The Rose of York: Love & War
Page 29
A cry of joy broke the silence; there was a rustle of straw, and a young maiden stood up in a corner of the loft near the wood railing that overlooked the kitchen below. For a moment the world hung still and Richard’s heart ceased its beating. “Anne,” he whispered, almost to himself. He watched her descend the ladder and felt as if he were watching in a dream, so strangely slow and liquid seemed her movements. Then she was running into his arms. Richard swung her up, pressed her to him. The world flared, spun wildly. “My love,” Richard murmured against her cheek, “my love…” But joy quickly turned to shock, for the girl he held in his arms felt as fragile as an ailing bird. He stiffened.
Anne suddenly realised how she must look, how she must smell. She pulled away, turned red as fire; a hand strayed to her hair and a few blades of straw floated to the greasy floor. She spread her palms over her soiled clothes to hide them as best she could, and retreated. “My lord,” she said, trembling with shame, looking at him shyly from beneath her lashes, “You must not touch me. I have…”
She never finished the sentence. In a single stride, Richard had her in his arms. He crushed her mouth beneath his own, silencing her with his kiss. He released her, pushed back a tendril of her honey-gold hair. “Nay, Anne, nay, you misjudge me. Had I the chance, I would have sent you a bolt of satin and a flask of rosewater…” He tilted up her chin and gazed steadily into her eyes, “…but for your sake only, my little bird. To me you are more beautiful at this moment, with straw in your hair and soot on your nose, than you ever looked in all your father’s velvets and jewels.”
Anne bit her lips and sank against him. Forgetting dirt, fleas, and odour, she sobbed violently against his chest. He slipped her a silken handkerchief and she blew her nose noisily, letting loose a flood of emotion that she had buried until now. He held her tight. Gently, very gently, he stroked her hair until the sobs eased.
She turned her tear-stained face up to him, and smiled. “It seems you must still be rescuing me, Richard, as you used to do when we played as children on the grassy slopes of Middleham.”
Wordlessly Richard removed his cloak and placed it around her shoulders. With a protective arm holding her close, his gaze locked with hers, he led her up the stairs, out of her prison.
Had they been aware, they would have seen that many an eye in that kitchen watched softly, some with wonder, some with tears.
~*~
From the house on Lombard Street, Richard placed Anne in Sanctuary at St. Martin-le-Grand. He would have preferred something more luxurious after the deprivations she had experienced, but he wanted a refuge that would protect her from George without putting her under obligation to himself.
“I bid you keep her safe for me, my lady Abbess,” he said. “Much evil has been done her and she has suffered greatly. Those who are responsible are still about.”
“Fear not, my lord Duke. No power dares touch Lady Anne here, lest they imperil their immortal soul.”
Richard took Anne’s hands gently into his own. “I leave you now, my heart, but I’ll be back tomorrow, and every day, until we wed and are together forever.”
Anne glanced around the chapter house with its gently flaming candles. Parting filled her with fear. There had been so many partings, and so many times she’d thought herself safe only to be rent asunder again and tossed about on stormy seas.
She grabbed his velvet doublet.
Richard lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss on her callused palm. “My dearest love, I swear to you, no one—and nothing—will part us ever again. We shall be married. But first I must deal with Clarence…” He stopped. Like Edward, his reference to George by his title was a slip of the tongue that denoted the distance that had come between them. The George of his childhood was gone, replaced by a glowering, spiteful, deranged stranger who meant to have Anne’s inheritance at any cost. Edward had indeed met George’s demands for the Countess’s lands, yet that had bought no peace, only ugly recriminations and more demands. Richard compressed his mouth. He had loved his brother dearly once, but betrayals had soured that love, faded those memories, and put an irrevocable distance between them despite their bond of blood.
At the door of the cloistered hall, Richard looked back. Anne stood with the Abbess, watching him. Tears glistened on her cheeks and her eyes were luminous with fear.
