As we walked together, I sensed him looking at me as if waiting for me to speak. It was I who, upon meeting George’s forces upon the road, had helped bring about the reconciliation between him and Edward; I who had spoken for our errant brother and convinced him he belonged back in York’s fold. I was sure my actions were the right ones, but I knew George would never be what one would call a loyal brother. George was always for George and no one else mattered overmuch.
“You looked greatly grieved by the death of my lord of Warwick,” he said at length. “I am surprised. He married your Anne to Edward of Lancaster.”
“She was never ‘my Anne,” I said gruffly, wishing he would shut up. “I will find another.”
“Isabel will have a good inheritance that will benefit me. Glad something of Warwick’s has landed my hands…it is his fault my son died.” His brows lowered; his lower lips thrust forward in petulance as it always did when he was perturbed. Which was often. “Fleeing to France, with Isabel so close to being brought to childbed. Bastard! I do not grieve for Warwick. He killed my son with his rashness, and he let me down.”
Let you down, when you both played the game of treason? Do not imagine that I do not know he promised you the crown! “Let’s not talk about it George,” I said tiredly.
He fell silent, but I could sense him, like a malevolent spirit, floating at my side. He irritated me so, and had often jeered at me and taunted me in a way Ned never had, but we had been in exile together as children, two frightened little boys, and somehow that had made a strange bond between us. He was vain, a bit stupid, and definitely untrustworthy, and he drank too much, but he was my brother and I loved him full well nonetheless.
We reached the surgeon’s tent and pushed the flaps aside. Anthony Woodville, the Queen’s brother and friend to Edward had arrived before us, having taken several cuts in the fray. He glanced up at me, smiled in his smooth, confident way and raised a battered hand in greeting. I nodded in acknowledgment, afraid he might start reciting some of the poetry he was wont to compose…
One of the doctors led George away for treatment, while Edward’s own personal physician, Dr Hobbes, guided me to a couch. Anthony Woodville and his poetry went elsewhere, thanks be to God. Once the squires removed my armour and gambeson, the surgeon picked washed and treated the sword-cut beneath my arm, using tweezers to pick out threads of cloth from my arming doublet that had embedded in my flesh.
I was black and blue with bruises, and the scrape ran in a jagged line from my armpit across my upper ribs—longer and deeper than I had imagined. I felt uncomfortable sitting on the surgeon’s couch with soldiers and strangers passing back and forth, and insisted I be given an open shirt to wear while the surgeon treated me. “Christ’s teeth, it is too cold to sit here half-naked!” I stated, but the cold was not the true reason I wished to cover my body.
I have a secret, one shared with few.
My back is crooked.
I was not born with any deformity. I was a normal babe, if small, though my mother, Duchess Cecily, was getting too old for childbirth, and my younger sister, Ursula, born the following year, never thrived but died at two and was interred in the family vault at Fotheringhay. My…secret…my shame, was visited upon me when aged about thirteen, several years after being sent to my Lord of Warwick in Middleham for my knightly training. I did not notice much of anything amiss at first; a little stiffness, a little soreness after a day’s riding or swordplay, but that was all.
I had befriended Francis Lovell, who is still my friend to this day; another boy in Warwick’s household, though he of a Lancastrian family and four years younger, more Anne’s age. The summer’s afternoon had boiled, and after we finished our lessons, we had gone traipsing out of Middleham castle for the seclusion of Black Dub, a deep hole in the nearby river where we boys, freed from our tasks, went to swim and to play, swinging from the overhanging trees, play fighting in the waters and other such silliness.
Black Dub lay beyond the earthworks of the old castle behind Middleham, reached by following a drover’s path over humped downland where cattle grazed; the locals through the Dub haunted by knuckers and water-beasts and all manners of unearthly beings but we had no care for such childish stories. It was private; away from Lord Warwick’s stern eyes…that freedom was what we craved.
