I was no different than they; refreshed goblets of wine kept appearing in my hand as if by sorcery. My head began to spin and the room blurred as I moved through the throng, laughing and carousing with them. With the women safely out of earshot, the talk swiftly became bawdy…talk of women we had bedded in the past, talk of prowess in the bedchamber and of a few disasters that had befallen in the same. Rob even told a marrow-curdling tale of seeking out a harlot in a York brothel—who turned out to be a man in a woman’s dress!
Martin the Fool, the dwarf hired by Rob for the festivities, decided to show us his singing skills were as good as his juggling and jesting. To the accompaniment of a lute, he sang an old and rather unseemly song about women that fitted the growing ribaldry of the evening:
“Women, women, love of women
make bare purses with some men,
some be prudish as a nun’s hen.
Yet all they be not so!
Some be lewd
some be shrewd…
go where they go!
Some be brown and some be white,
and some be tender as a tripe,
and some of them be cherry-ripe.
Yet all they be not so!
Some be lewd
and some be shrewd…
go where they go!
Some of them be true of love,
beneath the girdle but not above,
and in a hood above can shove.
Yet all they do not so!
Some be lewd,
some be shrewd…
go where they go!”
I laughed and the roomed dimmed in and out, and suddenly I felt cold and looked down and realised I had lost my clothes. I could not recall how I had lost them, or where they had gone but hoped they were safe for they were costly.
Francis and Rob were laughing at my dismay; they brought me a warm night-robe and wrapped it around me. “You look like you could use another drink, Dickon!” Rob nudged me in the ribs. “To fortify you.”
“No, I beg you, no more!” I protested, “Else I will not be able to please my bride at all tonight!”
Indeed, at that moment, the mix of food, drink and excitement curdled in my gut and I sped from the hall to the privy, my bare feet slapping the freezing flagstones. I fell on my knees, vomiting down the chute, naked under my open robe and freezing as cold air blasted up at me. Frank pushed his way into the privy, grasping my shoulders and holding up a cloth to wipe my mouth.
“I think it’s time we put you to bed with your lady-wife, Dickon,” he said, and there was a little sadness in his voice.
“And here she is!” Reeking of drink, Rob suddenly burst into the already crowded privy dragging the dwarf Martin, who was wearing a pair of huge, bouncing false breasts made out of sacks stuffed with straw.
The Fool began to twirl and sing, “Milord, give us a kiss for good luck, before this night’s out you will have a good…”
“Enough, I’ve heard enough!” Lurching over to the dwarf, I grabbed him by the collar and shoved my hand over his mouth to shut him up. “Rob, Frank, get this small fellow a coin or two for his pains. His night’s work is done.” Cautiously I removed my palm from its place across his lips. “So now we want silence from you, Master Dwarf.”
Martin the Fool bowed as Rob handed him his pay in a leather bag. “You are a true gentleman, Your Grace. You will be a fit husband for the Lady Anne, and bring her much joy, for though you are small in body, it is known you have a big….” he paused, eyebrows waggling lasciviously, “heart!”
“Get out!” I bawled in mock rage. I was too drunk to truly care. Francis, Rob, and their fellows were roaring with laughter. Tears were spilling from Frank’s eyes and rolling down his cheeks.
The lads caught me by the arms and guided me from the hall towards the staircase that led to the bedchambers. “Play on!” I shouted over my shoulder to the musicians. “And play loud! I don’t want you lot listening in!”
Reaching the bridal chamber, we were greeted by the ladies who tended Anne, washing her with sweet rose-water, unlacing her gown, combing out her long hair. Anna Fitzhugh looked indignant to see our besotted states, and with a noisy and unfeminine snort, gestured for her women to leave the room.
They hurried out, my mother’s women giggling, Anna’s as sour as their mistress. Anne was left for me, alone in the centre of the huge bed, beneath the exquisite coverlet strewn with sweet-fragranced flowers. She said nothing to the departing women, nor to me; her face was the colour of the bleached linen sheets.
