“Amy Sadler will say and do anything to get attention.” Miles laughed, but a storm brewed in his eyes. “The wench almost brought my horse down trying to lure me into conversation.”
“She enjoys telling me she’s seen you—”
“Aye, she would.” He cupped my face in his hands. “Don’t let her goad you, Nan. I was foolish enough to flirt with her once and now she’s forever trying to cajole me into dallying with her—”
“She seems to know you well.” I met his eyes boldly and saw him flinch from the implication.
“She means nothing to me.” His glance burned. “But there’s danger in her chatter. This morning she threatened to tell the duke of your fortune-telling if I continued to ignore her.”
He laughed bitterly, then and turned me to look into the stable. “But ask the grooms here—there’s not a man at Middleham she hasn’t enticed with her pretty promises!”
The men grinned back and muttered among themselves.
“She said some messenger—”
“I know.” Miles put a finger to his lips. “Don’t spread such talk, Nan. The Duke has enough worries.” His face grew grim and closed. What secrets was he hiding from me now?
But further rumours of plague in London blew in with the cold season. They cast a cloud over the Christmas festivities and shadowed us well into the next year. In March when the news of Prince George’s death reached Middleham, Lady Anne ran mad with fear.
“Just two years old and struck down suddenly—Suppose Ned takes the sickness?”
“Your Grace, every precaution’s been taken.”
“But no one knows how to combat the plague. Wouldn’t that youngest Wydeville child have had every comfort? And yet it took him—my Lord’s just returned from Swansea. They say plague’s rife there—”
Her fears exhausted me.
“George is an unlucky name.” Genevieve sat down by me at supper.
“George of Clarence was executed and now little Prince George dies of plague—”
“It’s divine punishment.” Old Walt glowered at us. “Even kings must answer to the Almighty. No man should take up arms against his brother.”
Although we all remembered how Walt had railed against Clarence, no one dared argue with the hypocritical curmudgeon.
“The duchess asked the monks at Jervaulx to pray for her boy,” someone said.
“He’s so frail he’d never survive the plague.” Genevieve looked at me with tears in her eyes. “Oh Nan, can’t you do something to save him?”
“Your brother, Sire.”
The familiar, oily voice oozed courtesy, bubbled with underlying mirth.
The two noble boys confronted one another. The younger, as if recalling an oft-repeated lesson, knelt before the elder, head bowed in homage. A murmur of approving laughter rippled round the chamber.
The taller boy seemed clearly ill at ease. Two rosy blooms flowered in his cheeks. He coughed self-consciously.
“Please—Richard—stand up.” He gestured awkwardly. “I’m glad you’re to be with me.”
“Our mother told me I must treat you as a king now.” The younger lad’s eyes danced with mischief. Back on his feet he grinned broadly, unable to suppress his high spirits. His eyes surveyed the sumptuous chamber in one wide sweep. “Are these the royal apartments?”
“They are, indeed, the chambers assigned to all kings before their coronations.” The bishop opened his arms as if to encircle the vast walls hung with gilded tapestries, his great sleeves spreading about the boys like enormous wings. “Now you’ll have time to get to know one another before the formal ceremonies.” His yellow eyes rested on the younger boy, possessive and predacious. “Better than being kept among women, I think?”
“Will Uncle Anthony come to us now?” asked the elder. His beautifully modulated voice trembled as if at its own audacity.
“Alas,” answered the cleric, embracing all in his rich laughter, “I fear you must rely upon your Uncle Richard—”
“But I demand to see Uncle Anthony. I’m the king, and you must obey my commands.”
Laughter drowned out the boy’s protests. It grew in intensity and with it came the furious clap and whirl of huge black wings that conjured darkness.
Far away someone began to sing. The melancholy, discordant timbre of the voice echoed along distant corridors. The alien, outlandish words threaded through the darkness, filling the listeners with dread. Water dripped. A thin, sulphurous smell snaked through the twisting maze of stairs, as if towards the core of the building. And then a fog of filthy, stinking smoke billowed upward, pursued by flames that licked, and raced and roared—
“Sweet Jesu!”
