I had not seen either of my natural children at birth, since they were born far from where I lived; they had been fat, crawling infants by the time I first saw them. “Jesu, he is so small…” I breathed. I eyed the wet nurse with apprehension. “Does he drink? Is he hale?”
“He’s little but has a hearty appetite, Your Grace,” said the woman. “We’ve put honey on his gums to give him more taste for his milk and it seems to be working. He’ll grow.”
I turned to Anne, took her hand and squeezed her fingers. She felt weak, so weak, her fingers slipping through mine. “You have done well, Anne, so well. Our Edward. Edward of Middleham.”
“Edward. I can hardly believe he is real,” she whispered. “He’s beautiful, isn’t he?”
I thought all babies looked much the same, but I would not say so to Anne. “Yes, he is. Rest now, my Lady, you look exhausted.”
“I am. I feel I could sleep for a year.” She closed her eyes. Her face looked drained against the newly laid-down linen sheets.
I glanced over at one of the attending midwives and said in a low voice, “The Duchess…she is well, is she not?”
The midwife hesitated, and then said slowly. “Aye, your Grace, as well as can be expected. Her hips are small…the birth was hard, and she bled much, somewhat more than normal.”
“But not so much….” I could not finish the sentence.
“No, your Grace, I think not. But it is Our Lord’s hands, as ever. The next few days will be telling; it is when women sometimes develop the fever.”
“I wish you had not mentioned that to me.”
“You are a forthright and honest man, my Lord Duke,” the midwife said. “I thought you would appreciate being treated in kind. I would not lie to you.”
I gazed into her frank, earnest face and inclined my head. “My thanks for your plain-speaking, mistress. It seems we must keep praying.”
I glanced at Anne on the bed and willed her to live. That last time I had done such a thing was when, as a little boy, I had watched my father ride from Baynard’s to go north to Sandal Castle and face the forces of Marguerite of Anjou. I had begged Fate, begged God, to let him win; even more importantly, I begged that he might live. My prayers had not been answered…
The baby, named Edward for his uncle the King, was baptised the following eve in the castle chapel. The priest blessed him, dropped grains of salt into his mouth, anointed his head then dipped him into the richly carven baptismal font. He screamed lustily, which pleased me well; it showed his lungs were strong despite his small size. The coolness of the font’s water concerned me, however, as the late October chill could be felt leeching through the castle walls, and I was glad when Edward was safely and warmly wrapped in his baptismal gown of pearled white linen and placed back into the arms of his wet-nurse.
Then his nurses carried him to the nursery, and I, still wound tight as bowstring, unable to sleep after the day’s traumatic events, returned to the chapel to go on my knees in thanksgiving for the birth of a healthy son.
Anne recovered from her travail slowly as the midwife had warned, but thank Jesu, she did not catch the terrible childbed fever that claimed so many women’s lives. Forty days after the birth of Edward, she emerged from her lying-in chamber, ready to be churched. Together we fared to the castle chapel, Anne wearing a veil of pure white damask and bearing a lighted taper in her hands. The candlelight fluttered over chinks in the stone walls, dancing on Anne’s long, fair lashes and on the gemstones sprinkled on her veil.
As was customary for husbands and wives before the churching had taken place, we were assigned separate places within the chapel. Anne stood demurely to the right of the altar while, clad in surplice and stole, the priest walked towards her. At his approach, she knelt before him and he sprinkled holy water upon her in the shape of the Cross. “Enter thou into the temple of God, adore the Son of the Blessed Virgin Mary who has given thee fruitfulness of offspring. May the peace and blessing of God Almighty, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, descend upon thee, and remain forever. Amen.”
Anne rose and gave the priest the traditional offering of the chrisom, the robe our son wore at his baptism. Then she turned toward me and smiled shyly under her veil. Once outside the chapel door, half-hidden in the dimness of the hall, she reached out and clasped my fingers, once, briefly.
Anne was well, my boy was well, and life would go on at Middleham.