~ * * * ~
Chapter 41
“O King, for thou hast driven the foe without, See to the foe within.”
Richard spent Christmas of 1472 at Windsor with Edward, and that meant with the Woodvilles, who had bred their numbers past the point where they could be counted with ease. In the meantime, Anne remained in Sanctuary. In February Edward called a council meeting to hear the case between George and Richard, but the council reached no decision, for while Richard had right on his side, George had an eloquent tongue that could paint wrong into right.
March arrived, bringing the promise of spring along with the snow. Feasting replaced the Lenten fast, but Richard had no joy. George was still glowering and implacable, still adamant that Richard could have Anne only if he surrendered all claims to any estates. It had become clear that there was but one way to end the impasse.
As the last snows melted and crocuses peeked through the hard earth, Richard journeyed to Shene from his mother’s residence at Baynard Castle in London, where he had moved to be close to Anne and farther from Woodvilles. He strode into the royal apartments, seeking his brother, but found the room unoccupied. The castle itself seemed half empty. Edward must have gone for a hunt, and his servants had sought their leisure in the meanwhile. He was about to leave when a voice exclaimed, “’Tis not right. I will not have it! The blood of my father and my brother wets his hands.” It came from behind the closed door of the bedchamber.
“Hush, ma fille,” soothed a familiar voice with a French accent. “Calm yourself. We shall have our vengeance, but you must be patient. You are great with child again—maybe another son. Alors, we shall be rid of George, it is written in the stars, but all in good time, eh?”
So the queen and her mother, the witch Jacquetta, were plotting against George. Richard froze, hatred and anger coursing in his veins.
“George is not only our enemy, but also Edward’s,” cried the Queen angrily. “Yet Edward always gives in to him.”
“What was it you have told me Edward said once…? Ah, I have it—about the earldom of Northumberland. Hastings asked of Edward why did he take it from a faithful friend and give it to Percy, who was against him always. Edward laughed and said—ecoute bien, ma fille—he said, ‘One need not to placate a friend. One need to placate an enemy.’ Alors, it is the reason he has not endowed much to his brother Richard. Richard will always be loyal, whether he be endowed or not, eh? But George must keep to be won over…”
“Richard!” the Queen snarled. “I care not for him either, with his glum, disapproving eyes always watching me. How dare he judge me!”
Jacquetta gave a deep-throated chuckle. “What a jest of nature these two are brothers… One so wanton, the other so holy… One taller than the gods, fair, and charming, the other dark, so much shorter, and very dull. ’Tis funny, no?”
Bess must have smiled, for Jacquetta said, “That is better, ma fille. Now when Edward returns, you will be calm and lovable, as he likes you to be.”
The clatter of horses drew Richard’s attention to the window. Edward and Hastings were riding into the cobbled court and Edward was laughing in response to something Hastings had said. Judging from his expression, something lewd, Richard thought with a frown. From the royal bedroom came Jacquetta’s voice. “Ah, ’tis the King.”
“Fresh from another woman’s bed,” retorted the Queen in an icy tone. “Which he has no doubt shared with wanton Hastings.”
“What care you?” said Jacquetta, so softly now that Richard had to strain to hear. “You have all you desire and it was never him, but what he could give you—if you be truthful with yourself, mon bijou.”
“Eh bien, that day is not now. Let us hurry and make you beautiful for your husband.”
Voices from the stairwell slapped Richard alert. He made a speedy exit from the chamber, nearly colliding with the queen’s brother, Lionel, Bishop of Salisbury, and the bishop’s entourage. Without pause for greeting, Richard mumbled an apology and heard Lionel hiss under his breath. The bishop’s arrogant glance followed him down the narrow stone passageway. Richard reached the bottom of the inner stairs as Edward stepped inside, leaning heavily on Hasting’s shoulder. While Hastings looked on, Edward shouted a drunken greeting to Richard and gave him a clumsy embrace. “Brother, dear brother—just the man I need to see!”