As the women sought the hall, their long skirts swishing down the stone steps, the fat village priest arrived and was ushered to the bedchamber to bless the bed. Standing above Anne’s supine form, he sprinkled holy water over her and the bedclothes as he intoned in a loud voice,
“The Lord be With you,
and with thy spirit.
Let us pray!
God bless your bodies and souls and bestow His blessing upon you
as he blessed Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.”
“Amen!” All in the room reverently bowed our heads at the end of the prayer. Anne shut her eyes; I saw her lips move silently.
“Go, my children, be as one flesh and be fruitful,” said the priest and he waddled out of the chamber and disappeared.
Piety and prayer instantly forgotten, Francis and Rob let out a series of whoops and cheers, which alerted their rag-tag band of followers. Shod feet shuffled on the stairs as they came sniffing around the door, trying to peer in.
I turned to my two friends, embracing each with an arm, and smiling stiffly. “I love you as my brothers,” I said softly. “But get out. Now.”
They grinned at each other and hastened away without further ado, and I slammed and bolted the door behind them. In the hall below, I could hear ribald singing and drunken shouts, and then music started to blare, the hurdy gurdy setting up a wild shrilling as the musicians performed the Saltarello. A tabor pounded, primal, fierce, its beat in time with the growing beat in my blood…
The drink burned hot in me as I anticipated the end of my months of enforced abstinence…those difficult months fighting George in the day and on my knees praying to Saint Anthony in the long, empty nights, asking him for constancy because I promised Anne I would be true. Springing upon the bed, I ripped aside the coverlet and embraced my new wife without much gentleness.
Blinded by desire, addled and foolish from drink, I expected a match for my ardour.
Instead, Anne burst into tears.
It was as if she had struck me. Instantly I rolled away from her, drawing the quilt around myself. Like most men, I found a woman’s tears unnerving; I knew not how to respond to her emotion.
“Anne, what is wrong?” My voice shook; instantly sober, awful doubts flooded through me.
“Forgive me, Richard….” She wiped the tears running down her cheeks. “It is…Edward…the Prince of Wales, my first husband…”
I knew it! My heart sank. She had loved him, the handsome golden Lancastrian heir who fell at Tewkesbury. No doubt she secretly hated me, hated my family—slayers of both her father and her husband. Why in God’s name had she consented to marry me if her heart was set against it, when as a dowager she had only to say ‘no’? Perhaps it was just she preferred me, by some tiny degree, to imprisonment as George’s ward….Or to becoming a nun.
“Anne, what of him? Do you still…love him?”
“Love him?” She looked shocked. “Richard, I hated him. And he hated me. That is what affrights me. In our short marriage…” she swallowed, began to cry again, “he came to my bed a mere handful of times. He said I was cold. And ugly. I am so afraid you will also find me unsatisfactory.”
“He said that to you? The bastard! God’s teeth, I wish I had killed him at Tewkesbury.” Irrational anger toward the dead prince flooded me; I remembered my violent dream.
“George said you did.”
“Did he? What, by Christ, was in his stupid dunder-head to spread such
a lie? He was there, after all! Ah, but I think I see…he hoped that making me a killer would turn you against me. The devious devil. But no, Anne, I was nowhere near the Prince of Wales; he died in the rout.”
“I wish you had killed him,” Anne said with a sudden fierceness I had not seen in her before. She was no longer a calm, shy young girl, biddable and afraid; she was Warwick’s daughter, grown to womanhood, filled with the same passion and ambition that had burned in her father.
That excited me. In my heart. In my loins.
“Anne,” I held out my arms to her, “you need not fear. I do not find you ugly, I think you are beautiful.” I moved aside her flowing locks, ran my hands over her small white breasts. They fit perfectly into the cups of my hands. She gasped, trembled at my touch. “So beautiful. And if you are cold, I will make a fire in you…”
I drew her down amidst the covers, holding my lust in check while I gently explored with my hands, my lips, starting at her mouth, her neck, then moving lower. “Anne…do you like that?”
