“Mother!” he bellowed, kissing me on both cheeks. “How good it is to see you again.”
I had no time to register any emotion, for he immediately turned away, and began shaking hands, clapping people on the back, and patting arms, laughing boisterously all the while as the Londoners crowded around him.
He was followed by Richard, now eighteen years old, but looking ten years older. As usual, Richard seemed content to remain in Edward’s shadow, looking watchful and grave, while Edward charmed everyone.
I took Richard’s hands in greeting as he kissed me on both cheeks. He would never be indolent like Edward, but would he be as well liked? He was too difficult to read.
Last to arrive was George, making an awkward third spoke of a wheel. He pecked me on the cheek, then circled the room studying his brothers, running his tongue over his lips.
What was going to happen to George? Would he ever keep his word again? Or had he been corrupted beyond redemption by Warwick?
Edward held a great counsel at Baynard’s Castle, then marched north to deal with Warwick. On Easter Sunday, at dawn, near the village of Barnet, Edward fell upon Warwick’s army and soundly defeated him. Warwick was cut down fleeing from the scene. When Marguerite d’ Anjou, newly arrived in England, heard the news, she collapsed into a faint. Her commanders persuaded her to stay and fight.
This time, Edward wasted no time in marching out of London to the West Country to intercept Marguerite and Édouard to prevent them from crossing the Severn into Wales.
On the fourth of May 1470, they met at Tewkesbury, near Gloucester. With the help of my youngest son, Richard, Duke of Gloucester, Edward won the day. And Marguerite’s son Édouard was cut down.
I closed my ears to tales that Édouard survived the fighting and was murdered after the battle in cold blood by my three sons. I tried not to hear the whispers that Henry of Lancaster, the former King Henry VI, was struck down while at prayer. Some said that Richard of Gloucester was responsible for his murder. That he had come up silently behind King Henry before cracking his head open with a mace.
I turned a deaf ear to these rumors because I was grateful that the Cousin’s War was over. Nearly ten years after my lord’s murder, the House of York had prevailed.
On the twenty-first of May 1470, Edward was formally welcomed into London by the populace. In his train was Marguerite of Anjou, enduring the taunts of the crowd as they threw rubbish at her. Meanwhile, on the twenty-second of May 1470, Henry of Lancaster’s corpse was taken to Saint Paul’s so that all might pay their respects. The people of London were saddened by Henry of Lancaster’s passing, but thankful to be rid of their weak king. Marguerite was imprisoned in the Tower of London. But Edward, in a merciful gesture, sent her to live in Wallingford Castle so she could be near her great friend Alice Chaucer, the Dowager Duchess of Suffolk.
Dearest Mother, wrote Beth, you may have heard that the former queen has come to live nearby, owing to her friendship with my mother-by-marriage, Duchess Alice. Edward wrote to me, asking me to accompany the Dowager Duchess as much as possible on her visits to the former queen. I assured him I would do my best, for you know I am good at keeping quiet.
I laughed. George’s nickname for Beth had been Mouse, she had been such a quiet child in contrast to her noisy siblings. I picked up the letter.
I take my basket of sewing things and sit in a corner making clothes for my children, doing the fine needlework you taught us, Mother, while the ladies talk. So far, I have nothing interesting to report to the king, for while Marguerite bewails her state, the duchess comforts her with gifts and wise sayings. She has made sure that the former queen is comfortably appointed at Wallingford Castle, with three women to serve her. I will write more when I have news. I pray for you every night, dear Mother.
Your loving, Beth, Duchess of Suffolk.
I sighed, tucking the letter away. At least one of my daughters was nearby and dutiful. Margaret wrote wonderful letters, but I never saw her now that she was Duchess of Burgundy. I scarcely saw Nan, and when I did, it was like speaking to a stranger. And though things were somewhat mended between Edward and myself, they were not the same. I was ashamed that George must stomach a bastard half-brother on the throne of England. If only I had said no that far-off evening thirty years ago.
