Fortune's Wheel

by Rhoda Edwards

  The women goggled and the men gaped. They were all full of ale and wine, and each hesitated to ask his neighbour if he saw what confronted them, in case he were scoffed at for seeing ale-head visions. Such jewels and cloth and style had never been seen at close quarters, let alone walking in among them. Rich stuffs graced the backs of the Mayor and aldermen of London but nothing remotely like this. The young man who had so strangely interrupted their Christmas feast, winked and sparkled as if he were covered in chips of coloured glass with the sun shining behind them, though the obvious, and unbelievable fact was that they were genuine precious stones. His doublet seemed to be more shining gold stuff than cloth, though figured with velvety patterns in dark blue, the jewels forming the centres and stems of flowers. The shoulders were about four times as wide as the waist. More gems sparkled on his fingers, and surely he was more clean and scented than was Godly, he was shaved smoothly and his fingernails were spotless and his hair shining. His hose were shimmering blue silk, the kind which need lining with satin, and tight! Well, the doublet was so short — any son of the house would have been thrown out on his ear for indecency.

  Most of the stares took in nothing lower than this, but the master of the house did. He did not notice the elaborate gilded — or gold? — spurs, or the boots of soft blue Spanish leather; but his visitor had a band of velvet, also blue, buckled round his left leg, just below the knee. Diamonds blinked on it. The cook’s face, competing with the roast beef in colour, took on the hue of veal in milk. There were only about a score of lords in the kingdom who wore the Garter, and here was one of them in his back parlour, wanting words with him.

  At the sight of blenching fright descending upon their host, the company all lapsed into motionless silence. The lady showing her own garters had given a shriek and let her skirt fall. The cook’s wife stood stoutly at her husband’s side, puffing, her great shelf of bosom heaving up and down.

  Richard spoke to her first, gently, but loud enough to ensure that everyone else heard what he said. ‘Madam, I have reason to believe that in July last you employed a servant of your dead sister, Mistress Ellen Langwith — a young girl from the household of the Duke of Clarence…’ This was enough to produce a response more immediate than he had hoped for.

  Before the cook’s wife could answer, all heads turned towards a place at the far end of one of the benches at the other side of the room, where the servants were. Prepared, indeed expecting, hoping, to find her, as he was, the sight of Anne Neville sitting there, very still, so shocked Richard, that all he could do was stare at her. Though she scarcely moved a muscle, she seemed to cower and shrink away. As the watching company began to notice her fear, their faces changed from wonder and amazement to suspicion and hostility. Richard saw them change. Anyone would think he was about to do something highly dishonourable, to sling her over his shoulder and carry her off, as the Romans did the Sabine women.

  Richard turned to the cook’s wife again. ‘Madam, your maid Anne is the Earl of Warwick’s daughter, whom the King is seeking.’

  A large elderly lady at the back promptly blew a raspberry for comment. ‘And I’m the Pope’s grandmother!’ she snorted, and everyone shush-shushed.

  One of Richard’s men put his hand towards his sword. Richard gave him a warning look. To exert naked authority would not gain anything. If these people were entirely sober, then they would be easy to intimidate, but as it was their blood was up, and a nasty brawl might ensue.

  He stepped forward among them and sat down in a vacated place on one of the benches. ‘Let me explain,’ he said. The cook’s wife, who had collapsed on the nearest seat, fanning her face, found herself sitting next to a real lord, and almost fainted away. When she recovered, she was utterly disarmed by the way he talked to them, as if they had as much right in the matter as he did. She saw that he was young, not much more than twenty. He had crooked up one knee, the one with the Garter, over the other, and she stared fascinated at the shining stones. Those hose were tight enough to split, but there didn’t seem to be any danger, or he wouldn’t move so freely.

  ‘In July, this lady was living in the house of her sister, the Duchess of Clarence…’ There were oos and ahs at this. ‘I believe Mistress Langwith, who does fine sewing — your sister, madam — helped her to find work. I believe neither you nor your sister had any inkling of who this lady was?’