And so on that hot afternoon we came to Black Dub, and found it free of any other boys—its dark waters foaming and eddying, slopping against flat jetties of pallid stone that thrust out into the river. Behind it, on the other side of the river, protective walls of stone rose like sentinels, casting back a greenish light, keeping us safe from whatever dwelt out beyond—maybe those monsters and demons the villagers spoke of, maybe Scots or other such wildmen.
We had torn off our hot and sweaty doublets, tripped getting out of our shoes and hose, and dived in with great shrieks as the cold waters hit our bare flesh. Then we turned our attention to the business of boys temporarily freed from their masters: splashing each other’s faces, half-drowning each other in the swell, and so it went on for some time, as the sunlight filtered through the bony trees and danced on the surface of Black Dub…
After Francis, who was as tall as I despite our age difference had dunked me under half a dozen times or more, I found myself growing suddenly and surprisingly weary. Wading through the dark spume of the Dub, I sought the riverbank and bent over to pick up my discarded clothes from the grassy sward.
As I leaned over, I heard a startled gasp from Frank, who was standing knee-deep in the water several feet behind me. I smirked at the sound, wondering if one of the fabled water-knuckers had bitten his naked rear. A midge, more like, or worse, a leech. Big ones often hung around the Dub, waiting to pounce on bare boy’s flesh.
“R…Richard!” Francis called out to me, his voice uncharacteristically squeaky, trembling a little. I could hear him splashing about, trying to gain the bank. “You…you need to see my Lord Warwick as soon as we get back to the castle. Get him to call the physician.”
I glanced at him over my shoulder and frowned. My hose was half on, but I was hopping about one-footed as the fabric clung to my wet legs. This was embarrassing. “What are you talking about, Frank? What need have I of a physician? I feel fine!”
“Richard…your back…your back…” He came up close to me, white and goose-bumped, and ran his finger down the length of my spine. I could feel his fingertip dragging into my damp, wind-chilled skin. Instead of a straight line from bottom to top, his travelling finger veered sharply to the right.
Later that evening, in the solar of Middleham, I saw my Lord of Warwick. He frowned and walked around me, eyes raking my frame from top to toe. He had his own physician in attendance, a dour greybeard in a long dark robe who hummed and hawed as he looked me over with his master. They made me bend over, gazed critically at my back. Measured the heights of both shoulders with a rod. As it turned out, the right was somewhat higher than the left. My face flushed with embarrassment as the physic announced his findings with some dismay. In my childish head, I began to picture myself banished in disgrace to a monastery, becoming an old, tonsured-headed monk bent over a book. A cripple fit for nothing but prayer, deprived of my right to be a man, to marry and beget children, to be a noble warrior who rode out to battle with his brother the King.
“Can you do anything?” Warwick turned to the physician. “What about stretching him?”
“It is sometimes done, my Lord.”
“Does it work?”
The physician twiddled his thumbs. “Not usually.”
“Then that would be a waste of time.” Warwick looked exasperated.
By now, I was nigh gasping with fear at my presumed fate. I was a royal Duke, brother to the king, Knight of the Garter and a Knight of the Bath. I…I could not lose all that just because I had a raised shoulder…
“Please don’t force me to become a monk!” Words burst from my mouth, high and panicky.
“Eh? Warwick glared at me crossly, he
avy dark brows drawing together. “What nonsense are you rambling on about, boy? Monk, indeed—you, the King’s own brother! You are not going anywhere…except back into the training yard where you are going to have to work twice as hard as everyone else. Don’t be expecting any special treatment, because you won’t get it.” And he threw me my shirt and then slapped me on the back, as if to nullify the problem I had thought was so serious. “You won’t break, and you will be a warrior one day, I promise you.”
And so it was. Given my reprieve, I threw myself into learning the arts of war, and naught was ever said of my crookback again whilst in Warwick’s household, although the Earl did find me an excellent tailor to specially make doublets that evened the height of my shoulders, padded out the curve of my back. With a bit of artifice, no one would know I had such a malady unless they saw me unclad, and I made sure that would only be my little band of friends at Middleham. Unguarded swims at the Black Dub were no more.
