I, Richard Plantagenet: Book One: Tante le Desiree

by J. P. Reedman

  “But now your high destiny has been taken away, you…you are…”

  “Married to the man that father first thought of for me, though the King denied him. Mother, I love Richard. I liked him as a child, as you well know, but now I love him as his wife and would have no other. I am happy being back at Middleham, and pray our lives here be long and fruitful and that I bear him this child safely and then many more besides. Let us leave it at that.”

  The Countess was silent. I do not know if she was content with Anne’s impassioned answer.

  But I was.

  Spring stretched into summer. The Countess settled in; she even began to warm towards me, when she saw I would treat her with due respect, and, I think, her presence was a comfort to Anne as she grew large and cumbersome, uncomfortable and sometimes tearful.

  Anne and I had taken to sleeping in separate quarters, as was proper in her condition. I found it difficult being apart from her, and spent much time hawking on the moors, riding to Jervaulx Abbey to pick out fine horses for my stables, or travelling through my various holdings to attend to the needs of the people who relied upon me. Frequently I travelled to York, establishing a good relationship with the Mayor and Aldermen; for the most part, they were honest, forthright men whom I admired. Plain-speaking and without deviousness, which I admired.

  The city entranced me, with its Roman walls, Shambles and towered bars. The Minster of St Peter stood pre-eminent over all the houses of God and there were many of these, the prime ones being the great Abbey of St Mary’s, richest in the north, Holy Trinity priory and the Augustinian Friary at the Lendal, where I often stayed to enjoy the monks’ 600 books. There were also the more modest religious houses of the Dominicans, Carmelites, and Friars Minor; the Maison Dieu that cared for poor men and women, and the hospital of St Leonard’s.

  The town’s delights were nigh endless if one had money to spend—Stonegate had goldsmiths of note and shops that sold theological books, and a thriving market hummed around the stone cross paid for by one Mary Braithwaite for the good of her soul. More shops lined the Ouse Bridge, near the Mayor’s council chambers, and candles burned eternally in the wayfarer’s chapel of St William. Foss Bridge, near the fisheries, was another shopping area, where I could order fresh fish for my table.

  I could even overlook that my father and brother’s heads had mouldered in shame upon Micklegate so long ago. If the city had supported Lancaster in those evil days, I was determined that, with diligence and care, I could soon turn it to the Yorkist cause. What greater tribute could I give to my sire and to poor Edmund?

  As much as I loved York, the city had its darker side too, as with all cities. It stank ferociously in summer; and animal and human waste piled high into some back streets making them near impassable. In Shambles, the butchers were careless about hurling offal into the gutter; feral dogs prowled, chewing on rancid meat and stray bones and snapping at passersby. The whole area reeked of rotted flesh, enough that one had to press a sleeve across the nose to keep from gagging.

  Unsavoury areas also abounded, where harlots and procurers plied their trade—Bedern, Gropelane, Ogleforth, Goodramgate, all near the Minster where towers consecrated to the holiness of Christ cast long, accusing shadows over the carnal goings-on below.

  Right near the church, immoralities took place in the notorious Dragon Inn in Lop Lane, run by an old, red-wigged bawd called Margaret Clay; she had plied her trade for years, in and out of trouble with the law, but always returning to her business after spells in gaol. I will admit, with shame, that Francis, Rob and I fared to the Dragon once as youths, our curiosity spurring us on. We were not sampling the wares on offer, however—none of us had any money!—and when Mistress Clay realised we were just goggling adolescents without a penny between us, she chased us with a stick from her house of ill repute!

  Now, as a married man, I prayed to Saint Anthony to give me constancy and not fall into Edward’s trap of lusting after women other than my wife. Harlots did not hold much interest; after I left Warwick’s care, John Howard had taken me to the stews once, thinking it quite necessary for the education of a young man...but I was uneasy and shy and found no pleasure in it. I preferred women I could talk to, women who did not make their living on their backs. I never had any trouble finding a bedmate as a youth, crooked spine or no, but sin was no longer a burning obsession in my mind. The days of youthful folly were over. I wanted to be a good husband as well as a good lord, and have the fidelity and devotion in my marriage that my parents had.

