Richard’s amusement chilled with the shock of hearing George’s plight discussed so casually. “So you do know about that, too.”
She looked at him in some surprise. “Why, it’s been common knowledge at court for some weeks now!”
Yes, Richard thought bitterly. All had known. He alone had remained in ignorance. He alone Ned had not bothered to tell.
Edward jerked the door open. His head throbbed with a dull ache impossible to ignore, and a mouthwash of myrrh and honey had proven to be of marginal use against the sour taste filling his mouth, curdling his tongue.
Thomas materialized at his elbow, tousle-haired, feverish. Noting without interest his stepson’s agitation, Edward reached over to claim his cup, only to shove it back after one gagging swallow. How could any man choose malmsey of his own free will? And yet malmsey was the drink George most favored! How like George that even his taste in wines was noxious. But why must he think of this now? Must George intrude upon his every thought tonight? He turned abruptly to Thomas, said testily, “Why are all these people milling about like so many sheep? And where’s Jane?”
Thomas shrugged. “That I’d not know. The last I saw of her, she was off alone in a corner with your brother.”
“Dickon?” Edward’s surprise was readily apparent. “Here tonight? Be you sure?”
“Quite sure.” Too embittered to guard his tongue, Thomas plunged ahead recklessly. “As to whether they’re still here, that I can’t tell you.”
“Jane and Dickon?” Edward smiled coldly. “Once before, Tom, I told you I didn’t suffer fools gladly. I’d think on that if I were you.”
He didn’t wait for Thomas to respond, caught the blue of Jane’s gown and moved toward it. Jane saw him before Richard did. As she smiled, gave him a loving look of welcome, he drawled, “Well, you’ve chosen a right secluded corner for yourselves, haven’t you? I trust I’m not intruding?”
Jane’s mouth dropped. Mother of God, he was truly in his cups tonight! “My dearest Lord,” she stammered, “surely you…you don’t think…”
Richard was in no mood for games, not tonight. “Let it be, Ned,” he said impatiently. “Can’t you see you’re frightening her?”
Jane’s mouth stayed open, her earrings jangling wildly as she turned to stare at Richard. Never had she heard anyone speak so familiarly to Edward, not even Will. And suddenly she realized who Richard was, who he had to be, and she went hot with embarrassment.
Edward was laughing, slipped an arm around her waist. “Did you truly think I was serious, sweetheart? Well, Dickon, this be a surprise. I didn’t expect you in London for nigh on a fortnight.”
“I need to talk to you, Ned.”
“I would hope so; we haven’t seen each other in more than six months! To get this man out of Yorkshire, Jane, be like pulling teeth! What he does find to fascinate him on those northern moors, I’ll never fathom, but—”
“Now, Ned. It be urgent.”
Jane was no longer listening. How could she have made such a fool of herself? “You know little of court life,” she’d told him, called him presumptuous! Oh, Lord! But after a moment or so, her sense of humor carried the day and she stifled a giggle with difficulty. It truly was funny, after all, and Ned would likely find it hilarious. Nor was her vanity quite so pricked by Richard’s indifference, for all did know he doted upon his wife. So caught up was she in these thoughts that Edward had to say her name twice before she realized he was speaking to her.
“Well? Be you coming or not?”
So accustomed was she to indulging his whims that it never occurred to her to question him, and she made haste to follow him into the bedchamber. Once there, however, she suddenly wished she’d not been so quick to obey. Richard did not want her there. He was looking at her with such disfavor that she blushed, wanting to make excuses for her presence, to plead Edward’s insistence.
Edward alone appeared at ease. “Come here, sweetheart,” he directed, patting the bed. “It be good to have you back, Dickon, but must you be pacing about like a cat on the prowl? Sit down and tell me about your journey. You did bring your Anne, I daresay? Where are you settled, at Baynard’s Castle?”
“No. Crosby Place.”
Edward seemed not to notice the terseness of the response. “Ah, yes, I did forget. You be familiar with Crosby Place, aren’t you, Jane? You know…that enormous manor house in Bishopsgate Street. My brother did lease it last year from Crosby’s widow, and from what I’ve heard tell of it, he’s living in greater luxury than I am!”