Once, late at night, suffering from angst when reading about the exploits of some hero like Gawain, I whispered to Frank and to Rob Percy, who shared my chamber, “Do I look ugly? Is God punishing me for a sin?”
It was past midnight, we had to be up before dawn, and both crossly shouted, “No!” before hurling a pillow in my direction.
I did not mention my flaw again.
But even when I grew older and the trivial fears of boyhood drained away, and I had squires that dressed and bathed me and I had women who saw my tortured back but said nothing (and did not seem to have any great horror of it) I did not flaunt it, but kept it as hidden best as I could. It was not something I wanted the world to know; I was the King’s right hand, and everything connected with my brother needed to be wonderful, perfect, and glorious. Including me.
And so after the battle of Barnet I sat in borrowed shirt, oozing blood onto the linen, as the physician laved my scraped ribs, cleansing the wound with sweet, healing oil. A flap of skin dangled loose, its raw appearance making me feel slightly nauseous, and by the expression on the surgeon’s face, I guessed that he wished to stitch it up.
“Well, get on with it,” I said crossly.
“Yes, your Grace.” The man inclined his head.
One of his assistants came across the tent holding out a goblet of wine for me. It was not meant as a kindly gesture; the wine was to be drunk swiftly to help numb the pain of my treatment. Raising the cup to my cracked lips, I downed it in one, then thrust it out to be refilled.
The surgeon came closer, his awful tools, like implements of torture, gleaming in his blood-smeared hands, and I steeled myself for what would come next. It did not matter. Pain would make me stronger as it always had before.
I had survived this terrible battle. We had won.
We had won.
CHAPTER TWO: THE ROAD TO TEWKESBURY
‘The Duke of Gloucester, that noble prince,
young of age and victorious in battle
to the honour of Hector that he might come,
grace him follows, fortune and good speed,
fortune has him chosen, and forth with him shall go
her husband to be, the will of God is so…’
Ha, that is what men sang of me as Edward, George and I entered London to great uproar and celebration. At first, the good folk of London doubted the tidings that our victory was complete. The initial messenger’s news was treated with suspicion, and men shook their heads and muttered that they needed more proof than mere words. Another messenger followed the first, carrying one of Edward’s gauntlets as a token for the Queen…but even that dashing gesture met with distrust. Maybe Ned’s hand had been cut off in the battle and it was all a ruse by Warwick the Londoners cried! It was only after a third messenger reached the city, telling of Edward’s swift approach with his army, that the Mayor and Aldermen accepted the news and ordered the Te Deum sung, to be followed by festivities and celebration.
I felt nothing like a young Hector as I rode through the city gate at Edward’s side, the cheering of the crowds a pleasant dim roar in my ears. I could not bring myself to wave my hand as my elder brother did, nor did I ogle the breasts of the swooning women who hung out of windows high above wearing naught but their kirtles; Ned’s easy, familiar way with the commons is not mine and is something I cannot emulate. Instead, my mind was churning with the knowledge of messages received from the coast… Warwick’s death had not deterred the French bitch; Marguerite had landed at Weymouth, with the so-called Prince of Wales. And with his wife…Anne. Anne, who should have been mine, had not everything gone wrong….
Vexed, I chewed my lip, that usual bad habit of mine. Why was I still overwrought when it came to Anne Neville, neither the fairest woman in England (although fair enough) nor the most accomplished (though she was neat and intelligent) nor even the most pious (though truly she loved God), but I could not forget her, and my lack of reason in this matter irritated me, made me disagreeable.
It is not as if a secret tryst bound us, or we had an unofficial understanding; Anne had been too young when we lived at Middleham, and Warwick kept his daughters pure and upright, for he knew what valuable pawns they could be. Regrettably, neither was I was some noble Galahad swearing an oath of chastity that bound me to Anne and no other; by the time I was sixteen I had lain with…a few women. Do not mistake me, I am not my brother the King, who could charm the habit off a nun and probably did so on occasion, who sees both maid and goodwife as fair fodder for his appetites, but I am as weak in matters of the flesh as any other man, though I strive to be chaste and pray to Saint Anthony, who aids men with such temptations. I have two lemans, yes, two, who are more to me than just a brief tumble; one lives in the east, and one at Pontefract….but still Anne plays on me, her memory a thorn in my heart.
