Her words stirred an old dream and I winced at the bleak remembrance.
“You dared to ask me, Nan, if I loved him—Marguerite’s son. I wept when I heard of his death, but more for myself than his loss. I’d been a wife for five months. All I could think was: Who will want me now?” Her tongue flicked over the tiny pointed cat’s teeth. “And I know you’re thinking— why did I marry my cousin, Richard?”
Several of the ladies were listening now. Their muttering petered into silence. Undeterred, Lady Anne continued her revelation. “Richard wanted my fortune. He and brother George worried like terriers over the Neville and Beauchamp inheritance.” Her laughter rattled through the chamber, dry and brittle as bone. Deliberately, she turned to address all the listeners, her eyes hard as shards of green glass. “It’s why dear George hid me in the Dowgate house—you all know the story—so Richard couldn’t have me. And what could I do? Fatherless, widowed, alone? What better offer would I get?” Her face assumed a fierce, hunting aspect. “Besides, I knew Richard from childhood—He was sent to train under my father’s tutelage at Middleham. I saw in him something of myself—the younger, less necessary child—Perhaps that drew us together—” She stopped suddenly. Gazing round at the astonished circle of faces, she tossed her head defiantly. “My, my, how shocked you all look! Yet you know as well as I do that such is the way of marriage among our families. Which one of you would prefer to wed a tradesman and live in a hut with a tribe of unruly brats?”
I couldn’t join in the laughter which followed. While she and her ladies gossiped of the various noble matches being made that year, I slipped away to seek Miles.
“To what do I owe this honour?” he asked, when I found him in the mews. The falconer, who gave me a curt nod of acknowledgement, was showing him a fine peregrine.
“The duke will fly this bird soon,” he said. “Young Jonas caught it as a brancher—a young bird just about to leave the nest—aye, it’s the makings of a swift hunter, this un.” Gripping the bird firmly in wiry, scarred fingers, he fanned out the broad wing feathers skilfully with his other hand so we might admire the power in them.
“Jonas said you’ve acquired some eyasses from Sheriff Hutton.”
Stroking the peregrine’s barred breast tenderly with his gnarled knuckles, the falconer gave Miles a shrewd glance.
“Aye, I may have done. But they’re not for every knave to gawk at.”
He put the peregrine back on its perch.
It watched us fiercely, yellow eyes gleaming in the white face with its distinctive black markings. The sheen on its blue-grey plumage lay like liquid honey-glaze. Tiny bells on its jesses tinkled. I stretched out a finger to touch the sleek black head before the falconer slipped on its hood.
Clearing his throat noisily, the narrow-shouldered fellow turned to address Miles. “If thou wait a piece, I’ll mebbe let thee see ‘em. I can see thi wife has a gentle way with her.”
Proudly he displayed the hatchlings with their scrawny, writhing necks and wide-stretched beaks.
“Happen the duke’ll raise some of these for hissen,” he said. “Or mebbe give one or two to his friends. He’s taken thee hawking with him afore, I tek it?” He fixed me then with his agate gaze and gave me another grudging nod. “Some wenches mek a fuss and frighten the birds. I can see thou hast more sense. I like a quiet lass.”
All the way back to our chambers, Miles jested about how I’d stolen the taciturn Yorkshire-man’s heart.
“I like a quiet lass.” Miles mimicked the falconer’s grumbling voice and caught me in his arms. “I’ll warrant the poor fellow will pine away in the mews for love of the little witch who’s charmed him today.”
I hated to be called a witch but didn’t want to dispel Miles’ good humour.
“Has the duke no duties for you?”
“When we left off hawking he dismissed us. He’s had letters from London.” Miles eased off his boots. “He seemed distracted—even out on the moors. Tom Metcalf told me there’s been talk of the king reclaiming lands in France and he’s raising money for some expedition or other.”
“More war!” I grimaced, pouring a mug of ale.
“But why has Lady Anne dismissed you so soon, dear wife?” Miles mocked me as he accepted the proffered drink. “I thought she couldn’t bear to part with you these days.”