“A most beautiful house, in truth,” Jane agreed politely, then gave Edward an imploring look. “My love, I feel I should not be here. It be plain His Grace of Gloucester does have matters to discuss in private….”
“She’s right, Ned, I do.”
Before Edward could respond, Jane was on her feet and Richard moving to hold the door open for her. Briefly, Edward was tempted to call her back, but almost at once, he rejected the idea; Jane could at best only delay the inevitable.
Richard closed the door with care. “I understand you do mean to try George on a charge of high treason,” he said quietly, almost conversationally.
This wasn’t the approach Edward had been expecting. “Yes,” he said warily. “I do.”
“I see…. And I suppose it somehow slipped your mind? Or didn’t you think it important enough to mention to me?”
“Sheathe your sarcasm, Dickon.” Edward sat up on the bed, said somewhat defensively, “I did mean to tell you once you were back in London.” He busied himself now in positioning pillows for his back. “How did you find out?”
“We did stop at Berkhampsted on our way south.”
That gave Edward pause, but he didn’t let it show on his face. “I regret that Ma Mère must be grieved by this,” he said dispassionately, “but I had no choice.”
“Look, Ned, I’m not defending what George has done. I’d be the last man to do that. But a charge of high treason…I don’t understand. Why now? You did forgive George his past betrayals, forgive what was well nigh unforgivable. To charge him with treason now…. Well, it be like using a crossbow to bring down a sparrow. It just doesn’t make sense to me. Surely his treason with Warwick was far more dangerous than any wine-soaked schemes he does concoct these days!”
“Tell that to Ankarette Twynyho,” Edward snapped, and Richard caught his breath.
“That’s not fair,” he protested. “You know I do feel that woman’s death was no less than murder. But you know, too, that George is not accountable for all he does. We’ve both known that for some time, Ned.”
“What are you suggesting? That I should do nothing while he does make mockery of the laws of this realm? Am I to allow him to amuse himself by committing murder? Tell me, just what would you have me do, Dickon, turn a blind eye to his crimes and leave his judgment to God?”
Richard was taken aback; it wasn’t often that he’d seen Edward flare up like this. “Of course that’s not what I’d have you do,” he said slowly. “Did I raise any objections when you did send him to the Tower last June? That was justified, had to be done. I just cannot say the same for a charge of treason. Not now.” Richard hesitated, said, “Have you not thought of Ma Mère and Meg? You and I both have reasons a hundredfold to mistrust George, and I’ll tell you frankly that whatever affection I did once have for him be totally gone, be six years dead. But that’s not true for Ma Mère. She—”
“I don’t care to discuss this further,” Edward said abruptly. “I’ve heard you out, and at an hour when I’d have told anyone else to go to the Devil. But we be accomplishing nothing. You say a charge of treason is unwarranted, unnecessary? Well, to me, it’s more than justified, is the only action I can take. Why else do you think I’m doing it? Or is it that you think this is how I mean to amuse myself this winter? Banish boredom by bringing my brother up on a charge of treason?”
Startled, Richard shook his head. “For God’s sake, Ned, what be wrong with you tonight
? I didn’t come here to quarrel with you. I seek only to understand your reasons, to see this with your eyes. Is that so much to ask of you, that you do tell me why?”
“I should think my reasons would speak for themselves. Don’t expect me to give you an accounting of George’s sins; you do know them as well as I. Now if you want to stay and talk of other matters, you’re more than welcome. But if you be set upon discussing George, I must remind you that it’s nigh onto midnight and you’ve a loving wife awaiting you at Crosby Place.”
A strained silence fell between them. “You’re right,” Richard said at last. “It does grow late.” At the door, he paused.
“You might not like to hear it, Ned, but Ma Mère be heartsick about this. I think it would ease her mind considerably if I could write her that you mean only to scare some sense into George. May I reassure her of that? Give her leave to assure George that he’s not facing the axe?”