But one cannot undo the past.
Chapter 60
October 1471
I was most proud of my youngest son, Richard, Duke of Gloucester, whose motto was Loyauté Me Lié (Loyalty Binds Me). Richard was the hero of the Battle of Barnet, holding the line against overwhelming odds, so that Edward did not need to send in his reserves until the last moment. The king could be very generous, and Richard had been heaped with honors for his role in the Yorkist victory. After the Battle of Tewkesbury, I orchestrated a campaign whereby my daughters pleaded for clemency, on George’s behalf, which Edward eventually granted. But he refused to give George anything. This led to an outbreak of feuding between my two younger sons, and it erupted at around the time when my quiet, hard to read Richard decided to marry.
Richard and I had been the best of friends ever since the Serpent tried to take him from Warwick and send him to her brother Sir Anthony Woodville. On that evening long ago, I invited Richard to dine with me to ascertain his wishes. Not surprisingly, he preferred to stay with Warwick. As he left, I made a casual remark: “My son, I wish for you to find happiness in this life.”
He looked at me, puzzled, his grave expression making him look much older than twelve years.
I touched his cheek with my finger. “When I was a girl, I danced and sang and played music all day long. I think of my childhood as a golden time. I was always misbehaving, but you, my son, have not had that. The war took your childhood from you. I wish I could lighten your cares. You are too young to be so serious. But then, you are just like your father.”
Richard’s face came alive. “Am I really?”
I nodded. “You look exactly like him. You have his nut-brown hair, his blue-grey eyes, his small build. And you have his serious personality.”
“Is this true, Mother?”
“Richard! You didn’t think—”
“No, Mother,” he replied, flushing. He fiddled with a ring Edward had given him. “I don’t look like Edward or George—”
That was true. Both Edward and George were blond giants.
“That is because Edward and George both take after my father, especially George,” I told him. That was not quite true. Edward looked exactly like Blaybourne, but I didn’t tell Richard that. ”Meanwhile you look like your father. How odd you both share the same name.”
“Tell me about my father,” he said eagerly.
And so, over the months and years that passed, I gradually told Richard about my lord of York, and from that day forward, we became the best of friends.
I suppose my guilty feelings caused me to overdo the image I gave Richard of his father. In his eyes, Richard of York became a hero, a shining warrior, an upholder of knightly virtues, the perfect gentleman. What harm could there be in it? It gave my romantic youngest son something to reach for, something to measure his conduct by. Such a different standard from the frivolity and debauchery of Edward’s court.
And now, nineteen-year-old Richard had come to visit me at Berkhamsted. As always, I was delighted to see him. As was our custom, we went into my private chapel to pray for a while before sitting down to talk. This time, Richard was not as quiet as usual. He kept pacing back and forth, fiddling with the signet ring.
I ordered refreshments, then waved my people away.
“What is it?” I poured the mulled wine, for the October days were chill, and Richard had ridden at break-neck speed from London by the look of his boots.
“I wish to marry, Mother,” said Richard, tossing his gloves onto a nearby coffer. “I wish to marry Nanette.”
My head jerked up. Richard had just been preoccupied in fighting for the Yorkist cause. Where had he found the time to thin
k of taking a wife?
“But Nanette is recently widowed,” I said. Not long after her father Warwick had married her off to Édouard of Lancaster, he’d been killed at the Battle of Tewkesbury. “What about a foreign princess? There is Mary of Burgundy, who has now fourteen years.”
“I want Nanette.” Richard’s tone was quiet but firm, his grey-blue eyes dark with intensity.
I recognized that look. It was the exact same expression my lord had had when he’d asked me to marry him all those years ago.
Sighing, I motioned him to sit beside me. “Nanette is lovely, and perfectly suitable. Yet—”
“What, Mother?”
“She is—delicate. I am not sure she will be able to give you children. Even trying to have one child may be too much for her.”