John De Vere, Earl of Oxford, held out on the ice-bound crag of St Michael’s mount for several months while his supplies dwindled and his men sickened. In February, he finally surrendered. George’s bravado withered utterly as his ally begged the King for his life and a pardon. He sent a constant barrage of letters to Edward, protesting his innocence: I have been deceived by Oxford’s sly tongue…my army was really going to join with yours, Edward…Richard is to blame, I know he loathes me…
I returned to London to meet with Edward about the seemingly endless confusion about Anne’s lands, which regrettably meant I also had to meet George. After his many threats, it was with trepidation we gazed at each other across a table in Ned’s council chamber. George glared sourly at me; he seemed to have aged, his good looks dulled, his skin yellow, perhaps from the drink he loved so much.
“A good day to you, brother,” I said with false cheeriness, casting him a smile that was not from the heart. “Good to see you have, ah, returned to the fold yet again. I hope you enjoyed the hospitality of my castle of Farleigh while you were uttering threats against me.”
George choked on the mouthful of claret he was imbibing; it spilled onto his doublet, ruining it, for it was a light yellow. “Well, I lost Tutbury!” he yelled, his voice coming out womanishly shrill, as it often did when he was particularly peeved. “I liked that castle!”
The Crown had reassumed Tutbury in the autumn; hardly my fault but it seemed in George’s addled pate that I was the source of all his misfortunes and hence responsible for his losses.
“Ah, Tutbury,” I said archly. “I heard about Tutbury. Was there not some local scandal about a whore and fourteen members of the garrison? My, my, George, you really weren’t watching what your men were doing behind your back, were you? Or were you planning to join in?”
“Of course I wasn’t going to join in!” he bellowed. “How dare you, Richard, you little hypocrite! I’m not the one who has a troop of bastards…”
“Hardly the same as having a harlot parading about my castle causing mayhem…and making you and your garrison a laughing stock for miles around.”
“Silence!” Listening to this exchange with a pained and weary expression, Ned pounded the table with his fist. “I told you both I had enough of this wrangling. This dispute will be settled today and forever more. The remaining lands of Anne Beauchamp will be divided between both daughters—now. I have thought of a way this can be done.”
George began to sputter. “This is unfair, Edward. I have been running the lands well while they’ve been in my care, have I not?”
“Yes, it certainly sounds like it…” I retorted with sarcasm, folding my arms over my chest.
“Shut up, both of you!” ordered Ned. “George, you cannot keep all the Beauchamp lands; I have told you this already. The whole idea of any division is unconventional because Anne Beauchamp is still alive, and although she is a traitor’s wife, as Dickon once reminded me, she is not herself a traitor. Therefore, I have an unusual solution to this troublesome matter. The Countess of Warwick will be declared dead, and all her lands divided permanently between Isabel and Anne, her daughters, and hence between you two, their husbands!”
“Dead!” George’s voice rose even higher. “You’re going to kill the Countess?”
“Don’t be stupid, George!” Edward snapped. “Do you never listen but always act the fool? I said she would be treated as one dead…not that I would make her truly dead.”
“It is unorthodox and men’s tongues will wag for a long time,” I said, “but it could indeed work, c
ould it not?”
“I am glad at least one of my brothers can understand what I am trying to do,” said Ned, looking hard-eyed at George.
“How is the old witch the Countess anyway?” asked George. He had never got along well with Anne Beauchamp, who tried to stand up for her daughter against his excesses. George did love Isabel, though, in his own way…but George’s way was not quite the same way as that of everyone else. In George’s world, George came first, by a long chalk.
“Well enough,” I replied. “Dotes on her new grandson…since he is her first.” George glowered, having but a daughter, Margaret. “Spends money like water, like most women.” Ned smirked ruefully at me. “She had a golden tablet made without my permission, some religious icon or other. Ha, the Countess will empty my coffers at this rate.”