A soft sigh, almost startled. “Yes, Richard…”
“And this?”
“Yes…yes, Richard….”
“And how about….”
“Oh yes, yes…Please… don’t stop!” Her arms looped around my neck, her legs around my back.
I smiled to myself, my face buried in her hair, my body hard against her, in her. I had it all—the girl, the lands, the victory over Lancaster both on the battlefield and in the bedchamber….
We prepared for our onward journey to Yorkshire. The townsfolk of Stanford emerged from their cottages to cheer us before departure, and it was announced by the village priest that the north porch of St Deny’s would be rebuilt in commemoration of our marriage. Once the stonemasons finished their task, the porch would have an embattled roofline and be faced by a row of shields bearing the Ragged Staff impaled by the Fetterlock—symbols of the union of our Houses.
Francis and Rob accompanied us on the road for a while, and then with many fond farewells took their leave. Rob could have travelled with us, for he lived at Scotton in the north, but he declined my lukewarm invitation, though not without an irreverent quip. “You go on ahead with Duchess Anne,” he said. “I’m sure you won’t be wanting me hanging about you for days. No doubt together you will find more …pleasurable pastimes on the road than holding discourse with me!”
The road to Middleham was uneventful; Anne and I stayed in inns and manors along the way, dallied, did all that new married couples were wont to do, and finally, on a rain-washed morning, came over the moorland and saw the walls of Middleham castle gleaming wet beneath a brightening sky. Clouds were rolling back, forming a dark surround, and the banner of the White Boar flared out from the highest turret, white flame against the shadows.
Anne wept…in joy at seeing this ancient, familiar place, and in sorrow at the memories of her dead father, of a childhood long gone. I said nothing, but reached across and almost shyly took her gloved hand in mine.
She blinked her tears and smiled at me, though the smile was shaky. “You’ve brought me home, Richard. To a place I love. I will try to make you happy, as my wedded lord.”
“My dearest.” I gazed into her earnest face beneath her butterfly headdress. “You already have.”
CHAPTER EIGHT—LORD OF THE NORTH
The rest of the summer passed joyously; the most settled and peaceful time of my entire twenty years. Anne proved an efficient and doting wife, who managed our household well and whose popularity soared everywhere we went, for she was kind and good and the daughter of the Kingmaker, who had been loved by his people.
My own duties extended beyond the domestic, however: I tended the castles placed into my care, improving them for both comfort and defense, and I strove to be a good lord to the men of the north, who often came to me for aid and for justice, which I dispensed in what I hoped was a firm but fair manner.
In the Autumn, I was called away by Ned to attend parliament, riding out over the drawbridge with many regrets, but he allowed me to return to Middleham in time for Christmas. Anne greeted me as if I had been gone a hundred years, and, after we had spent a few nights dining together and I had recovered from arduous journey from London, I decided to take Anne to York for the Christmas celebrations.
We stayed at the Augustinian Friary in the Lendal, and the Mayor and Aldermen of the town came to meet with us and present us with gifts. I had my own present ready for my new wife. While in London I had commissioned a special gift for her; a gilt casket with foliate traceries and a plate upon it on graven with the French ‘For your Pleasure” followed by the initials ‘R’ and ‘A’.
I gave the casket to Anne upon Christmas Eve as we strolled in the garden of the monks at the Lendal. Snow was falling, the flakes huge, and the heavy downfall made the sky look eerily light, almost orange-hued, and the entire world seemed silent, all sound muffled, deadened. Only the Minster bells tolled slowly, sonorously out over the city. York was at peace; we too were at peace.
The ground beneath our feet glistened white; Anne’s thick winter cloak, with its miniver hood and ruff, was also speckled with whiter stars of snowflakes. “This is for you, Anne.” I placed the casket into her hands. “Your first Christmas as my Duchess.”
She looked upon it, read the inscription, and her eyes brimmed with tears. “I wish this night would last forever… this wonderful night before the nativity day of Our Lord. Oh, Richard, please tell me that you will be staying with me now for a while.”