“I sneaked away.” I grinned up at him mischievously, settling by the hearth. “She and her ladies are busy arranging matches for every single heiress in the county.”
“Aye, she’s an acquisitive head on her shoulders.” Miles loosened his cornflower-blue doublet, exposing the lawn shirt beneath, and looked thoughtfully into the fire. “She certainly urged Gloucester to bring her mother to Middleham but was it just for the old lady’s protection?”
“What do you mean?” It was the first time I’d heard Miles make a disparaging remark about the duchess.
“The Countess of Warwick possesses a fair fortune. Perhaps Lady Anne feels it safer in her husband’s hands? After all, rich, elderly widows may still find suitors—” He gave me a saucy wink. “Remember John Wydeville and the Duchess of Norfolk?”
In light-hearted manner, I reproved this insinuation as I sipped my ale. The queen’s young brother had married the ancient Norfolk dowager while still a stripling. I leaned against the warm stonework imagining how Maud would have entertained her listeners with some lewd tale of the old woman waiting in her bed while her youthful husband fondled her fortune.
“The whole of the country laughed at that match,” I said. “Even Lady Anne giggled at the bawdy jests. But our duchess isn’t above scheming herself. She may not be as avaricious as Elizabeth Wydeville but she’s very ambitious—especially for her husband. Perhaps she wanted to please him by bringing her mother’s fortune to Middleham? Nevertheless without a son she surely has little influence?”
Miles didn’t answer. Our own childlessness was something we didn’t discuss. But I could see he was considering my words very seriously.
Chapter Forty-Nine
“Did you bring the cards?”
Ever since I’d miscarried, Lady Anne plagued me to look into the cards for answers. Both of us grew frantic for a child. Though she quickened twice, I remained barren since returning from Barnard—until now.
The fruitless French expedition took both our husbands away. During their absence we spent more time together. I’d not told Miles about my pregnancy, fearing to raise his hopes too soon. Now, flaunting my swelling belly, my heart singing with excitement, I longed for his return.
“It’s so hot—” Lady Anne flapped her wide, jade sleeves. “I’ll be glad when August’s over. Did I tell you the troops are on their way home? You’ll be able to tell your husband the good news—although he may see it for himself now!”
Clumsily, I drew the cards from my bodice. They spilled across the little table, The Lovers falling into Lady Anne’s lap.
“Sit down, Nan.” She giggled. “You’ve grown as fat as a sow and block out the light.” Spite spoiled the jest. Lowering myself to the settle, I sensed the strength of envy that roused such malice and pitied her. Perhaps she felt it too for she threw me a cushion.
“Forgive my ill-manners.” She picked up the scattered cards. “I wish I carried such a burden. My Lord grows anxious about my health, but I tell him I’m well and strong.” Her laughter rang false. Turning desperate, tear-filled eyes on me, she shuffled the cards feverishly. “Suppose he puts me aside?”
Before I could respond she began to babble. “I married him in defiance of the priests without even waiting for the papal dispensation. I knew him, Nan, I knew how he stood in the shadows like me. No one dreamt of our ambitions but I believed our union would bring us great power—”
Something in this hysteria reminded me fleetingly of Eleanor.
“But without a son I’m nothing to him. I must have a son, Nan. I must!” She thrust out her chin defiantly. “And you must look into the cards and tell me I will bear my Lord an h
eir—and soon!” Imperiously she thrust them at me. “There!”
I laid them out in the familiar pattern Mara had taught, the heat of Lady Anne’s passion scalding me like steam.
“You should beware the woman who holds the greatest power.” The Empress’ grave visage confronted me. “She stands between you and your desire.”
“The Wydeville bitch.” A sneer distorted her lovely mouth. “She has two sons now.”
Flinching, I shut my eyes against her malicious outburst. As I turned the next card, two little boys with bright hair seemed to stare out at me from a barred window.
“No!”
Her cry returned me to the present. Beneath my fingers, the Hanged Man dangled from a leafy gibbet.