  The cook’s wife was distraught. ‘Mother of God! My Lord, she told me her husband was killed at Tewkesbury and…I… My poor sister, God rest her, was taken by plague before I could hear any such tale. As for the Duchess of Clarence…!’ She was quite speechless. Anne’s sister a Duchess! In the house of the King’s brother! It was more than she could stand on top of the Christmas pie and a pint too many.

  The cook himself made a strangled noise, and his face became a congested puce colour. His wife gathered herself together first. ‘Who are you, my lord?’ she said fearfully, looking sideways at Richard. To her surprise he smiled at her. One of the men with him spoke for him. ‘This is the King’s other brother, the Duke of Gloucester.’

  The whole company in the room gasped loudly, and goggled even harder. The cook seemed about to flop down on his knees.

  ‘Stand up, man,’ Richard said. ‘I don’t hold you responsible. That lies with others. I can see you tell the truth, and you have not harmed the lady.’

  ‘Never! Oh, no, your Grace, your Highness… This is a respectable house… B-b-but she’s been my servant! Merciful saints, your Grace, if I’d known…if only I’d known…!’ His eyes were popping and glassy with shock, like a cod’s on a slab.

  ‘Richard!’ Anne had somehow found her voice and her courage, and the Christian name escaped her unthinkingly. ‘They did not know. They’ve done no harm.’

  Everyone stared in unbelief at the girl. The cook’s wife had scolded her for giving wrong change in the shop and for being clumsy in cutting parsnips into straws, and here she was addressing the royal Duke as if he were her brother. The cook had once threatened to beat her because she let a customer carry off a good crock without a deposit. He broke into a sweat at the thought.

  ‘Why does the King want me?’ Anne asked in a small, wretched voice. She would not come up close to speak to Richard.

  ‘For no more reason than to see you are treated according to your rank. I don’t want you to come with me, and I think you would rather not be in the King’s custody. Would you like to go to the sanctuary at St Martin’s for a while, until…you can take a house there and live quietly for a little, until you decide what you want to do.’

  ‘My mother…?’

  ‘Your mother is still at Beaulieu Abbey. I’ve looked for you all over London for two months — I’d have looked longer if I hadn’t been in the north. I thought I’d never find you.’

  ‘Now you have,’ Anne sounded far from glad about it. She stood nervously where she was, approaching no closer, her eyes downcast, pale as a waterlily, except for two spots of colour in her cheeks from the heat of the room. She was dressed in the sort of gown servant girls wore, drab-coloured and coarse. There was a fade mark where she had been constantly wearing an apron. It had been brushed and neatened, and her linen cap and cuffs, obviously added for the evening, were crisply white. There was not a hair straggling out over her forehead, and nothing awry anywhere, unlike many of the cook’s guests, who were dishevelled and overheated.

  Richard watched her. He was deeply disturbed by finding Anne in this situation apparently of her own free will, and at her hostility to himself. She seemed to accept the suggestion of moving into the sanctuary as a defeat, and she did not regard him as her friend, that was certain.

  ‘Have you anything to take with you?’ he said abruptly.

  ‘I have no possessions.’

  ‘The lady came here with nothing but what she stood up in, my lord,’ said the cook’s wife anxiously.

  Richard said nothing. The cook’s wife noticed how his face hardened in expression, and was afraid. Now that
she had begun to gather her wits, she remembered some of the things she had heard about this young man — he was not afraid to spill blood by all accounts, and his power and might were next only to the King’s own. The thought gave her the shakes, and she fanned herself again, gasping. He was civil enough, more courteous than could possibly have been expected, but God knew what might happen afterwards.

  ‘Madam, will you give Lady Anne my cloak to wear if she has none. It’s cold outside,’ he asked her. His manner towards her was as polite as towards his own mother, she thought, and wanted not to be afraid of him, but could not quite manage it.

  ‘I don’t have a cloak of my own,’ Anne said briefly. ‘I did not go out much.’

