraped hollow.