Richard noted with distaste that Will Hastings’s florid complexion glowed from the recent pleasures he had enjoyed. “See about what, my lord?” demanded Richard.
“France,” Edward mumbled. Still leaning on Hastings’s shoulder, he turned into a vaulted room, seeking privacy from the servants and men-at-arms who were about. “That damned Louis…” Edward’s eye was caught by a passing maidservant. “Alice!” he exclaimed. Falling on the girl, he extracted a long kiss. Richard averted his gaze. Had Edward no shame? He suppressed the disloyal thought. Hastings was to blame. He was Edward’s advisor, and while he was not as self-seeking and unscrupulous as the Woodvilles, neither was he the kind of man to teach Edward wisdom and lead him into the path of righteousness.
Edward released the girl. Smiling and blushing, she smoothed her hair. Edward grinned. “You were exceptional the other night, my sweet.” She laughed as she left. Edward winked at Richard. “Women like to hear that, even when you pay. In any case, ’tis good statesmanship, eh, Hastings?”
Hastings guffawed. Edward staggered to a chair. “Wine!” he roared to a servant. “Louis’s to blame for everything, Dickon. He’s a pesky gnat buzzing about my ears. I must swat him once and for all.”
“You mean war with France?” demanded Richard.
“Aye, aye! He’s tried to destroy me for years. Now he’s inciting Scotland and Denmark against us! I must make war on Louis— ’tis the only road to peace. What say you, brother?”
“You’ve threatened to invade France before. You even received a grant from parliament for the campaign. Nothing came of it,” replied Richard dryly. Nay, nothing. The money Edward raised on pretext of war had been spent on lavish living.
Edward slammed a fist on his armrest, suddenly quite sober. “Because Scotland accepted ten thousand crowns from Louis to attack our borders, that’s why! It was no time to leave England. Things are different now. You’ve brought James of Scotland to heel, brother, so now I can deal with Louis.”
True enough. James of Scotland had honoured the truce Richard had made in ’71 and the border had remained quiet ever since—to Richard’s great relief.
Servants brought in platters of beef pasties and a tray with wine and cups. Edward stuffed his mouth with the meat and downed the wine as Hastings ate his patty thoughtfully. Richard refused both. “What about money, is that a problem?” Richard said.
Edward laughed. “When has it not been, brother?”
“So it’s true. The exchequer is empty and parliament in no mood to grant money for a campaign.” Richard cast Edward a sideways look. Having been fooled once, parliament no longer trusted him. “What will you do?”
“There’s no way around it, is there? I shall have to go to the people and beg—like a pauper!” Edward threw his wine cup against the wall.
Richard waited for the clatter to subside before broaching the subject that had brought him to Shene. “Edward… about George. I’ve reached a decision that should settle our problem.”
Edward looked at him expectantly.
“So he shall have everything,” said Edward when Richard was done. “The Countess’s properties, the earldoms of Warwick and Salisbury. You wish only Middleham, Barnard’s Castle, and Penrith. All else goes to him. You also surrender to him the office of Great Chamberlain of England, which he has not demanded… Is that right?”
Richard nodded.
“’Tis a remarkably bad bargain, dear brother.”
“Nevertheless, I am agreed.”
“You must love her very much.”
When Richard made no reply, Edward said, “A pity that such love must wait.”
Richard’s eyes widened, fixed on his face. A server entered, bearing a flask and another goblet for Edward. He ignored the goblet and grabbed the flask. He drank deep and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Dear brother, have you forgotten? You and Anne are cousins. You may not marry without a papal dispensation, and the Pope grows greedier as he greys.”
Richard’s heart sank. He had been so consumed with appeasing George, he had overlooked the obstacle of the Church. Before he could gather his thoughts, a derisive laugh made him turn. George entered, grinning broadly, his entourage crowding around him.
