For the first time in his life, Richard knew what it meant to be speechless with shock. “I don’t believe it,” he said at last.
“Believe it, Dickon,” Edward said and smiled grimly. “Warwick and Marguerite d’Anjou met at Angers on the twenty-second of last month and there discovered that they did share a common interest…in my downfall.”
“ ‘Yea, and behold, that the wolf and the lamb shall feed together,’ ” Will Hastings murmured, but Richard could see little humor in so unholy an alliance and said, still incredulous,
“If he’d take Marguerite d’Anjou as ally, he’d not have scrupled to make a pact with the very Archfiend of Hell.” Adding in spite of himself, “God pity him, that he should come to this….”
“ ‘Facilis descensus Averni,’ ” Edward said with a shrug. “The descent into Hell is easy.”
“Jesú, Ned, his father and brother died with ours at Sandal Castle,” Richard persisted, “at the hands of Marguerite’s men!”
“Aye, and Warwick did brand her son a bastard for all the world to hear. But the King of France has a honeyed tongue and enlightened self-interest seems to have carried the day,” Edward said, very dryly, and Richard turned smoke-grey eyes upon him in belated comprehension.
“This is a web of the French King’s making, isn’t it?”
“Who else, Dickon? Warwick hasn’t the imagination…. For if he had, he could never have backed Brother George’s claims to the throne! As for the French harlot…” Edward laughed, without mirth. “I verily think she hates Warwick even more than she does me!”
“And exile hasn’t softened her any,” Will volunteered. “She kept Warwick on his knees for a full quarter-hour ere she’d deign to pardon him!”
“I should have wished to see that,” Richard said bitterly, and Edward gave him a smile of sardonic understanding.
“So would I, lad…. So would I.”
“What of George?” Richard asked suddenly, and this time Edward’s laughter was not forced.
“What, indeed? Warwick has as much need for George as a man gelded has for a warm-blooded wench, and even George must realize that he’s now like a teat on a bull, a curiosity but of no earthly use.”
Will laughed, but Richard was frowning, still struggling with disbelief.
“But how can Warwick ever hope to put Harry of Lancaster back on the throne?” he demanded. “God Almighty, Ned, he’s madder than Bedlam, and Warwick well knows it.”
“If they dare, they’ll bypass the old man and crown the boy,” Will predicted and Edward jibed,
“They’ve not set foot in England as yet and you have the boy crowned already?”
Catching his error of speech, Will grinned and recovered quickly. “They would…but they won’t.”
“No, they won’t, Will. But they’ll damned well try.”
“I think not, Ned. I’d wager they’ll be at sword’s point before the first frost…and our cousin Warwick will have bartered the last of his honor for a handful of cobwebs and smoke.”
“I’d not count on that happenstance if I were you, Dickon.”
“You cannot believe this accursed alliance will last? It’s a pairing as unnatural as Rome and Carthage, or Sparta and Troy!”
“You seem to forget, Dickon, that we are dealing with the Spider King. Louis realized, just as you have, that it would take more to mate dog to cat than a shared lust for the English crown.”
Edward paused, shook his head. “No, that son of a whore baited his trap with care…and then sealed this ungodly mésalliance within the sacrament of marriage. Though I should truly like to know how he ever prevailed upon Marguerite to wed her precious nestling to a daughter of Warwick’s!” He shook his head again, wonderingly. “Now that truly defies belief!”
“I daresay the boy swayed her.” Will turned to Richard, explaining, “It seems he was taken with the girl and wasn’t adverse to bedding her, not with a crown in the offering, as well.”
Even as Will spoke, there was a sudden commotion across the table from him. A squire of the royal household had been moving inconspicuously among them, filling their winecups from a heavy glass flagon. But as he paused before Richard, Richard jerked around without warning to stare at his brother, and the hapless attendant suddenly found himself pouring wine for a cup that was no longer there.
The man was looking with dismay at the puddle forming among the floor rushes, saw with even greater dismay that wine had splashed, as well, upon the blue velvet sleeve of the young Duke’s doublet, and braced himself for a reprimand he did not deserve but did not expect to escape.
