The Rose of York: Love & War

by Sandra Worth

  “Your niece…” Percy shot back with a sneer. “I hear it took all Louis’s arts to persuade Marguerite to agree to the marriage! Called her a little mouse and wanted nothing to do with her—said the match was not to her profit and even less to her honour.”

  John stared at Percy, but it was Anne he saw: tiny, fragile Anne, hiding her tearful face. “Why so sad, my little lady?” he’d asked as he’d scooped her up in his arms. “I’m nearly four,” she’d wept, “and I still can’t touch the moon.” He clenched his fist around his bridle, his breath burning his throat. How dared that lily-livered turncoat insult Anne! He met Percy’s rat-like eyes. Slowly, meaningfully, finger-by-finger, he drew the gauntlet from his hand. For fear of thinning the ranks of his supporters, Edward had forbidden the issue of challenges, but once offered, a challenge could not be rejected without dishonour.

  John leaned on his pommel and curled his lips. “Any time you wish, Percy, we can settle this man to man.” He threw his gauntlet at Percy’s feet.

  Percy’s mouth twitched. He gave no reply. Like everyone else, he knew John had yet to lose a fight, be it a battle, or mantoman. John’s gauntlet was a death warrant.

  “As you’re so reluctant, Percy,” said John, “perhaps Dorset here—renowned through the land for his valour—is willing to take your place?” He turned hard blue eyes on Dorset, who blanched and backed away. John smiled coldly. “I’ll take both of you snivelling cowards at the same time. What say you?”

  At that moment a window was flung open on the second floor of the palace and someone yelled, “Northumberland!” The window slammed shut again.

  Percy recovered, leered at John. “I must go, Montagu. The King needs me.”

  John watched him swagger across the courtyard with his retinue. Revulsion tightened his stomach into a painful knot. He swung his stallion towards the gate. His squire handed him his dusty gauntlet and mounted his horse to follow him. John raised a hand. “I go alone.”

  “’Tis not safe, my lord! You are a…” George Gower broke off.

  John knew what his squire was about to say. You are a Neville! He spurred his horse and galloped blindly out of the palace gates, Roland following at his heels. Men ran, chickens clucked out of his path, a cart nearly overturned, dogs barked, children fell. John heard nothing, saw nothing. He had only one desperate wish.

  To leave behind the painful world of men.

  ~ * * * ~

  Chapter 28

  “He walked with dreams and darkness.”

  At Westminster Richard took the narrow stone steps up to the private chapel of the royal apartments. The beautiful room had octagonal walls, many windows, and a reed mat on the tiled floor. A wooden cross stood on one windowsill between an icon and an urn of blue periwinkles, and a Bible lay open on a stand before the small altar. Richard shut the door and drew the crimson velvet curtain for privacy. He knelt and said a prayer of thanks for the safe delivery of his newborn daughter Katherine.

  The child had been born during the spring revels in May, in the small house he had bought for Kate on Beech Hill near Pontefract Castle. He was proud of the sweet babe with the rosebud mouth, yet his joy in fatherhood was tainted by an inexplicable guilt. Somehow, he felt unfaithful to Anne.

  That was ridiculous, of course. Nobles begot bastards. It was the way things were and there was nothing shameful in that. If Anne had not been lost to him, he would never have known the need that drove him to other women. And that need existed. He was no anchorite. He was made of flesh and blood. While he didn’t revel in orgies as Edward did, he didn’t spurn the women of the taverns. But Kate was no bawdy wench to be paid and dismissed. He cared about her, knew she hoped for more than he could give her. Had not Edward made Bess his queen? Had not his own great-grandfather, the Duke of Lancaster, married Katherine Swynford, a herald’s daughter?

  With hope in her heart, Kate had named the babe Katherine— but not in her own honour, as haughty Bess had done with her first child. Kate’s thought had been for the lowborn girl who’d wed a duke. But there had been love between Katherine and her duke. He loved only Anne. He would go to his death loving only her. He made the sign of the Cross and rose from the altar. Taking a seat on the velvet-cushioned window seat, he slipped his hand deep into the bosom of his doublet and withdrew Anne’s letter from a pleat pocket in his shirt.