Richard paled, and his face went still. He was silent.
At last, I gently touched his arm. “Richard, my son, I am deeply sorry if I have wounded you. I did not know how much you cared about her.”
“I have loved her from the moment I set eyes on her.”
“But you were only eight! She was four.”
“She was an angel,” murmured Richard.
“Why did you not say so before? My son, you carry too many burdens. I had no idea. How you must have suffered when you heard—”
“She’d been married to that brute Lancaster?” Richard smiled wryly. “Part of me died, but it inspired me to fight.”
“And you fought brilliantly, my son. I’m so proud of you.”
Richard smiled. “So you will help me, Mother?”
I laughed. “Why do you need my help?”
“She’s disappeared.”
“Disappeared? What do you mean?”
Richard sagged in his seat.
I frowned. “She was staying with George and Bella, wasn’t she?” I fumbled in his silence. “She’s at his London residence, the Herber.”
“When I went there yesterday to visit her, George refused to let me see her. This morning I returned with some men-at-arms, determined. We searched the house, but could find her nowhere.”
I stared. No. It could not be—
For the first time in many moons, my spine prickled with unease. Nanette was co-heiress with Bella of Warwick’s vast estates. Was George preventing Richard from marrying Nanette so he could receive the revenue exclusively for his own use?
Richard lifted his eyes to mine. “Exactly so, Mother. Nanette could not have disappeared of her own accord. George must have hidden her somewhere.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I would like you to talk to George, and Edward if necessary.”
“Will the king agree to your marriage?”
“When we won at Tewkesbury, Edward said I could have anything I wanted. I told him I wanted Nanette.”
“And?”
Richard met my eyes and smiled in a way that made his face glow. “He roared with laughter and slapped me on the back.”
“Where is she?”
George remained silent, his hand clenched around a cup of wine. As usual, he looked magnificent in a ruby-colored tunic, his long sleeves brushing the floor, cut to show off the white velvet undershirt he wore beneath. But he was already on his third cup of wine and it was only mid-morning. At twenty-two, my son was still handsome, but his reddening nose and slackening paunch told of a life that lacked purpose. Edward had pardoned his brother for plotting to take the throne of England. But he kept him on a tight leash and gave him little to do.
I sighed. “My son, this is serious. If anything happened to Nanette, you would be in grave trouble. Edward is testing you.”
“Nothing will happen to her!” George interrupted, flushing.
“How do you know that? Do you know where she is?”
I was interrupted by the sound of hooves, of metal clanking, and of male voices shouting. There was a jingle of spurs as someone ran up the stairs.
It was Richard.
I’d never seen him look so angry. He looked exactly as his father had the day he discovered my affair with Blaybourne.
“I cannot believe it!” he shouted. “You took her to a common cook shop where I find her working in the kitchens!”
Flushing crimson, George rose from his seat and fumbled for his dagger.
“George!” I said.
It made him stop in his tracks. George had hidden Nanette in a cook shop? She had been forced to work in the kitchens? George’s sense of humor seemed to have become oddly twisted.
“George,” I said, “Is this true?”
George flicked his eyes away and pursed his lips.
As he did so, I thanked God silently that I had chosen to live out my declining years as abbess of a Benedictine Order, rather than with George and his family. For something had gone horribly wrong. George was charming, he was intelligent, he was well educated. As a boy, he’d always been my stalwart, defending the family during his father’s absence like a bulldog.
What had happened? I’d never known him to behave like this. Had the death of his first child warped him somehow?
“It is true, Mother, I tell you,” said Richard. “I went there myself. I saw Nanette with my own eyes. She was disheveled, dirty, and very, very scared. She had given up hope of anyone finding her.”
He turned back to George. “What were you trying to do?” he roared. “Murder her? You know Nanette is not strong. Yet she was doing back-breaking work in a fiery kitchen by day and sleeping in a freezing attic by night!”