  Returning to Middleham, I continued with renovations of the castle, raising the roof above the Great Hall to form a clerestory that would allow fresh air and light to circulate. I needed something to occupy my mind, for more disquieting rumours were drifting up from London. John de Vere, Earl of Oxford, was out at sea, playing the part of pirate. His troubling presence kept Edward on the move across the south and east of England, watching the coasts for trouble.

  When the call to array came, it was hardly unexpected. Hastily I gathered the men of Yorkshire in preparation for a summons to march south. Ned thought John de Vere might well land ashore and invade; and George was supporting the exiled Earl’s every move. Oxford’s numbers were an unknown quantity, but suspected to be substantial, and Edward knew George had plenty of soldiers ready to do his bidding. I hated Clarence passionately at that moment, this careless, selfish brother living in my castle with his wife and newborn daughter Margaret, whom he hardly seemed to bother about.

  Anne came to me late one night after I had spent a long, hard day in preparation for war. I was readying for bed—though I knew there would be little sleep for me, with my mind racing over the forthcoming fray. Weary, white-faced, she laid her head on my breast and I held her. “Why now, Richard?” she sighed. “It is like the Fates conspire against us. What if anything should happen?”

  “Nothing will happen. Do you really think George could prevail against Edward and me?” I tried to sound confident, but it was not George I feared but John de Vere, a doughty warrior and renowned tactician.

  “Anything could happen.” Anne’s voice was flat. “We all know that fate can be capricious. One day alive…the next dead and lying naked on display so that onlookers can gawp. Like my father.”

  “That’s not going to happen, Anne,” I said quietly, and as I let my hand slide over her growing belly, I prayed to Christ, the Blessed Virgin and all the saints I loved that what I said would be true.

  Oxford’s ships sailed to Cornwall, landing on the rocky eminence of St Michael’s Mount. With a party of fierce armed men, the Earl stormed the small fortress that dominated the top of the crag and took it. Word spread across England that de Vere was attempting to rouse the rebellious men of Cornwall, with their strange tongue and outlandish ways, while sending to the King of France to bring further backing for his endeavour.

  At the same time, George made his move, calling his numerous troops to arms. He tried to be clever, the slimy little bastard; he spoke no word against Edward, for that would be treason, but boasted that he would avenge himself on me, the Duke of Gloucester, for all the wrongs I had done him. What these ‘wrongs’ were remained vague. The ‘wrongs’ of wanting to marry my wife? Or, should I say, not allowing George to pilfer her inheritance and keep her as a despised prisoner.

  Edward was not fooled, though, and he was ready to take on both Oxford and George. On tenterhooks, I waited in the north, preparing to march west with all speed.

  The final call to battle never came. Oxford was known for his cleverness in war, but luck had not favoured him since Barnet, and he failed sorely in this latest attempt against the House of York. The Cornish were not interested in his rebellion, and the French king, Louis the Universal Spider, shrugged his uncaring Gallic shoulders and turned away.

  Worse for Oxford, he seemed to have forgotten one important thing…supplies. St Michael’s Mount was a tidal isle, often cut off from the shore; when it was not, a long cobbled causeway joined it t
o the mainland at Marazion. No foodstuffs grew on the Mount in the sea-salt air; therefore, all victuals had to be carried across the causeway or brought in by boat. It was simple for Edward to barricade the stony path that led across the sands to the shore, then he could send his navy out into the bay to circle Oxford’s ships and halt a retreat by sea. Soon, surrounded on all sides, John De Vere and his companions would have two options, starve to death or surrender to the King…

  George’s threats against me evaporated like mist before the sun as he realised his ally had failed utterly in his attempt at raising rebellion in the west of England. Once more, he threw himself on Edward’s mercy, blaming me as usual, and using his persuasive charms to keep him and his family from any losses. The question of the lands became open again, but at least there would be no battles and no bloodshed. I could remain at home till the new year when we had to thrash out this situation for once and for all—and if it could not be done by legal means, then there would be thrashing indeed, and I swore that George would come off the worst from it.