Miles shook me awake.
I gulped and sobbed for breath, tears spilling from the corners of my eyes.
“What on earth?”
“A dream—a dream.” I threw myself into his arms, clutching with cruel desperation, reassuring myself of his reality. “These last weeks have been so frantic. Lady Anne’s talked of nothing but plague, I—”
“Ssh, ssh. The prince is safe enough, isn’t he?”
Miles held me in uneasy silence while the sweat cooled on my body and my heartbeat steadied.
“Just one of your bad dreams,” he said, at last.
The words reminded me suddenly and chillingly of my father and grief clogged my throat. How far away childhood seemed, and how very long I’d been running from my visions. Would I never find peace? I shook the hair from my face, rubbing my eyes and trying to laugh away fear. “Yes, yes, just another dream.”
Miles watched me wary with apprehension. “What trouble comes upon us now?”
I swung myself out of bed and wrapped my night-robe round me.
“I’m afraid we haven’t heard the last of Bishop Stillington.” Hands still shaking, I poured us both some wine. “Does Gloucester ever speak of him at all?”
“Stillington no longer has any power.” Confusion burned in his blue eyes. “Why would Gloucester have any business with his brother’s disgraced chancellor? He’s no fool like Clarence—”
“No, but he has the same ambition, if not more.”
“What are you saying?”
“Lady Anne’s spirit burns as bright as ever did her father’s and she’ll drive Gloucester to seize whatever power he can to promote their son’s interests—”
Miles snatched me to him, spilling wine across the coverlet. He pressed his hand over my mouth. “What treason’s this you’re speaking?” His eyes rolled wild. “Haven’t you warned me often enough to keep quiet? What madness has taken hold of you, Nan? You must discard these dreams. Do you want to see us both hanged?”
Shuddering, laughing, weeping, I lay against his chest, my eyes fixed on the scattered pattern of wine drops on the coverlet—like rose petals—like blood.
* * * * *
Over the next weeks, a curious sense of waiting enveloped me, as if I stood upon the great rocks above Wensleydale far removed from the everyday world, a silent observer anticipating a great storm.
While Miles remained subject to the duke’s commands, the duchess’s needs ordered my days. Beneath the bird-chatter of the ladies, I sensed her vigilance. She waited too—I felt it in the simmering, impatient surveillance that kept her taut as a wildcat poised to strike.
London lay quiet. No squabbles soured the court. No feverish calls to battle troubled the country. Discord slept.
Tripping lightly down the steps from the solar one dew-sprinkled summer morning, my mind preoccupied with letters I had for the messenger, I didn’t notice anyone.
A hand plucked my sleeve.
“Mistress Forrest?” The Duke of Gloucester held out a scroll. “I think you dropped this.”
I sketched a flustered curtsey.
“No need for haste. The messenger’s still eating breakfast in the servants’ hall.”
Confused, I hesitated.
“My wife speaks highly of you.” The duke hesitated too, equally ill at e
ase.
“I’m glad to be of service, Your Grace,” I answered lamely.
He gnawed his lip. No golden beauty shone in his care-worn face, but what intensity burned in his eyes. I sensed again the power that drew men to him. He lacked King Edward’s charm—the boisterous laughter which conjured admiration, the brazen courage which earned men’s fealty, the lazy, sensuous smiles which melted women’s hearts—but Richard of Gloucester roused a different passion. A blunt honesty shone in his face—as if he said: This is who I am. Follow me and I’ll keep my word. I realised how he’d won Miles’ allegiance. He looked into me, as if he searched for something out of reach.
“One day I may ask you to speak up for me and mine, Mistress Forrest.”
Though I bowed my head, I couldn’t answer. Around him shadowy conspirators wearing smiles like scars gathered silently.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Sunlight flooded the dale. Like a sentinel, the abbey building pointed defiantly toward the hot arch of sky. In the surrounding fields monks tended crops, watched over browsing sheep. Birdsong, bees’ drone, plaintive bleating—earthy, living sounds— accompanied this daily toil. Gurgling water plashed over ancient stone. Plain-song drifted from the chapel.