He’d asked more as a matter of form than anything else; it had never seriously occurred to him that Edward would demand the death penalty. But now he saw Edward’s face harden, saw him look away without answering.
“Jesus God,” he said softly, suddenly seeing the truth. “He is facing the axe, isn’t he? You do mean to put him to death!”
Edward raised his head at that. “That does depend,” he said coolly, “on whether he be found guilty or not.”
13
London
January 1478
“Are these letters all, my lord?”
Richard glanced up in time to see his secretary camouflaging a yawn. It was later than he’d realized; Compline had sounded hours ago.
“Just one more, John. I want you to pull out the letter from York’s Mayor and aldermen, the one in which they asked me to intercede with my brother the King concerning those illegal fishgarths in the River Aire. Tell them that I’ve spoken with the King on this matter, and upon my return to Middleham, I’ll oversee a survey of the Rivers Ouse, Aire, and Wharfe and see to it that any unsanctioned fishgarths be pulled down.” But John was yawning again and Richard took pity on him.
“Tomorrow will be soon enough. Just note what I want to say and you can draft up a suitable reply on the morrow.”
John Kendall had been in Richard’s service for several years, long enough to chide now with the ease born of mutual regard, “You, too, should make ready for bed; you’ve gotten markedly little rest these past weeks.” Catching the glint of amusement that crossed Richard’s face, he grinned, conceded cheerfully, “Aye, I know. I do sound like a doting nursemaid! But with your lady gone, there must be someone to see that you look after yourself! She’ll be returning soon, I hope.”
“So do I!”
It had been five weeks since Anne had returned to Middleham. Richard had not wanted her to go, had been seriously tempted to forbid it. But he understood her need to be with their son; Ned was not yet five, too young to pass Christmas without either of his parents. No, he could not fault Anne in this, however much he missed her. Nor could he truly blame her if she fretted more than she should over Ned’s fevers and bruises. Anne had been cheated; the love she should have lavished upon a nursery-full lay unclaimed, had no other outlet but Ned. Not, he amended, that she didn’t try to do right by Johnny, and their relationship was a good one. But Ned alone was hers. Ned, who was at once her firstborn and her lastborn.
Like a cat with but one kitten, Richard thought, and God’s sacred truth, how unlike that bitch, his sweet sister-in-law! Just seven her eldest son was, and since age three, with his own household at Ludlow.
Had it bothered Elizabeth, yielding up her son at so tender an age? Richard who no longer gave his brother’s Queen the benefit of the doubt in anything, thought not. It was done in the name of policy, of course, it being hoped that the physical presence of the little Prince of Wales would serve to strengthen loyalties along the Welsh Marches. And it might well be effective, Richard conceded, but he still thought the strategy to be an exceedingly poor one, for it meant that the boy was being raised almost exclusively by his uncle, Anthony Woodville, saw his parents only rarely. Richard was not the only one to be uncomfortable with this arrangement; there were few, indeed, pleased to see their future King being indoctrinated with Woodville loyalties, absorbing Woodville values.
Dogs were barking in the stable area, and Richard raised his head, automatically seeking to distinguish Gareth’s deep rumble. Almost at once, he caught himself, marveling at the tenacity of habit, for it had been several years since he’d been able to take the big dog away from Middleham. Now thirteen, Gareth did little these days but doze in the sun and trail stiffly after Richard’s small sons.
As the dogs continued to bark, Richard moved to the oriel window. He was surprised to see that several horses had been ridden into the inner court rather than being taken to the stables behind the chapel. The window glass was cloudy, opaque; he rubbed it with his fist, clearing it just in time to see his servants gathering about a woman enveloped in silvery fox fur. As she dismounted, her hood fell back, and in the flare of torchlight, he recognized his wife.
Anne was no longer cold; the bedchamber hearth was well stoked and the bed piled high with coverlets. But she was very tired. It had taken her seven days to journey south from Middleham, seven days of buffeting winds and frigid temperatures; she’d been up this day since dawn, had covered a bone-bruising thirty-eight miles. She’d managed to forget her fatigue while making love with Richard; now, however, it was coming back on her.