  CHAPTER NINE: THE HEIR OF MIDDLEHAM

  The screams haunted me.

  I could hear them, the whole castle could. In my private study, I attempted to go about my daily business with my secretary John Kendall, but I could not concentrate. The words I wanted to convey would not come; I sputtered and so did the ink on the parchment.

  Anne was trying to give birth to our child. Earlier in the day, the first pains had gripped her; she had taken communion then retired to her bedchamber with her women, her mother the Countess, Percy’s Joyce and other friends, her half-sister Margaret, Warwick’s bastard daughter, and the hired midwives. The women had loosed their hair, shed their belts, opened the shutters, and unlocked the chests— unbinding everything so that the ties that bound the child to the womb would also be severed. It was a strange ritual, one that I, as a man, did not fathom.

  I prayed that Anne’s travail might be swift, but my prayers went unanswered. The screams came, raw, animal-like, making my gut lurch. It seemed insane that I should be so affected; a knight who had ridden into battle and split men’s heads with my axe, who had seen fallen soldiers with their guts outside their bodies and limbs slashed off, screaming for help, begging for death to end their agony… but a woman’s screams, heralding an event that would, God willing, be a joyous one in its completion, affected me far more deeply.

  Wiping my hand across my forehead, I took a sip of watered-down wine, and gestured to Kendall. “Enough for today, John. Leave me now.”

  I glanced at my squires too; eager, attentive, like a pack of little dogs, infected by the air of nervous anticipation that had descended over Middleham. “You lot…you are dismissed. Stay outside in the corridor, where I may call you, but I wish to be alone.”

  John gathered his things in his inky fingers. He was older, had a kindly face, looked concerned. “Are you all right, Your Grace? Can I get you anything?”

  “No…no. I shall be well. All will be well.” I spoke firmly, but there were doubts, horrible thoughts, churning in my mind. I nodded toward the door.

  Once my secretary and the squires had gone, I went to the window embrasure and leaned in it. November hung nigh, and the nights were drawing in; the trees in the valley stood bare as skeletons and the first frosts blighted the land. Dead leaves skittered across the old fortification that lay on the hill above Middleham, the earthen castle built by the Conqueror’s kinsman, Alan Rufus; I wondered if children still played there on the ramparts and in the water-logged ditch, and told tales of ghostly knights and wandering spirits, just as Rob, Frank and I did as boys…especially at this time of year, drawing near to the Feast of All Souls. Soon there would be soul-caking and peasant children carving turnip lanterns, and the night-mists would be augmented by the rich smoke of burning leaves.

  And soon if God smiled upon us, there would be a new member of the House of York.

  But, Christ’s Nails, those screams! Surely, surely the midwives could do something for Anne, to ease her travail….

  I heard a scuffling sound in the corridor, a light rap on the door. I jumped, gathered some decorum, and said roughly, “Enter.”

  Anne Beauchamp entered the room. Unlike the other women attending the birth she had kept her hair covered, but I noted she had removed her girdle. She looked much heftier without it, and a trace of sweat gleamed on her brow. Her face, however, showed me nothing as I eyed her speculatively.

  “Do you bring me news, Madame?”

  “No, your Grace, but I must ask you, since I would rather not ask Anne at this time…Has my daughter made provisions?”

  “Provisions?” I frowned. “What do you mean? Speak plainly, Madame.”

  Her lips tightened and her eyes narrowed, and I could tell she was thinking her son-in-law was a fool. She spoke to me then, not as a lady of fallen fortunes speaking to a royal Duke, but as Warwick’s wife speaking to the young feckless boy Dickon Nobody, born to be nothing. “I am asking you, Richard…has Anne written her will?”

  “Her will!” The words burst from my lips and I strode towards the Countess, knocking over the goblet on my desk. Its contents splattered on the flagstones; blood red.