The King rode to the mighty church of St Paul’s, where many powerful men of the church awaited him on the steps—the Archbishop of Canterbury in his tall mitre, the Bishops of Bath, Ely, Exeter, St David’s, Durham, Carlisle, Rochester, Lincoln. Even the Archbishop of Dublin had come.
Edward walked proudly to the Rood altar and there on bended knee offered two torn banners to God. As he knelt, a figure surely as powerful as one of the great angels, the Easter hymn Salves Feste Dies rang out through the nave of the building, making all our hearts soar in elation. It was Easter; the time of Christ’s resurrection, and with His blessing, our cause had been resurrected from disaster.
After thanksgiving to God was given, Edward went to Westminster to be with his family. George slunk away to his townhouse, L’Erber, but I accompanied Ned upon his journey, revelling in riding at his side, two brothers of York in victory.
At Westminster, he was greeted by the Queen, who sat like a cold proud lily under a canopy of cloth of gold. Ignoring protocol, Ned strode up to her, pulled her to her feet and kissed her mouth with abandon, despite the whispers of those in the hall. The onlookers were delighted, no matter that they pretended shock; it was unusual for a King to marry for love, and yet Edward had.
As for my feelings about their marriage…at first, I was too young to care much. Edward was a god to me, a perfect knight like Roland, and knights in tales always married the ladies they loved. Then, as I grew older and met my brother’s bride, I decided I did not like her overmuch. She was beautiful, with silver-fair hair and sleepy, deep eyes that begged a man to take her to his bed, but a cold air of calculation clung to her that marred her allure, and her huge family were unpleasant and grasping, always seeking what was not their due.
I had heard stories of how she ensnared my brother by standing in the forest near Grafton Regis, holding her fatherless boys by the hand as he rode past. My brother loved women, they are his weakness, and he was used to having any he chose; but Elizabeth would not lie with him unless they wed. It was whispered he even went mad and put a blade to her throat, but still she refused; marriage was the sole price for her body.
Ned paid that price; they wed in secret, with only a priest, one witness, and Elizabe
th’s mother, Jacquetta, who some thought a sorceress that toyed with dark arts to gain a King for her daughter.
But no matter her background, Elizabeth Woodville had produced children for Ned, and most recently had given him a much longed-for son, Edward, born in the Tower while Ned and I were exiled in Bruges.
Ned was shouting for the sacred royal child now, eager to see the fruit of his loins, the future heir to England. “Where is my boy?” he roared. “I want to see my son!”
Servants scurried and the baby carried from his nursery, wrapped in swaddling and voluminous cloths of gold. Edward snatched him up as Elizabeth Woodville watched with a self-satisfied smile. Edward lifted up the wriggling red-faced infant, which, in common with most young babies, looked like a goggling frog.
“Is he not fine?” Edward shouted, his voice booming across the room. “Your prince, your future King!”
The gathered assembly cheered and clapped while Edward beamed and held up the babe and kissed its fat cheeks.
“Richard!” Ned called to me. “What do you think? Is my son not perfect?”
“Ah, thoroughly so, your Grace,” I stammered, not knowing well the art of flattery. “It…I mean…he…seems a sturdy little fellow.”
Edward roared with laughter and turned to Elizabeth. “Ah, my poor brother, he is tongue-tied! But no matter. I tell you, Bess, he was such a fighter…never have I seen such doughtiness in one of such youth. You must have heard tell of it.”
“Oh, yes, Ned, we’ve heard many things here in London,” said Elizabeth Woodville, her heavy lids drooping over her eyes in that languorous way she had. “It’s been hard to tell, though, what is true and what is not.”
I, Richard Plantagenet: Book One: Tante le Desiree Page 3