“George,” I said. “How long did you plan to keep her like this?”
“Until Richard left her alone,” replied George. He strutted over to his brother, jutting his chin out. “Where is she?”
“I have her in safe keeping.”
“I demand that you return her to my house,” said George, putting his hands behind his back, which made him look even more like a strutting cock.
Richard clenched his jaw, and his lips thinned.
I hurried over to stand between my sons, putting my hand on Richard’s sleeve. “Where is she, my son? Is she safe?”
Richard stopped glaring at his brother. “Have no fear, Mother,” he said, patting my arm. “She is safe in Saint Martin-le-Grand in Newgate Street. I have put her into the care of her uncle the Archbishop of York.”
Archbishop George Neville was a nephew of mine, the younger brother of Warwick. I had known him all his life. Indeed, he had been one of the children I had been minding in the garden at Bisham when I met my lord Richard as an adult.
“You have done well, my son. How long do you plan to keep her there?”
“Until our marriage takes place,” replied Richard.
“No!” roared George.
“You cannot prevent my marriage to Nanette. She is not your ward. Nor can you take her away from our kinsman the archbishop.”
“Edward will agree with me,” said George, turning to go.
“He’ll agree with me,” responded Richard, more quietly, following his brother.
Edward, at length, was able to persuade Richard and George to bury their differences. George agreed to the carving-up of Warwick’s estates after receiving the greater share of them and was created Earl of Warwick and Salisbury in right of his wife.
On his marriage to Nanette, Richard received Warwick’s estates in Yorkshire, Northumberland, and Cumberland, which included Sheriff Hutton and Middleham. Richard and Nanette married in the spring of 1472. They had but one child, a son whom they named Edward after the king.
Chapter 61
1473 to 1478
During this time, my prayers were answered, and George and Bella had more children. Their second child, named Margaret after my daughter, the Duchess of Burgundy, was born August 14, 1473. Their third child, named Edward after the king, was born February 25, 1475.
However, tensions rumbled on between my sons. George and Edward barely tolerated each other, and even Richard grew more critical of the king. In 1475, Richard had gone over to Fr
ance with the army, ready to give the French another Agincourt. But Edward allowed himself to be bought off by the King of France like a wealthy merchant who will prostitute his services to the highest bidder.
“This is insupportable,” Richard told me later. “Edward does not behave as a prince of blood. He cheats us of an honorable peace at Picquigny.”
I could only sigh. Every year, Edward did something that seemed to demonstrate his low origins.
In the summer of 1476, Richard finally prevailed upon Edward to re-inter my lord of York in a proper resting place at Fotheringhay. Richard acted as chief mourner and led the seven-day procession from Pontefract – where my lord had been hastily interred after his foul murder – to Fotheringhay.
I wished to be present, of course. But in the end, I begged off, saying it was too painful. The reason was that the Serpent insisted on being there, and Edward was unable or unwilling to say no to her. Richard blamed the delay of the re-internment on Edward’s irresponsibility.
I had other things to think of. One day earlier in that year of 1476, I was at my prayers when the steward announced the Duchess of Suffolk. I was surprised; January was a bad time for traveling. I rose at once.
“Mother, dearest!” Beth kissed my cheek as she entered my bedchamber. Her black woolen cloak was covered in snow from the storm outside.
“My dearest child, what has happened?”
“My lord John and our children send you their affectionate greetings. They are well.”
“But?”
Beth drew up a chair, and bade me sit.
“Margaret?” I whispered.
“Nan.” She sat down beside me, and took my hands. “Nan is dead.”
“No.”
“Yes, Mother.”
Rising swiftly, I nearly knocked over my chair. “No. It can’t be true.” I folded my arms over my chest and gazed at the white flakes tumbling down outside. “All these years, I’ve been trying to reach her.”
Beth was silent.
“How did she die?”
“In childbirth, Mother.”
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