“Delay.” My voice rang hollow with disappointment. I lifted my head to offer comfort just as a shaft of sunlight pierced the chamber. “Spring time.” This ray of hope uplifted me. “We must wait until next spring.”
“So many months—” Her anguish pierced me like a blade. “Why is she so fortunate and I must wait and wait—?” She lowered her voice, fixing her green eyes on me so fiercely I shivered. “They say her mother’s a witch—Can’t you help me, Nan? I know you have the skill—”
Thrusting the cards into my bosom, I sketched a curtsey. “Such skill is death, Your Grace.” My hand before my mouth I ran clumsily from the chamber, retching with horror.
* * * * *
I bore Dickon on a dark November night just before my own birthday. Watching streaks of lightning sear the black skies—for I demanded the shutters be opened—I held him fiercely. Gloating, I recalled Mara’s words as I realised this child would walk under the sign of the powerful Scorpion and secretly promised I should cast his fortune to see what lay in store for him. Beside me, Jane Collins crowed with admiration and Miles wept for joy.
Nothing can ever destroy this happiness, I vowed. Like a vixen with her cub I’ll guard this child with my life.
* * * * *
The sound of his mother’s weeping followed him from the abbey. He drew himself upright, smoothing his velvet doublet, anxious to appear adult in front of his escort, shamed by the display of female emotion they’d witnessed. His sisters clung to his clothes and hands, his mother clasped him in her arms—a thing most unusual—and all the time he could think only of escape. The gloom and confinement depressed him.
Outside, the air smelled fresh. Lifting his face to the sun, he revelled in his new freedom. But where were the adoring crowds to greet him? Instead of riding in splendour to the palace, someone bundled him in a sable cloak, the stifling hood drawn over his face, and carried him through winding alley-ways. Were they afraid someone might recognise him?
Somewhere along the way the elderly prelate into whose care his mother entrusted him, disappeared, and a new guardian was appointed—a stripling with a sly face who sported a white boar badge.
The lofty palace walls filled him with alarm. No guards and no courtiers? Surely this dark, spiralling staircase couldn’t lead to the royal apartments?
Thrust into a fire-lit chamber where a bishop in splendid robes stretched out a welcoming hand, he stood on his own feet at last. Kissing the ruby ring in homage, he looked up into a hawk face whose yellow eyes gleamed fierce and predatory.
“Your brother will be glad to see you.” Something so sinister in the silky voice frightened him. He turned to run but the door slammed with a resolute thud. “Now both of you will be safe together—”
I woke in darkness sweating with fear. Beside me, Miles lay far away in dreaming of his own, his mouth curved in a smile, one hand thrown careless on the pillow. Heart still racing, I slipped from the bed.
“Mistress Forrest—”
The little wench appointed to wait on me rose from her pallet by the cradle, like a ghost. I gasped, snatching at the bed-post for support.
“The babe?”
“Sleeping, Mistress.” The girl held my arm while I stooped to peer at the swaddled bundle. “You should rest, too. You’re still weak. Will I pour you some wine?”
“I had a bad dream. I was frightened. I wanted to save the boy—”
“He’s quite safe, Mistress.” She helped me back into bed and held a goblet of wine to my lips. “New mothers often have nightmares. It’s normal to be anxious. Try to sleep while you can.” She waited as I swallowed a mouthful and leaned back with exhaustion. “The babe will wake you soon enough.”
She proved right. Startled by fretful wails, I sat up. For an instant, I looked round bewildered. Then the girl laid the babe into my arms. My heart melted at the sight of the soft mouth, the down of black hair, the huge unfocussed eyes, but even as I gazed in adoration the dream persisted, prickling my nerves.
The boy I’d seen before. A merry little knave, Miles would have called him. He’d the kind of face adults call pleasing. The sparkling eyes and red-gold hair would conquer hearts. His dress and manners suggested wealth and breeding. He and the older boy looked so alike— surely brothers? Miles laughed when I suggested they might be the Wydeville princes but somehow this made sense. The white boar badge intrigued, for it was Gloucester’s personal device. Those spiralling stairs seemed familiar too. Surely the palace must be the Tower? But what was happening and why all the secrecy? And what was Stillington’s purpose? The eager look in his eyes taunted me with its duplicity. He meant to harm those boys.