Edward snorted with mirth; even George’s lips turned up for a second before reverting to their more usual pout. Faced with an intractable Ned, some of the malice seemed to be draining from him at least for the time being. Well, Edward was being more than fair and dangling some choice lands before him, more than he was offering me, truth be told. Sometimes my sovereign’s behaviour perplexed me, for it often seemed that George was rewarded for inexcusable behaviour that bordered on high treason. But it was not for me to question the King…
By the time I sought my home in the Dales, George seemed satisfied, if not happy, as much as George was ever satisfied. The Countess of Warwick was declared legally dead, and the only thing now left regarding the much-debated lands was to have Parliament confirm their division.
I had thrown one parting shot at George before I departed for home: “George, one last thing I must say to you! A warning.”
“What?” he frowned. His fingers were twitching near his dagger-belt.
“I never again want to hear you spreading rumours about my marriage. Anne was willing, and you know it. Just because she was your ward, does not mean she was your possession. If these rumours do not cease…it will indeed be war between you and me. Do you understand? And I do not mean across a bargaining table.”
“So be it!” He flapped an arm wildly, like a petulant boy. “She is yours; she’s borne your brat, she obviously wants to be with you. But, one thing you cannot argue with, Richard…” His eyes glittered. “You did not wait for a dispensation from the Pope. That means your marriage could be challenged, and not just by me.”
“I did not wait when we wed, that is true,” I admitted. “But I have something to tell you, George…Only a few weeks ago, the dispensation from the Holy Father finally arrived. So let’s put an end to this foolish talk now and forever!”
I walked away, smug, as he glared at my retreating back. I thought he might throw something.
“Richard!” As I settled back into my private study at Middleham, I heard Anne’s voice. Turning, I saw her walking towards me, her faced flushed with happiness. A nurse accompanied her, holding the baby, who was not quite so tiny now. With a curtsey, she handed him to Anne who then placed him on my lap where he gurgled happily. I was not quite sure what to do with him; he was still much too small to throw in the air and catch or to dandle, so I just propped him up and let him slobber on my rings. He seemed fascinated by the flashing gemstones.
“I am so glad you are back,” said Anne. “I missed you, as ever. Little Ned missed you.”
“Hopefully, I will be home for a while now that George is satisfied.”
“I hope so too.”
“How is your mother, the Countess?”
“Well. Why? Is something amiss?”
I thought I would keep quiet about Edward having her declared legally dead, at least for now. I imagined the Countess would not be greatly impressed by the news, and Anne might be distressed on her behalf. Two upset women wandering around the castle would be uncomfortable. In good time, they would be told.
“Just inquiring after her health,” I lied. “These northern climes can be harsh on older folk. And how are you, sweeting?”
“Well enough. A little cough, as I have most winters. It is abating.”
I picked up my son, who had started to drool and fidget, and carefully handed him back to his nurse, who wrapped him up in a warm fur. Annoyed by being so bundled, he began to grizzle. I nodded to the woman. “Leave us.”
The nurse departed and Anne barred the door behind her. She came to me and we kissed and she sat upon my knee, and lay across me like some wanton, for all that it was only mid-afternoon and we were not even abed. I ran my hand over her flat belly, feeling the fire rise in mine. “Any sign of a brother for our Ned?”
She shook her head. “It’s too soon, Richard; it’s not all that many months since Edward’s birth. It can take time. Maybe it is for the best if it…takes a little while. His was a hard birth.” She then looked at me, frowning. “Besides, you’ve been away. I cannot get pregnant on my own.”
“No, you cannot…that is true,” I said. “We will have to rectify that small problem very soon, won’t we?”
“Yes.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
CHAPTER TEN: THE BRIDGE OF PICQUIGNY
Agincourt….
It was supposed to be like Agincourt, full of glory for England.
Instead, the only thing remotely resembling that great battle was the incessant rain, falling in heavy sheets over the dull grey and brown countryside. Men say it rains a lot in England, but it was raining just as heavily in France and had been for days.