  Thus exonerated from keeping her servant short of clothing, the cook’s wife took the Duke’s cloak from his servant and with trembling hands put it round Anne’s shoulders, while the girl stood still as a block of wood. The cloth was soft and heavy wool, with a sheen like silk — there couldn’t be many merchants in London who dealt in fine chamlet of that quality — very dark green in colour, and lavishly lined with blue velvet. It was just the right size for Anne. The Duke, the cook’s wife noticed for the first time, was short, and of very slim build. That he had given her the garment to slip on Anne was odd, as if he thought it better not in any way to approach or touch her. The next thing he said seemed to confirm this impression.

  ‘Let mine host and his lady come with us to St Martin’s. I should like them to witness that I do not abduct this lady against her will. I am her cousin.’

  As if in answer Anne moved towards him a little. He turned towards the door. The cook’s wife and various women in the company rushed to fetch their cloaks, agog to witness this amazing event. ‘Watch out for the mistletoe, lovey,’ one squawked tipsily and was quickly stifled, with giggles, by the others.

  Anne walked through the door into the street as if in a dream. The cold night air struck her face. Richard’s cloak was so warm — she had forgotten the feel of rich materials, the caress of velvet across her knuckles that smelled nice, of perfumed clothes chests and cleanliness. Her own clothes smelled of food, however clean she tried to keep herself under them. Outside in the street in his jewels and gold, Richard looked quite extraordinary. He seemed older, grander and less known to her than when she had last met him. She followed him now without thought. She was beyond asking questions or volunteering information.

  The horses seemed to take up most of the street. If it had been daylight, horses so fine would have drawn a crowd, even without their riders. A grey turned a pale, enquiring face towards them. Richard himself unhitched its reins and looped them over his arm. ‘Get up, Lady Anne,’ he said, and made a step for her with his hands and lifted her up to sit sideways in the saddle. Then, though his servant would have done it, he led his horse down the narrow, rough cobbled length of Pentecost Lane and out into the wider street. The sound of its iron shoes echoed loudly between the houses, followed by all the others, and people might have stuck their heads out from their shutters to see if an army had invaded them, if they had not been either still celebrating Christmas or sleeping it off.

  The south gate of St Martin’s was closed in the winter from nine in the evening till six in the morning. It took a few minutes to knock up the porter, but when he did appear and discovered who the latecomer was, men began scurrying in all directions. It was arranged that Anne should be admitted to one of the sanctuary houses immediately, and report to the Dean’s clerk the next day in order to have her name written in the register of persons seeking refuge in the precinct. A woman servant would look after her needs. Anne did not question who would pay for all this, the house rent, her food, servants. Either the King, or Richard, it made no odds. All she wanted to do was to lie down and sleep, and see no more of anyone.

  15

  The Turning Wheel

  December 1471 – September 1472

  She saith that she hath seen hit wreten

  That seldin seen is soon forgeten;

  It is not so,

  For in good feith, save only her,

  I love no mo.

  Wherefore I pray bothe nighte and day

  That she may cast alle care away,

  And leve in rest,

  And evermore wherever she be

  To love me best.

  Now Wolde I Faine… (15th cent.)

  When Richard had ridden back from St Martin’s to Westminster on Christmas night, he found the King still up, but in his bedgown and probably off to some assignation. King Edward was no longer entirely sober, but he had a phenomenal capacity for wine and was able to pay reasonable attention to what Richard had to say. He was not pleased to have his young brother erupt into his presence at three in the morning, with a story so fantastic it could have been made up by the most incapable drunk in the palace — and there were plenty there that night. There was nothing he could do but listen.

  Richard was unusually voluble, angry and upset. When he had finished his outpouring, the King said, ‘Dickon, I’ve followed your tale as far as I can, and I feel much as you do, but my head won’t go beyond that now. I’ll be better at seeing the reason later in the morning, after a brief encounter with my bed. I’ve a feeling our brother George is the stirrer behind all this, and it’s an ugly thought I’d rather postpone for an hour or two. As long as the young lady is safe… You did the best thing possible, to take her to St Martin’s — only George is likely to accuse you of abduction! Now, get to bed. We’ll begin the explanations tomorrow — later today…’ He yawned hugely; with his chestnut hair tousled and his arms stretched above his head and the meaty paws clenched, he was more than ever like a big, sleepy lion.