I sighed. “I fear I will need to head back to London all too soon, my beloved. Another parliamentary meeting.”
“It is so unfair.” Her lower lip thrust out in petulance, and I remembered how young she was; it was easy to forget, since she had learned the way of a great Lady so easily. “I wish you could stay with me longer…” She took my hand, dragged it beneath her robe to lie against her flat belly beneath her belt. “How ever will we beget your son and heir if the King keeps dragging you away from me?”
“I am sure we will manage somehow,” I said dryly. Her touch made me desperate to have her, but we were assigned separate chambers while enjoying the hospitality of the monks. At home in Middleham, we had caused some whispering amongst the servants because, unlike most nobles of our status, we slept most nights together in one bed, rather than seeking our respective quarters. This practice was considered unorthodox and somewhat sinful, for gossips surmised that lust would consume us on days when relations were forbidden; and yes, sometimes we strayed and sought confession after…but in the cold northern nights it was a pleasure to lie there together, her warm back to my breast, my arms clasped across her belly, not seeking carnal pleasures, but just to be together in peace, away from the sorrows of the fallen world of Men.
I leaned over, whispered in Anne’s ear, “I would take you in the garden, in that dark spot near the cloister wall, my Lady, but some monk would probably be looking! You know monks…always looking!”
She laughed, “You are wicked, my husband. If I let you, you would become quite like your brother, I’m sure!”
“Which one? Clarence or the King?”
“Never Clarence,” she snorted. “And I do not want you to be like King Edward either!”
“No?” I teased. “You do not want me to be so popular that wealthy old ladies give me money just for a single kiss? Like they do for Ned?”
“No!” she said emphatically.
“Ah, Anne.” I turned serious. “It pains my heart to leave you again so soon. But that is the business of men.”
“I understand,” she said sadly, reaching out and stroking the snowflake stars from my dank curls, “but I will not stop me missing you, my dearest lord.”
I left Middleham in February; the winter had been harsh and the roads were still impassible in parts of the Dales. Even so, I was not glad to see London, damp and drab, with dirty slush melting in the gutters and the river a swollen, turgid tide.
My mood darkened even further w
hen I met Edward at the palace of Greenwich. He was furious, stalking around his chamber as I entered the room and went down on my knees before him.
“Get up, Richard, get up!” he bellowed, waving his massive arms in sheer frustration. He looked like he had not slept for a few nights and his face was red and flushed.
Hastily I clambered to my feet, stood like some small inconsequential thing within Edward’s massive shadow. “Do you know what’s happened, Dickon? Have you heard? Have you heard, Gloucester?”
Blankly I shook my head. “Whatever has vexed, your Grace, news of it has not reached the North.”
“It’s George! Again! ” Edward howled, and he smote the wall with his hand. I winced at the sound of his knuckles hitting stone, but he seemed to feel no pain at all.
“What has he done now?” I asked, dreading to hear of the latest follies of my inconstant brother.
“George Neville…he’s been conspiring with George Neville, God rot him. The bloody Archbishop of York!”
“George Neville!” I was surprised…but not that surprised. The Archbishop was true kin to the Kingmaker, and his mind never stopped churning…even to his own detriment. “And where are they now?”
“The meddlesome churchman is in prison in Hammes castle in Calais. But he is not the worst of it. It’s George. He has been in France, with the Earl of Oxford…Oxford, of all men, one of our deadliest foes! George even had an audience with the King of France. He has since returned to England, but is still involved in a host of intrigues. Thank Jesu I have good spies!”
“Oxford…” I muttered. The Earl had flown from Barnet when the tide turned against him, preferring not to risk death but to live and fight another day. Although defeated that day, he would come at us again, if he could—he was staunchly Lancastrian, and formidable.
“And George still attempts to bring grief to you too, Dickon. He never really accepted the division of Warwick’s lands and castles, no mater what he claimed under duress. He has been saying that your marriage is null.”
I, Richard Plantagenet: Book One: Tante le Desiree Page 15