At the gatehouse I enquired of Brother Brian. “I must apologise for my intrusion. A matter of grave importance brings me here unannounced.”
My courteous manner impressed the kindly gate-keeper. Summoning one of the younger monks from stacking logs by the guest house, he directed him to take me to the infirmary.
A tiny monk with a sallow complexion raised mild eyes from the earthenware basin in which he was mixing crushed herbs and wine.
“Mistress Forrest.”
My guide’s announcement brought Brother Brian from behind a cluttered press with an armful of flasks and bottles. “We’ll not disturb Brother Ignatius with our gossip,” he said, depositing these on the trestle. “We can talk in the garden.”
Hurriedly, he led me out of the infirmary kitchen.
“I’m sorry to alarm you. There was no time to send a message.”
“No harm done.” Brother Brian managed a wan smile. “I was only after assisting in mixing potions. Ignatius won’t miss me, though I’m thinking he’ll be asking questions. Now, what brings you here in such haste?”
“News of Bishop Stillington and recent conference with the Duke of Gloucester.”
Brother Brian’s trouble-haunted gaze swept over my face. “And so, daughter, we stand in danger.”
“The king banished Stillington from court after the Clarence affair. I’d hoped never to hear of him again. Now he batters at our door. What are we to do?”
Brother Brian plucked a sprig of lavender. He rolled it to and fro between his fingers, inhaling its perfume. “Brother Silas is after praising the curative properties of this humble flower,” he said thoughtfully. He snapped off another spike, offering it to me. “It brings a gentle sleep to all who breathe its odour, eases the troubles of the mind and restores heartache.”
I savoured the pungent aroma emanating from the delicate flower-heads, remembering how Mara had similarly praised this lowly plant.
“We must be calm. We must trust our mightiest protector. The bishop won’t want to be rousing the king’s displeasure. And I can’t think the Duke of Gloucester would harm his brother. Stillington’s shrewd enough to lie low, and in the meantime we must make our own plans. Might you visit relatives in London?”
“London? Surely in London I’d be in most danger?”
“The bishop won’t look for you there.” Brother Brian resumed his gentle walk.
“But Jack Green would reveal everything! He’s a spy for Stillington and for the Duke of Gloucester and will work for whoever offers him the fattest purse. Though he’s thrown in his lot with Gloucester for now, I wouldn’t trust him anymore than I’d trust a fox in the henhouse.”
“Sadly, I must agree with you there. Already he’s ingratiated himself with Brother Silas, and Brother Dominic, our librarian. Both speak highly of his scholarship, but I’ve been after wondering what reason he has to spend so much time at Jervaulx.”
“Has he been here again?” Uneasily I glanced back towards the infirmary as if I expected to see Jack’s lithe figure slide out from under the archway.
“Go home, daughter.” Brother Brian’s eyes were clouded pools. “Keep silence, carry out your duties. I must have leisure to ponder on this dilemma. I’ll send a message—”
“But what if—”
Brother Brian took my hand in his own calloused fingers. “Be brave, daughter.” His eyes penetrated mine with a reassuring gravity. “You’re stronger than you know.”
Daughter again. Three times that day Brother Brian called me daughter. I clung to the endearment as a talisman. Fate had thrown us together the day I ran to him for protection with a mob baying at my heels. I remembered his kindness as we travelled the London road. He’d never let me down. I kissed his cheek in filial obedience. From the trellis he watched my departure like a faithful guardian. Looking back, I wish I’d spent longer with the wise, old priest, and told him the depth of my affection.
* * * * *
The walk across the moor brought no pleasure. Once I’d have revelled in the rolling landscape with its sweet-scented grass, the rugged mystery of ancient stones, the drowsy summer scents, but now I cursed the heat and the uneven paths that made my journey a trial. Sweating under my cloak I hurried home fearful as the fox that smells the hounds closing in.