  Richard had to be satisfied with that, but he did not get any sleep that night. In the morning, before dinner, he went again to the King and found that Clarence had already arrived. George’s greeting to him was to snap out accusingly, ‘You’ve been meddling, I hear!’

  ‘Hold your tongue!’ growled the King, who had already had words with Clarence, and could have been feeling fresher and better tempered.

  ‘Meddling! If that’s what you call it!’ Richard was in fully as volatile a state as George. ‘Warwick’s daughter, your sister-in-law, hiding as a poor servant in a cook shop — a cook shop! — within a stone’s throw of Cock Lane — and it’s your fault, George! I wouldn’t put it past you to have sold her to a Cock Lane brothel…!’ he yelled.

  ‘Richard!’ roared the King. He grabbed both their shoulders and pushed them apart just as they were facing up to each other like fighting cocks. ‘You’re behaving like brats, the pair of you. Sit down with the table between you, and we’ll begin the explanations. Open a window, I need air,’ he said to a page, and settled himself in a position where he could grab his brothers again if necessary.

  ‘It is not my fault…!’ George began.

  ‘Quiet!’ King Edward’s temper was not improving. ‘I am going to ask the questions. I’d be obliged if you’d let me speak before giving answers — both of you.

  ‘Now, I’ve heard Richard’s tale of how Anne Neville was found, and I’ve already heard yours of how she disappeared from your house in July. She has told Richard that she was not abducted but ran away, with the knowledge of no one but herself and a seamstress. What I should like to know, George, is why Warwick’s daughter — little, timid, white mouse Anne, should dare to run away into the cesspit of London city at a time of plague — and to not dare to appeal to any one of us who might have helped her? She ran out of your care, George, yours and Isabel’s. Explain yourself.’

  ‘I’ve told you already, I don’t know,’ George slung at him.

  Richard opened his mouth, but before they could start shouting at each other again, the King said calmly, ‘Oh, yes, you do know. Was she afraid of you, of her own sister?’

  ‘No, she was not. She was afraid of you — of being clapped in the Tower with that mad hag Margaret of Anjou.’

  ‘I see. Afraid of me? Poor little Anne. S
ince I sent Margaret to Windsor within weeks of her capture, as you very well know, George, and Anne is not stupid and knew I had no reason even to confine her, you’ll have to think up another story.’

  George was on the hook and struggling to get off it.

  ‘I’m waiting,’ the King said.

  Richard watched in silence, wondering if George would come out with the truth. He was not entirely certain himself of what the truth was.

  ‘Why was she afraid of me?’ the King said again.

  ‘Ask yourself!’ George was, as usual, overstepping the mark. There were some ways one might answer a brother, but not the King.

  ‘I’m asking you.’

  ‘For the same reasons that her mother is afraid, I suppose.’

  ‘George, I’m losing patience.’ King Edward leaned back in his chair and glared at the sullen, prevaricating Clarence. Then he said, ‘You told me, back in July, that there was no possibility of your sister-in-law being enceinte, and that your wife had made certain of it. I’m beginning to wonder, George, whether I’ve been told everything.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Clarence had adopted an aggrieved, misunderstood air, to conceal his evasiveness.

  ‘If you don’t understand my meaning, I suggest that you leave my presence now, give the matter some thought, and speak to me again when you are disposed to be more civil. One of these days, George, you’ll cause me severe displeasure. It could be today.’

  When Clarence had flounced out, the King said to Richard, ‘Our brother is lucky to have made a mistake. If you had found poor little Anne eight months gone, he’d have had a great deal more to answer for. There’s no sign of anything, I suppose?’

  ‘No! Christ, if that had been the case… I wouldn’t like to answer for my actions, though he is my brother.’