When Edward announced his intention to invade France, a rush of excitement had raced through my limbs. Many French provinces once belonging to England had been lost due to bad governance and an invasion would give us the chance to reclaim them and teach Louis the Spider King a lesson. Quickly I gathered my indentured soldiers, paid by the head—over a hundred men at arms and a thousand archers, all wearing the badge of the White Boar. I even brought in extras; men had flocked to my call from York, Pontefract, Helmsley and beyond.
George’s contract was for the same amount of soldiers, and as he gathered them together, it became clear why Edward had been so lenient with him despite his recent treachery—he needed the might of both his brothers to support him in his military endeavour. No division could be allowed to split us when we marched upon France.
Miserably I rode through the French rain, feeling it running down through my armour, down my back. My horse’s breath steamed in the unseasonably cold air; so did my own. Near me, my herald, Blanc Sanglier Pursuivant, started sneezing, and my banner hung down like limp, sodden ribbon.
“Jesu, it is supposed to be July!” I murmured between gritted teeth. “Where in God’s name is the sun?”
It had hardly shone since we arrived in Calais, our great force with a total of 11,000 archers and 1500 men-at arms. We had been so elated at the prospect of great victory that the weather was the last of our concerns, however.
Drenched to the skin, we travelled to a townhouse in St Omer, bringing cartloads of gifts for our sister, Margaret of Burgundy, who was to meet us there.
Margaret—Meg—was my older sister, a tall woman of greater stature than beauty, but with a strong, pleasant face. Intelligent and shrewd, she ran much of Burgundy single-handedly while her husband, Charles the Rash, dashed off on constant conquests. They had no children, and as they spent very little time together, were unlikely ever to have any. Instead, Margaret took Mary, Charles’ daughter from his first marriage, under her wing and treated her like a daughter.
Upon meeting us, Margaret kissed and cosseted George, who had always been her favourite brother, being so close in age. George was like a little boy under her blandishments, and soon could be heard bragging about the latest addition to the Plantagenet family…his son and heir, Edward, born that February. According to George, never was a child born with so much beauty and potential; I doubted this very much, from the rumours I had heard. However, Meg showered him with congratulations, and bestowed great gifts on his family, and at length George wandered out of t
he room gloating over his presents of fine wines and plate.
Meg finally got round to greeting me, holding me at arm’s length while she gazed critically with her deep hazel eyes. She towered above me, taller than any woman I had ever known, made even taller by her elaborate headdress. “You’ve grown, Richard…a bit.”
“No, I haven’t,” I said. “You try to flatter me, Meg.”
“Well, you’ve filled out then.”
I glanced doubtfully at my thin arms…well, maybe I had. Slightly. “Perhaps.”
“You are married now. And have a son.”
“Yes. My boy is called Edward for our brother.”
She gave a short, barking laugh. “A family of so many Edwards! But that is to be expected….though confusing. How is mother?”
“I don’t see her much. She has retired to Berkhamsted, lives almost like a nun. Continues to study the mystics.” I glanced around the chamber, peered at the empty doorway behind Meg. “Where is your husband, the irascible Charles? He was supposed to meet us here with you, was he not?”
A little muscle flickered at the corner of her small, neat mouth. “He’s been delayed, Richard.”
“Delayed?” My brows lifted. “When he was to meet the King? Ned won’t like this news. Where is he, Margaret?”
She sighed; I could hear her frustration. “He has gone off on his own exploits, as ever. He is besieging Neuss.”
“Neuss! Whatever for?”
“Because that is his custom,” she snapped with anger, although I knew not whether her ire was directed at her absent husband or me. After her outburst, she softened, leaning over to kiss my cheek. “Be patient, little brother. He will come; he will support Edward’s army. How I have missed you…let us talk of happier times. Tell me about your little Edward…”
She was trying to distract me from my annoyance over Charles’ absence and I let her. I just hoped, for all our sakes, that her husband would stand true.
I, Richard Plantagenet: Book One: Tante le Desiree Page 19