  After Wales he’d gone north to aid Edward against Robin of Redesdale, but once again their cousin John, that valiant soldier, had quelled the rebellion without help. Returning to London, he went by way of Middleham. He’d received no word from Anne in months and he needed to know if she had left him a letter.

  Gulping deep breaths of cold fir-scented air, he’d panted into the woods and made for their tree. Leaping over the gorse, stumbling over rocks, he’d run past the grove of poplars, across the gushing brook. Twice he fell in his haste. The chestnut finally loomed into view. He stumbled to a halt. It hadn’t changed. Split down the middle and hollow at its heart, the old tree still stood tall, wounded but healed, stretching out its limbs with the proud dignity he remembered. His eye fixed on the carving he’d cut into the gnarled old bark as a ten-year-old boy: Richard and Anne, King and Queen of Avalon, where all is Justice and Joy. Here had stood their mythical kingdom where, in their childhood innocence, they had ruled supreme. His heart began to race. Inside the hollow a white ribbon fluttered down from the little shelf he’d nailed there so many years ago, in that other lifetime. Trampling the stinging nettles he didn’t feel, the brambles that ripped his hose and pierced his flesh, he made his way to the tree and reached up into the hollow. He flung the stone aside and seized the letter. He slashed the ribbon and bent his head to read.

  Beloved, My heart is heavy and the world filled with darkness since I learned the news. Father says we must flee for our lives, that there is no other way. God has chosen to part us, but you will be with me always for I will carry you in my heart until we meet again. If that day comes not on this earth, I shall wait for you in Heaven, for you are my love, my only joy, all that I treasure in this world and the next. – Anne

  He slid to the hard ground, clutching the letter. In a bramble bush, an animal squealed and darted away. Deer approached and fled, cracking dry twigs underfoot. The woods fell silent again except for the cawing of ravens. The light grew cold; the sky lit with purple and darkened. He got up stiffly. Folding the letter with cold, clumsy fingers, he slipped it into a breast pocket deep inside his velvet doublet.

  He had carried it with him ever since.

  He looked down now at the delicate, evenly-formed black script and traced the small flowing letters gently with a fingertip. Resting his head against the window, he shut his eyes, his mind flooded with Anne. Her warmth came to him, and he could hear her voice, feel her touch. He was closer to her than at any time since their parting, closer even than when he’d found her letter by their tree. The love and the longing he felt overwhelmed him, and for a moment he forgot where he was.

  He tucked the letter safely back into his doublet. Despite everything that had happened, despite all the doubts that at times drowned his hope, he continued to believe they’d be together some day. How or when he would win Anne, he couldn’t fathom, but the old conviction was still there at his core, radiating hope amidst the darkness, giving him will to go on.

  ~*~

  “Sire! An emissary from the Duke of Burgundy with urgent tidings!” cried a herald.

  “Send him in,” commanded Edward, seating himself on his throne in the Marculf chamber at Westminster.

  Richard hurried to his stance beside Edward while his old friend Howard, the Friendly Lion, and other knights gathered at the foot of the dais. It was the morning after the Feast of St. Swithin, three months after Northumberland had been restored to Percy. They had been conferring with Edward on the situation in the North, which was as unsettled as ever, but news about Warwick took precedence over all other troubles.

  The messenger strode in, knelt before Edward, and c
onfirmed that a pact had been made in Angers and that the proud Warwick had indeed prostrated himself before Marguerite d’Anjou for a full half-hour.

  Edward laughed. “Warwick will be as true to Marguerite as he has been to me.”

  “Sire,” the messenger said gravely. “The Earl of Warwick swore on a splinter of the True Cross to be Queen Marguerite’s faithful subject.”

  A choked gasp escaped Richard’s lips. Gone was hope of reconciliation; gone, all hope of winning Anne! Warwick had chosen his side and now his choice bound him unto death. Before he could stop himself, he exclaimed, “The Cross of St. Laud has the power to strike him dead within a year if he breaks his oath.”

  Edward slammed a fist on the armrest of his chair. “I’ll strike him dead myself if I get the chance!” He signalled the messenger to continue.

  “The Earl of Warwick agreed to place Henry of Lancaster back on the throne. In return, on July 15th at the Cathedral of Angers the Lady Anne Neville was betrothed to Prince Edouard of Lancaster.”