“Ah, Dickon, my poor brother,” he clucked. “You seem damned whichever way you turn. Why don’t you just give up and face reality? God Himself is against you…”
In one stride, Richard had him by the collar. “Watch me, George,” he hissed in his face. “I will marry Anne, and nothing you can do is going to stop me. As for God…” He pushed him aside contemptuously. “Take care, George, take great care. God hates traitors, and the way you’re going… Well, let’s just say I wouldn’t want to stand in your shoes. You’re going to meet a bad end, George. Mark my words.”
He strode to the door, turned back. “And I will marry Anne. I’ll bet your life on it, George.”
~ * * * ~
Chapter 42
“And Arthur said, ‘Behold, thy doom is mine. Let chance what will, I love thee to the death.’”
At the Sanctuary of Martin-le-Grand, in the Abbess’s parlour, a nun kept her eyes discreetly averted as Richard held Anne close in his arms.
“My sweet heart, all is settled with George. Now ’tis the Pope whose price must be met,” he said, unable to suppress a trace of bitterness.
Anne pushed out of his embrace. “It’s no use, Richard. We’re thwarted at every turn… I’ve prayed much this past year and I’ve come to believe I should take the veil.”
“No, Anne, I’ll not hear of it!” He seized her arm.
She shook his hand off. “Richard, there’s no chance for us. Can’t you see? Heaven is against our union.”
Richard froze for an instant, hearing Anne echo George’s thought. He dismissed his unease. “What reason could there be, Anne? What difference could our union make in God’s grand design? How could it help the world if we are denied our happiness? ’Tis folly you speak! You must not think it. I’ll not listen.” He cupped her chin in his hand and tilted her face so that she looked into his eyes. “I love you, Anne. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t love you. Without you there is no sun above, no light in the world, and no hope anywhere. If you take the veil, you condemn me to a life of emptiness. Is that what you want?”
Tears clouded Anne’s vision, rolled down her cheeks. She gave a cry and sagged against him. His strong arms enfolded her tightly and she clung to him, feeling safe and protected as only Richard could protect her. It was when they were apart, in the loneliness of her tiny room, that such notions filled her head. Aye, why should Fate be against them? Maybe she was the problem, not Fate. She and her irrational fears, premonitions, and prophetic dreams.
She drew back, looked up at him shyly. “I gave you my heart a long time ago, Richard. For me, there’s only you, and when we’re together, all is well with the world. I won’t take the veil, not until I know you are lost to me. But what hope is there?”
“There is a way we can wed, my love,” he whispered. As pious as Anne was, he almost dared not speak the words. His eyes flicked to the nun in the corner of the room and back. “Marriages are made daily without d
ispensations. We could marry, then get one.” He added quickly, “That way we wouldn’t have to wait. But…” He bit his lip nervously. “But people would talk… Some might say I coerced you into marriage, or that it wasn’t a true marriage and I married you only to divorce you later for your lands.”
“I’m in Sanctuary. You can’t coerce me. And I have no lands.”
“That would make no difference… I know not what else they would say, but they’d find something. People always do.”
Anne’s gaze went over Richard’s shoulder, to the Cross glittering over the hearth, and in her mind’s eye arose a vision of a French queen’s cold black marble tomb in an abbey in Caen. Without dispensation… The cousins William and Mathilde had risked eternal damnation to wed without dispensation, chancing that God would forgive them their sin. Could she do the same?
With Edouard there had been dispensation, but no love. With Richard there would be love, but no dispensation. Which was more important? The popes were God’s earthly representatives, but they had human failings and erred despite divine guidance. But love… Love was balm for life’s wounds, God’s most precious gift to man. Surely He would forgive them if they followed Mathilde and William’s example and made atonement as they had done, by founding an abbey, or performing some great good work. And even if He did not, could she give up Richard now— and the chance to snatch some happiness after all the grief?
“Love is worth everything we have to pay, Richard.”