“Well, Nan, you’re out early!”
A lean figure sat nonchalantly upon a rocky outcrop. Squinting against the sun, I tried to discern the features. “Who is it?”
“Why, Nan,” the voice replied, sly and smooth, “don’t you know an old friend?”
The figure executed a nimble leap from the rock and landed in front of me. With distaste I recognised the clever, weasel face of Jack Green.
“What do you want? Why are you spying on me?”
“Spying?” The silky tones assumed a mock air of offence. “Now why would I do that? I was up and about early myself and thought to take the air upon the moor. Then I saw you.”
“I’ve been to Jervaulx, to visit my old village priest. What’s wrong with that?”
“Why nothing at all.” Jack smirked as he fell in step beside me. “Except that everyone is out looking for you.”
“Everyone? Why?”
“Oh, there’s been an accident.” Jack’s smile widened. “But, look, here comes Rob Metcalf. He’ll tell you all about it.”
Elizabeth Metcalf’s eldest son, a tall, sturdy fellow with hair the colour of new rope, ran toward us, waving his arms.
“Is that thee, Mistress Forrest? Jesus be thanked! I’ve been looking all over. Thou mun come quick. Little Lord Ned’s taken a bad fall. The Duchess is fair demented. Thou mun hurry!”
I’d barely entered the nursery before Lady Anne pounced on me like a hungry cat. “You must save him!”
Jane Collins and Emma hovered by the prince’s bed. She flicked an impatient hand and they moved away.
I stooped to examine the angry bruises on the child’s face. A swelling on his brow resembled a huge goose-egg. His eyes wandered.
“The fall’s stunned him, Your Grace,” I said. “He needs rest and quiet—that’s all. I’ve seen other children with such injuries who were back at play in just a few hours.”
“But Lord Ned isn’t like other children,” she answered, imperiously. Her green eyes glittered with passion. “You must understand how precious he is to me.” She knelt beside me, the whisper of her breath warming my cheek. “He’s the heir.” Her eyes blazed with pride, the haughty Neville jaw jutted.
Tongue-tied, I winced as the enormous meaning of these words dawned on me.
“Remember you once offered me a crown?” Ambition illuminated her face. “I’m determined to have it now.”
Among the shadows something stirred. Sudden cold tingled my flesh. In that instant
I saw the future unfurl like a great, colourful tapestry. How could I tell Lady Anne I couldn’t save her prince? Fate would favour but a few and then cast all away like broken flotsam.
“I’ve always found the cards to speak true,” I said at last. “But sometimes the interpretation isn’t right.” My mind travelled back to a little dark chamber full of whispering, excited maids and a thin, quiet outsider. Even then, frail Anne Neville had astounded me with the strength and tenacity of her will. And hadn’t I foreseen greatness for her?
“Once I might have scorned your cards for trickery, but time has taught me many lessons. Now I mean to have my way.”
But many lie between your wish and its fulfilment, I might have answered, yet I knew better than to contradict her.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
The following morning I woke late, my head aching from an unpleasant dream of drowning. Finding myself alone and hearing shouts outside, I rose in haste. In the courtyard, I glimpsed Miles and several other men milling about, awaiting their mounts. Flinging on my night-robe, I ran out into the corridor.
“Where’s Master Forrest going?” I caught Guy scuttling down the stairs. “Is the duke going hunting?”
“No, Mistress.” The lad looked guilty. “Master Forrest told me you were sick. He told me to let you to sleep. He’s going to London.” He indicated the cloak he was carrying. “He asked me to fetch this.”
Snatching it from the lad, I raced into the courtyard. “Take me with you!” I shouted to Miles.
“I think Master Potter would have a lot to say if I turned up with a woman in tow.” He climbed into the saddle.
“But I’m not just any woman, I’m your wife.” I clung to the pommel. “You promised you’d take me to London one day.”
“And will do so—one day.” He plucked the reins from Rob Metcalf’s unwilling hands. “But not today.”
Conscious of the attention we’d aroused, he continued in light-hearted manner.
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