  Richard’s pulse pounded in his ears and his legs buckled beneath him. He clutched hold of the throne. Edward’s words came to him dimly. “Marguerite agreed to that?”

  “She would not hear of the marriage at first, Your Grace. King Louis is a persuasive man but it took all his powers to get her to accept the offer. In the end, the King prevailed, though two conditions were placed by Queen Marguerite. First, as Prince Edouard and Lady Anne are cousins, that a papal dispensation be obtained before the marriage is consummated. Second, that—that…”

  “Proceed, good man. However ill the tidings you carry, you are pardoned,” Edward said.

  The messenger swallowed. “Second, that the marriage not be consummated until the Earl of Warwick has won England for Lancaster.”

  “I see,” said Edward, a hard edge to his voice. “I don’t envy Warwick. Marguerite neither forgives nor forgets. If he succeeds in getting Henry back on the throne, I wouldn’t wish to be in his shoes… What of my royal brother, Clarence?”

  “He and his Duchess were at the betrothal, Sire. The agreement declares him heir to the throne if the Lady Anne and Prince Edouard have no issue. ’Tis said he is not happy with the arrangement.”

  Edward’s mouth twisted. “Nothing short of the crown will content George, but clearly he’s gained naught by this that he didn’t already have. Is that not so, Dickon? Dickon, are you all right?”

  Richard looked up, tried to reply, but no words came. He was in the thick of one of his fits, drenched in sweat, gasping for air. He tugged at his collar.

  “Wine!” Edward roared. He pushed Richard into his throne, loosened his doublet, and made him drink.

  Slowly the shivering ceased and warmth stole back into Richard’s frozen body. Edward dismissed the emissary and waved the others away. “Dickon, you know that if I could, I would change all this.”

  “’Tis God’s will,” Richard managed hoarsely. “But to fight George…”

  “I know. But George has turned his coat twice, Dickon. He can be made to turn it again.” He paced.

  Richard’s head began to clear. Ill at ease on the throne, he made an effort to rise, but his dizzy head forced him down. Edward whirled around. “I have it…” He pounced on Richard like a lion and gripped his shoulders. “It’s a good plan, Dickon. It’ll work, I know it. But first things first.” He lowered his voice. “There’s unrest in Yorkshire and I’ve had no word from John or Percy. We must secure the North before Warwick returns.” He hesitated. “Can I count on you, Dickon?”

  Richard lifted his head, met his eyes. Never in his darkest moments had he truly believed he would lose Anne. He had always believed things would come out all right in the end; that in the end, he and Anne would wed. He had been so certain.

  He had been so wrong. You’re either for me or against me, Warwick had said. And he had meant it. Aye, Richard thought; he had regrets, but had he ever had a choice?

  “Loyaulte me lie,” he whispered. Loyalty Binds Me. His decision, made long ago.

  Edward squeezed his shoulder in a gesture that spoke more than words. Then, in an abrupt change of mood, he said, “Now, Dickon, it’s time to vacate my throne. I trust you didn’t enjoy it too much?” His blue eyes, though smiling, held a wary look that reminded Richard of the tiger at the Tower zoo.

  “As a matter of fact, brother, I found it distinctly uncomfortable,” Richard replied.

  Edward threw his head back and let out a great peal of laughter. With a slap that nearly felled him, Edward declared, “I knew I could trust you, Dickon!”

  ~*~

  “Sire, sire, wake up! Your enemies are coming for you!” cried a voice in the night.

  Edward stirred, rubbed his eyes. Torchlight smoked in his face. He couldn’t make out who was shaking him. “Go… away…” he mumbled, turning on his side. “Go… away…”

  More hands grabbed him, shook him, shouted at him. He rolled back. Richard was leaning over him, a desperate look in his eyes. “What are you doing, brother?” Edward yawned. “I was dreaming… a nice dream… nipples, red as berries…”

  “Wake up, Edward!” Richard demanded. “There’s no time to lose!”

  Edward forced himself up on an elbow. “What are you talking about, Dickon? Why do you worry so much? Can’t you see I’m drunk?” He fell back, closed his eyes again.