  She sighed in frustration. “It is customary. A woman should make sure her affairs are in order with every birth. You young people…” She had clearly forgotten who I was now, was lecturing that hapless boy who was long gone. “You are all the same! Thinking life is all about feasting, dancing, hunting, fancy clothes and bed-sports! You forget how close death can be, often standing at your very shoulder! It is dangerous for women to bear children, Dickon, not all have the hearty constitution of your mother, and even some of her many babes died…”

  Shivering, I crossed myself. I could just about remember my tiny sister Ursula, my mother’s last-born child, who died of a sudden fever, aged two. One moment gurgling and tottering about the castle nursery, the next lying cold and still in the chapel, surrounded by a ring of ghostly candles.

  “I take it Anne has not made a will, then,” muttered the Countess sourly. “I will have to have it seen to, although it is hardly the best of times. But needs must.”

  “Lady, tell me, and do not hold back. Is everything as it should be with Anne? She…she cries out so….”

  “So it always must be; such pain and travail is the curse of Eve. First children are often slow to be born and Anne is a frail girl, small in her hips, which can make her travail more difficult.” She edged away from me, towards the door. “I must go, your Grace. My daughter needs me.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” I asked desperately.

  “It is not for men to do anything, your Grace.” Her tone was curt as she stepped out into the corridor. “You did your bit at the conception. Just ask the Blessed Virgin and St Margaret for Anne’s safe delivery. And, I pray you, stay out of the way of women’s work.”

  The door closed.

  As the night progressed I took myself to bed for there was naught else I could do. I let the fire gutter and did not call for the servants to relight it. Restive and feverish, I wanted no such cloying warmth. With the household settling down, the kitchens growing quiet and no beasts or men in the courtyard, Anne’s cries seemed louder, more frantic and laboured, echoing down the corridors and passing through the walls and doors to torment me.

  Alone in the centre of the great bed I had shared with Anne, its heavy velvet drapes lovingly decorated with my wife’s arms impaled by my own, I tossed and turned. Sleep eluded me, and in frustration, I leapt up and stalked around the chamber like some trammelled beast. After a while, my legs and back began to ache, and I leaned against the wall, shutting my eyes and pressing my burning hot face against the icy stonework.

  When. Would. This. Be. Over?

  And, suddenly, it was.

  There were no more shrieks or cries. The castle was silent.

  Silent.

  And I knew then…I just knew.

  Anne was dead. Anne and the child were both de
ad.

  Outside, I could now hear an ominous new sound, the clatter of feet hurrying towards my door. The bearer of ill news, surely.

  A knock sounded, harsh as the hammers of Hell in the stillness that had descended over Middleham. I bid the message-bearer enter, keeping my voice even. I would not show weakness, for her sake. I was a Plantagenet, descendant of kings.

  One of the midwives, a fat, ruddy-cheeked woman, waddled in and curtseyed low. Not Anne Beauchamp as before; no doubt the Countess lay prostrate with grief somewhere within the castle, mourning her lost daughter and grandchild.

  “So…is it over?” I asked, my voice rasping from my constricted throat despite my best efforts.

  “Aye, my lord, that it is.”

  “Was someone able to baptise the child? And my wife, the Duchess of Gloucester, is she at peace now? Was a priest summoned…before the end?”

  “Eh?” The woman’s brow crinkled in perplexity and she gazed at me as if I had lost my senses. “What’s this talk of priests? Your Grace, her Grace the Duchess Anne is alive and asking for you.”

  “And the child? What of the babe?”

  “The child lives too. My Lord…you have a son.”

  I hurried to Anne’s chamber. Drained and ashen-faced, she lay motionless in the centre of the bed, but she managed a feeble smile as I entered the room. Her mother stood nearby, looking so pleased with herself one would have thought she had given birth instead of Anne.

  On a stool in the corner, the wet nurse sat holding a tiny baby to her breast. He was red and ugly like all babies but he seemed to be sucking heartily enough, despite his size. “Let me see him…let me see my son.” I swept into the corner, hardly able to fathom that this wizened creature in its swaddling bands, so minute he would have fit in my cupped hands had I dared hold him, was my the vessel of all my hopes, my beloved heir.