But as she touched Richard’s neck and shoulders, she found the muscles taut and corded under her hand.
“How tense you are, my love! Roll over and I’ll rub your back; mayhap it will help you sleep.”
He did as she bade and, ignoring her own exhaustion, she set about easing his strain as best she could. “I heard George had been brought to trial, Richard,” she said quietly. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
Richard winced, for her fingers had found a particularly sore spot midway down his back. “You heard wrong, Anne. It was no trial. It was an indictment, in which the only witnesses were accusers, no evidence was produced, and the verdict was a foregone conclusion.”
“Tell me,” she repeated, softly insistent, but he needed no coaxing.
“On the day after the marriage of Ned’s second son and the little heiress of the Duke of Norfolk, he convened parliament. A Bill of Attainder was presented against George, accusing him of treason.” He paused before adding reluctantly, “Ned himself did introduce it.”
Anne was startled; it was almost unheard of for a King to argue personally for a Bill of Attainder.
“What were the charges?”
“A motley collection of offenses, none of which on its own would justify the death penalty against a man of George’s rank. Ned accused George of spreading stories that Thomas Burdett had been unjustly done to death. Of putting about that old slander that Ned be a bastard and hence no rightful King. Of secretly keeping a document from the reign of Harry of Lancaster, proclaiming George as the heir to the throne in the event that your marriage to Harry’s son did produce no children.”
“Oh, but Richard, that last was so very long ago! Harry and Édouard have been dead for nigh on seven years and what blood of Lancaster be left does flow thinly in the veins of Harry’s Welsh half brother Jasper Tudor. What could it matter now?”
“It mattered,” he said grimly, “because Ned chose to make it matter.”
“I don’t understand, truly I don’t. It’s not that I mean to defend what George has done. But his past treasons were so much greater and yet Ned chose to forgive them. Why now, Richard?”
“I would that I knew. I cannot believe that Ned would put his own brother to death merely because he’d lost patience with him! Yet he did make much at George’s trial of betrayals and broken promises and bad faith, said that again and again he’d forgiven George his crimes, only to have George make mockery of his clemency. Even now, he said, he would have been willi
ng to pardon George had he only shown true remorse or contrition of spirit.” She felt him tense, and then he said flatly, “And in that, he lied. He had no intention of pardoning George. Not this time.”
“It must have been most painful to watch.” Leaning over, she pressed her lips to the nape of his neck. “Perhaps I erred in urging you to talk of this….”
“No,” he said. “I want to tell you.”
“What of George? What did he say?”
“He denied all, with much passion. But at the last, so desperate had he become that he went so far as to demand a trial by combat. Ned just…looked at him.”
“Oh!” It was an involuntary response, much what she might have felt for any trapped animal at last brought to bay; while she enjoyed the excitement of a hunt, Anne had ever preferred to avoid the kill if possible. Richard’s thoughts had apparently taken the same turn as her own, for he said now, very softly,
“Did I ever tell you about the fox cub I caught when I was six? It was at Ludlow, the summer before the town was sacked by Lancaster. One of the village lads helped me trap it. Half starved it was, and sickly, but at sight of us, it went wild with fear. It kept trying to burrow into the earth, seeking escape where there was none, all the while snapping helplessly at our hands, our rope, even the air itself….”
“Oh, Richard, don’t! I’d never have thought I’d ever find myself pitying George, but…what of Ned? Does he still refuse to talk with you about it?”
“None of us have had any luck whatsoever. Ma Mère has been in London since December and Meg…scarcely a day passes that one of her letters does not come from Burgundy. Even my sister Eliza, who has been estranged from George for years…. Even Eliza has pleaded with Ned not to do this.” He rolled over onto his back then and Anne saw how truly troubled he was.
“It be easier for Eliza and me; neither one of us has much use for George. But Meg still sees him as the young brother she did part from at the time of her wedding, and Ma Mère…” He shook his head, and then the frustrated fury of these past weeks broke through.
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