None was forthcoming. There was an abrupt silence, broken at last by Will when it was clear that no one else meant to speak. Will had been startled by Richard’s heedless act, but was far too well mannered to remark upon it. He chose, instead, to give the squire a discreet signal to withdraw and then resumed, as smoothly as if there’d been no disruption of the conversation.
“But Marguerite is not utterly witless! Although she sanctioned the betrothal, the wedding is not to take place till Warwick holds England.” He laughed at that, before concluding cheerfully, “And he has as much chance of that as he does of successfully laying siege to the Holy City of Jerusalem!”
He paused for the expected response, soon saw he waited in vain. By now he was becoming aware of tensions above and beyond the natural shock at Warwick’s accord with the Lancastrian Queen. He made no further attempts at conversation, looked instead to Edward for his cue. It was not long in coming.
“Will, I would speak with my brother alone,” Edward said abruptly, and as the door closed behind Will, he leaned forward. But Richard pulled away from his touch.
Edward found himself at an uncharacteristic loss for words, watching in silence as Richard crossed to the window, where he took undue care in unlatching the shutters.
As cool air invaded the chamber, flaring the candles and giving hint of coming rain, Edward swore softly under his breath.
“Dickon, I didn’t know…It never occurred to me that you might still care for Warwick’s daughter.”
Richard said nothing, and somewhat to his surprise, Edward heard himself saying defensively, “After all, you’ve not seen her for nigh on a twelvemonth…. Time enough and more to fancy and then forget fully a score of sweethearts. At your age, I know I would…and did.”
Richard turned at that. “Last year, when you forbade our betrothal, I told you, then, that I cared for Anne…and you said that if my feelings were the same a year or so hence, you might reconsider. You do remember saying that?”
Edward had no liking for accusations, implied or otherwise, and he was provoked into responding with caustic candor.
“I remember. It seemed little enough to promise. You were but sixteen and I felt that for certes the fancy would pass with time.”
It was candor he at once regretted; he’d not realized how callous that would sound till he heard it spoken aloud. He sighed and then swore again, feeling at a loss. He was not accustomed to identifying so closely with the pain of another, did not like the sensation in the least. After some moments, he said slowly, “Dickon, I don’t know what to tell you. If only you’d said something these months past! Had I but known you still had a fondness for the girl, I’d never have let you hear of her betrothal the way you did. For that, I am truly and deeply sorry. But I cannot say that I am sorry I forbade the match. I’ll not lie to you about that.”
Richard nodded, almost imperceptibly, a gesture that said nothing and could have meant anything.
“Damnation, Dickon, we’re making more of this than it warrants. As Will said, the marriage is not to be until Warwick claims England. If that be true, your little cousin will never see the day dawn when she must wed with Lancaster. That much I can promise you, Little Brother.”
16
Doncaster
September 1470
Edward was unable to sleep, turning upon his stomach, rolling over onto his back, pounding his pillow into
softened submission. After a time, he abandoned the effort and propped himself up on his elbows to survey the darkened room. A solitary white candle burned, for luck and light, the shutters tightly barred against unhealthy night air. He could discern the motionless form of his squire, stretched out on a pallet by the door; the soft steady wheeze bespoke deep, blessed sleep. Irked, Edward briefly considered awakening him to share these accursed idle hours.
Before long, the sky would be streaking with light…and he had to be up with the sun. This day he expected to join his three thousand men with the five thousand under command of his cousin, John Neville, Marquess of Montagu.
It was an uncommon occurrence for Edward, to be wakeful and uneasy of mind while others slept. Most nights, he slept like a cat, easy and light. But not for the past week. Not since he got word of Warwick’s landing in the South.
All September an English fleet had cruised the French coast. But in midmonth, squalls had swept the Channel from Dover to Honfleur. His ships had been scattered in the storm and Warwick seized his chance to bypass the blockade. More than a fortnight had passed now since a French fleet had landed Warwick and George at Dartmouth.