  A bucket of cold water splashed over him. He sat up, spluttering. “I’ll have your head for that, whoever it is!” Someone threw a towel at him. He dried his face.

  “We’ve got to go, Edward,” said a familiar voice. “Your enemies are indeed on the march.”

  Edward grinned playfully. “What enemies, Hastings? I have no enemies, have I?”

  “Tell him, Carlisle!”

  Now Edward recognised the man with the torch. The sergeant of his minstrels. “What are you doing here, Carlisle?” He yawned. “You’re… supposed to be… up north with Montagu…”

  “The Marquess of Montagu, Sire—he’s espoused his brothers’ cause! Warwick has landed at Plymouth and the Marquess is marching to join forces with him. He’s coming here, to Doncaster, with his army of six thousand men at his back. There’s no time to be lost.”

  “Now I know you’re mad! Be gone, let me sleep.”

  “My lord, ’tis true! He said you sacrificed him. That you took away his earldom and gave him a magpie’s nest to live on. You must flee—he’s coming south, he and all his army, for they’re loyal to him.”

  “You have it all wrong, Carlisle. We’re the ones going north to join forces with him. Montagu’s my friend, and truer than a brother…” he broke off at the irony, gave a chuckle. “Yet your sorry tale has a touch of truth. He’s much loved by his men, and if ever he turned his coat they’d stand with him to a man… Now leave me. We’ve a hard day’s ride tomorrow.” Edward collapsed on the bed, drew his blanket up to his chin.

  “By God, ’tis the truth! Fugitives are pouring into the camp, and all tell the same story,” Hastings bellowed.

  Startled by Hastings’s harsh, uncustomary tone, Edward’s eyes flew open.

  Richard pushed Hastings out of the way. “Edward, it’s true… John’s turned traitor.”

  Edward reached up, grabbed his brother’s neck, and stared into his eyes for a long moment. He flung him back. He’d seen what he needed to see. He seized the cote Anthony Woodville held out to him, threw on his boots and strapped his sword to his side. Without a word he thrust open the shutters and leapt out the window of the farmhouse where they had halted for rest. The others followed. Vaulting on their horses, they fled east through the night.

  ~*~

  “Holland!” the captain announced.

  “’Tis a relief, Sir Captain. For a while, I almost doubted we’d make it,” grinned Edward.

  Richard’s gaze swept the dirty, hungry, downcast faces of the men who huddled in the cold, driving rain, before fixing on his brother. Edward was at his best when things were at their worst. He had fled his land and
left his pregnant wife in Sanctuary. He had been pursued by enemy vessels of the Hanseatic League and had almost drowned in a gale off the shores of Norfolk. Were it not for Edward’s friend, the Governor of Holland, who’d appeared by the mercy of God to ward off the Easterlings, he and Edward and their seven hundred men would now be dead or captive. Yet Edward could still jest, while beneath his wet cloak he, Richard, trembled with dread to taste the bitter cup of foreign exile for a second time. He didn’t know how Edward could take so little in life seriously, when he himself could take nothing lightly. The world thought them brothers. The world was wrong. Edward was fearless. A true Plantagenet.

  “We’re a sorry lot, are we not?” Edward laughed, giving Richard a hearty slap on the back. “A throne’s been lost and between us we’ve not enough coins to fill a wine cup!”

  Aye, Richard thought. That was yet another problem: how to pay the ship’s master for the trip. Even as the thought occurred to him, Edward removed his fur-lined cloak and offered it to the captain. “Sir Captain, will you accept this as payment?”

  “Sire, I’ve no use for such a fine cape but I’ll take it, for I know ’tis all you have. Mayhap I can find a king with a throne and sell it to him!”

  Edward threw back his head and roared with laughter. He hung an arm around the man’s shoulder. “Sir Captain, I tell you what—when I get back my crown, I’ll buy it from you myself! And at a pretty price—how’s that?”

  “May God make it soon, Sire, for as the Blessed Virgin knows, I’ve sore need of the money.”

  Edward roared again. Still laughing, he sauntered down the gangplank. On the wharf, he turned. “See you in London before the year is out, good Captain!”

  “Aye, Sire!” the man called from the deck. “You surely have my prayers on that.”

  ~ * * * ~