Filled with terror, I looked down at my own babe nestled close in my arms and remembered the pledge I’d made to guard him with my life. But didn’t those other boys need my protection too? If I couldn’t persuade Miles to help me find them, I must devise another way. Too long I’d revelled in my own preoccupations. “Perhaps the time hasn’t yet come.” Brother Brian’s voice reminded me of the purpose that had set my childhood dreams in motion. “Perhaps the time is now,” I whispered to the child in my arms.
Chapter Fifty
In late March, Lady Anne summoned me back to her bower-chamber.
“I’ve missed you, Nan.”
Sunlight bathed the blue and gold floor tiles, gilded the oaken panels. From the casement where her sewing women bent over their embroidery came the gentle cooing of doves. But the little duchess paced restlessly before the hearth, her book and chess pieces discarded, needlework crumpled like rag.
“I’m afraid.”
Her slanting green eyes fixed upon me. Tension gripped the slender body. “My husband needs this son. I can’t fail him again—”
“You’re young, my lady.” My eyes travelled over the almost flat belly. I attempted levity. “No need to fear. Why, even Queen Elizabeth had three daughters before she bore the king a son.”
Her pretty features twisted. “Aye, but all the wenches lived. The Wydeville women have no trouble bearing children.”
“All women fear childbirth.” I placed my hand over hers in an impulsive gesture of affection. “Why, when Dickon was born you were with the Duke in London so you didn’t see how frightened I was.”
“You never seem afraid. Dickon’s such a lusty little boy.”
The envy in her tone, the involuntary tremble of her lips, made me ache with pity.
“Such fear is natural among women of every class, believe me. But afterwards it’s all worthwhile.” With pride, I recalled the healthy, squirming body I held in my arms each day. I hated leaving him in the nursery. “You’ll see—This time it’ll be different.”
“Will it?” She bruised me with a searching stare, gripping my hand. How strong her grasp seemed for one so seemingly frail. “Will you look into the cards to see if this time I’ll bear a healthy, living son?”
I pulled my hand away, glancing at the other end of the chamber where the sewing women chattered and the doves’ croon continued undisturbed.
“Your Grace, I told you last time to be patient until spring. And now spring’s upon us.” I indicated the huddled women. “My husband’s warned me not to indulge in fortune telling. It’s not safe—”
“My lord goes hawkin
g in the afternoon,” she said. Lightly she disregarded my excuses. “We’ll not be disturbed by men-folk then. Come to my private chamber so we may speak freely.” She smiled like a conspirator. “A secret,” she whispered. The green eyes danced. Why did Lady Anne keep secrets from her lord?
I sought solace in the nursery.
“What’s put the storm-clouds in your face?” Jane Collins gave me one of her sharp looks.
I shook my head.
“Tha’ll not stop him drinking in the tavern.” She assumed Miles and I had quarrelled and I didn’t disabuse her. “And tha’ll not stop him chasing after lasses.” She folded blankets with a practised hand. “A full belly and a willing wench is all men want out of life. Oh, and a fight now and then to give them summat to shout about. I remember the Cade Riots and all the men swearing they’d follow him to the death. A lot of foolish bluster—”
“Cade?”
“Aye, Jack Cade—a rogue who thought he could put the world to rights. Raised up poor folk to disobey their masters and brought nowt but trouble. My husband and his cronies made a deal of noise but when Cade came to a bad end they shut their gobs and ran home with their tails between their legs—”
I laughed along with her. I’d no illusions about Miles’ violent temper. Too much ale made him argumentative and turned him into a braggart. But it didn’t stop me loving him. He handled a sick horse and delivered a foal with such tenderness I wept. At such times my misgivings evaporated. In the privacy of our chambers I saw a softness, an affection he kept from others. I didn’t doubt the nature of his love.
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