Edward was not normally given to regretting what was done and beyond recall. He knew he had no reason to reproach himself for the defensive measures he’d taken this summer, in anticipation of Warwick’s return. He’d done all he could. And yet he could not shake off a nagging suspicion that he’d done what Warwick wanted him to do…go north. Just what role, he wondered, had Fitz-Hugh really played? The penitent maladroit rebel? Or a successful decoy?
He knew such thoughts were hardly conducive to untroubled sleep, but he could deny neither the suspicion nor the fact that when Warwick landed at Dartmouth, he’d been more than three hundred miles to the north.
Warwick had made a shrewd move in heading for Devon; Edward grudgingly conceded him that. Devon had always been partial to the House of Lancaster, and there they’d swelled their ranks with unreconciled Lancastrians and like malcontents. And as he raced south to intercept them, they’d turned east…toward London.
If it came to that, he thought London would hold fast for him. But he felt sure Warwick would forsake even such a prize as London to meet his advance. Warwick was vain, fancied himself to be the most able battle commander since Harry of Monmouth won Agincourt. Edward thought otherwise. He had never lost a battle and he did not fear his cousin. Warwick had been routed at St Albans, faltered at Towton. No, the only soldier worth fearing in the Neville family was Johnny.
Retrieving a pillow from the floor, he shoved it back against the headboard. He had not wanted it this way. But tonight he was tired and bitter and wanted above all else to make an end to it. To do whatever had to be done. It was a pity, he thought, that Marguerite had insisted upon keeping her stripling by her in France, had not let him sail with Warwick. He’d rather have made an end to it all.
Closing his eyes, he thought of his wife, in residence at the Tower of London, awaiting her confinement. Her time was nearing; the midwives said the babe would be born within a fortnight of All Saints’ Day. He was concerned, but not unduly so, for this would be the fourth child in just six years of marriage. Lisbet birthed easily, had never been touched by the milk fever that claimed so many a woman after her child was born.
Three daughters she’d given him, Bessie, Mary, and Cecily, the last-named to placate his unyielding lady mother, who’d never accepted Lisbet, never forgiven him for that Maytime marriage at Grafton Manor. Three fair little girls. He’d never shared Lisbet’s disappointment in their daughters, never doubted that she’d give him the sons a King must have, and he was sure the child she now carried would be a boy. He’d been sure even as far back as the first time she’d felt the babe quicken within her womb. Four had always been a lucky number for him.
He sat up abruptly, for the night’s quiet had suddenly been torn asunder. Loud voices were echoing in the antechamber, followed by muffled sounds, much like grappling bodies. Edward flung himself from the bed, groping for his sword. His squire was already up, kicking the pallet aside as the door was shoved back with such force that the unlatched bolt tore loose, clattered to the floor.
All at once the room was full of men, shouting, swearing, stumbling against each other, swords drawn. But their quarry was already on his knees before Edward.
“Your Grace…” he panted, sobbing for breath, shoulders heaving like one convulsed.
By now the room was ablaze with torches, and as the light fell upon the florid begrimed face, Edward recognized him as Alexander Carlisle, the sergeant of his minstrels. As Edward lowered his sword, Carlisle found his voice.
“Save yourself, Your Grace…. Your enemies are coming to take you….”
“You’re raving,” Edward said tersely.
The night was chill, yet sweat ran like rain down Carlisle’s face; his doublet, torn from shoulder to elbow, was stained with dark wet splotches.
“The enemy…” he repeated, like one who knew no other words.
“Who, man?” Edward demanded impatiently. “Warwick is more than two days’ march from Doncaster. What phantom foes did you conjure—”
Carlisle actually dared to interrupt. “I don’t know, my liege…but I saw them,” he insisted stubbornly. “Men at arms, not more than six miles away…and they are not for York.”
Edward reached for a torch, held it close to the man’s face. Carlisle flinched, but kept his eyes on his King, and Edward handed the torch back to his squire. The man might be mad, but his fear was real enough.
His gaze raked the circle of suddenly silent men, found a face he could trust.
“See to this. If his tale be true, there’ll be fugitives aplenty making for Doncaster. Find them, and report back to me.”
The man nodded, knelt before him, and backed from the room. If possible, the quiet was even more absolute, marred only by Carlisle’s labored breathing.
He was wiping away blood with his sleeve; his cheek had been gashed in the struggle to block his precipitous entry into Edward’s bedchamber.
“I swear before Almighty God…I’ve told you true, Your Grace.”
Edward believed him. Instinct stronger than reason told him Carlisle spoke the truth. Glancing about him, he saw his belief reflected in the frightened faces of his attendants. The fear in the room was a tangible thing, would take flame like sun-dried straw, blaze into a panic that might engulf his entire army.
A man sank to his knees, began to babble, “Oh, Lord, my God, You Who take away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us….”
The others stirred, fearful eyes flicking in contagious communication of this unknown dread, and Edward profaned the prayer with a virulent oath.
Asserting command, he waited until they lapsed into submissive silence. One of his squires was hovering nearby, clutching an armful of clothing; a boot slipped from his uneasy grasp, nearly landed on Edward’s bare foot. He grimaced, aware of the incongruous image he presented, stark naked with sword in hand. But for once, his sense of humor failed him.
“Get me Gloucester,” he snapped. “And Hastings…. Awaken the others.”
Edward looked about him at the three men who stood closest to him: his brother Richard, his brother-in-law Anthony Woodville, his Lord Chamberlain, Will Hastings. Three more unlike men he could not imagine, though they now shared a common expression, one of stunned apprehension. Three pairs of eyes, dark blue, pale green, and brown, were focused unwaveringly on him…waiting.
Anthony kept running his tongue over dry lips. He was blanched with fear, but Edward didn’t fault him for that. Only a madman like Harry of Lancaster faced the sword with equanimity. But the fear must be ridden with a curb bit; slacken the reins and all control would be forfeit. He gave Anthony a hard appraising look, concluded that as long as the others kept their heads, Anthony would bear up.
Turning his gaze upon Will and Richard, he found reason for reassurance in their tense expectant faces. Will was too jaded,
at thirty-nine, to be truly surprised by any act of man or God; he’d take defeat in stride if it came to that. And Dickon had the blessed adaptability of the very young, too caught up in the action of the moment to dwell upon the risk of defeat and death within the hour.
“Have you confirmed the man’s story, Ned?” Will asked sensibly.
“We wait upon him now.” Taking a step toward the antechamber, he said, “We’d best give orders to have the horses saddled, just in case….”
Richard, tugging at the undersleeve of his hastily donned doublet, looked up at that. “I did,” he said briefly, and Edward gave him a grimly approving nod.
“Good lad. I needn’t tell you…” He paused, suddenly alert.
Richard reached the door first, jerking it open as Edward’s courier stumbled into the chamber. And when he brushed past Richard, Duke of Gloucester and a Plantagenet Prince, without so much as a nod, Edward knew what he would say.
“You are in mortal peril, my liege.”
Edward swallowed, finding his mouth too dry for speech. “From whom?”
“Montagu,” the man blurted. “He’s declared for his brother, for Warwick…and his army is less than two leagues distant, Your Grace.”
It should have come as no surprise. From the moment he’d accepted Carlisle’s tale as true, Edward had known there could be but one army within reach of Doncaster. But he’d refused to let himself believe it. There were truths too devastating to be accepted. Johnny. Jesus God, what had he done?
No one spoke. He doubted they even breathed. He compelled himself to turn his head, to look at his companions. Saw that Richard and Will had guessed the truth too; Anthony alone looked startled.
“Montagu?” he echoed incredulously. “How could he, Ned? After all you’ve done for him!”
No one heeded him. Will was watching Edward. Richard, too, watched his brother. Edward swung around so he’d not have to meet their eyes, bumped blindly into the bed. Johnny. Johnny, of all men. That accursed earldom. God forgive him, he should have seen…should have realized… Lisbet. What would become of her? And his little girls? The men who’d trusted him? Will. Dickon. Dickon, who was seventeen…like Edmund. And it was his doing. He’d brought them to this, brought them here to die in Doncaster.
The Sunne In Splendour: A Novel of Richard III Page 27