“I told you Master Green said Ned would be a king one day!” Dickon crowed. “Dada will come home now—but what will happen to Prince Edward and Prince Richard?”
What indeed? I hushed his innocent prattle. “I’m sure they’ll be treated with great courtesy.” The words rang hollow and unconvincing. The euphoria of the duke’s rise to greatness melted away. A vague memory of Jane Collins’ tale of the murdered Desmond boys pecked at my brain.
“Genevieve, will you look after Dickon? I’m going to see if Master Metcalf’s home. Tell Mistress Idley I won’t be long.”
“Of course.” She smirked at Alice.
“What is it?” I snapped, irritated by their sly, covert looks.
“Oh Nan, don’t you know what people are saying?” Genevieve giggled. “You tell her, Alice—”
“For goodness sake—” I wanted to slap her silly, pretty face.
“It’s Master Metcalf,” said Alice shame-faced. “Everyone says he’s devoted to you and—” Her blush deepened. She pinched Genevieve, turning her gurgles of poorly suppressed laughter to squeals.
I snorted with exasperation, pushing my way out of the chamber, weaving through the knots of gossiping women jostling by the castle doors like pigeons searching for scattered grain. I ran all the way to plump Elizabeth’s door in Castle Street.
“Come in, come in.” She looked as if she expected me. “Miles is here.”
My heart skipped a beat, but it was her brother-in-law, Miles Metcalf, who stood before the hearth.
“Forgive me for intruding.” Embarrassed, I turned to Elizabeth. “I didn’t know you had company.”
The table stood ready for a meal. The rich smell of roasting meat churned my stomach. I’d not broken my fast since supper the previous day. “The news from London’s addled my brain. I thought Rob might be here.”
“Sit down, sit down.” She waved podgy hands towards the settle. “Polly, fetch Mistress Forrest some wine.”
“No, no, I won’t disturb your meal—”
“Disturb nothing—Haven’t we all been disturbed today? You must stay and dine. Rob told us of some shocking sermon a Ralph Shaw preached at Paul’s Cross. I couldn’t make head nor tail of it, but it seems it caused our Duke to take the crown. I still can’t believe it but Miles knows more.” She ushered me to a seat, chattering like a magpie until the meal was served.
“Will you try some of this eel pasty? It’s our Martha’s receipt.”
A servant lad thrust food before me.
“Our cousin James of Nappa Hall said Shaw’s sermon caused uproar.” Miles Metcalf fastidiously cut his meat into small pieces with an ornate silver dagger. “It insulted the dowager Duchess of York by suggesting the late king was a bastard.” He paused to chew a morsel of veal and stab at a dish of roast turnips.
“I think everyone’s heard that tale.” I toyed with my pasty, thinking of Jack Green’s sly insinuations.
“But Stillington finally changed the succession.” Miles Metcalf set down his knife to look me in the eye.
“Stillington!” I dropped my own knife with such a clatter Elizabeth Metcalf slopped wine on the table and began to choke. “What’s he to do with it?”
“King Edward’s fancy for the ladies is no secret.” Metcalf, glanced anxiously at his sister-in-law mopping her eyes on her amber–coloured sleeve and making rasping sounds in her throat. He waited until she recovered her breath.
“Go on, go on,” she said in a croak, her face reddened.
“It seems Stillington witnessed a marriage contract between the late king and Eleanor Butler, old Talbot’s daughter.”
“But that’s impossible! Stillington was never there. I was a waiting-woman in Dame Eleanor’s household.” I spoke out heedless of the consequences, unable to believe the bishop dared to circulate this lie. “The king came to call on her about her estates. If any one could tell of a marriage between them it would be Brother Thomas, the chaplain, but he disappeared mysteriously on the day we set out for Norwich. I’m sure Bishop Stillington had him murdered.”
Transfixed, both Metcalfs stared at me.
“You were at Norwich with Eleanor Butler?” Miles Metcalf’s eyes glared gimlet-sharp.
I nodded, conscious of my racing heart-beat and dry mouth. I swallowed a hasty sip of wine. “Stillington had Dame Eleanor kept there. He would have kept me there too. He was desperate to conceal whatever relationship she may have had with the king.”
The Metcalfs leaned toward me, greedy as hounds scenting prey. I tried to gather my wits.
“If Stillington knew of a marriage between Dame Eleanor and the king, why didn’t he speak out before?” I asked, daringly.
Miles Metcalf leaned upon his elbow, his fingers stroking his fleshy lips as if reflecting upon my words. “Indeed,” he said almost to himself.
“But if Bishop Stillington had spoken out before, perhaps Duke Clarence would have been king?” Mistress Metcalf looked puzzled.
“Elizabeth!” Her brother-in-law awarded her an ugly, sardonic grin. “You’re right! Stillington’s always been a master of intrigue. Remember how he nurtured Clarence’s friendship until that foolish gentleman was put to silence? Aye, and endured a brief imprisonment himself for incurring the late king’s displeasure—” He leaned toward me once more, a spark in his eye. “It looks as if Stillington’s been biding his time to speak out. No doubt there are others who’ve similar secrets to reveal.”
“Stillington wanted me to say I’d witnessed the betrothal between Dame Eleanor and King Edward. He had me taken to Pontefract for questioning.”
Elizabeth spluttered something, but I fixed my gaze on the congealed mess on my trencher.
“And did you?” asked Miles Metcalf.
I took a breath before lifting my head to stare him full in the face.
“It doesn’t matter what I said then or what I say today,” I answered boldly. “My Lord of Gloucester’s the king now.”
Chapter Seventy-Six
If I’d been a man, I’d have ridden off to London to find Miles that night. The Metcalfs battered me with questions until I thought my head would burst. Though I warded them off with pretended ignorance, they weren’t easily placated.
Back at the castle, filled with unease black and sinister as a storm-cloud, I wondered what Miles would say. In a fury of impotence I tried the scrying-bowl but the images blurred. Two children pressed their white faces against high windows as if to catch a glimpse of the world; a lean-faced, muttering physician wielded a pestle and mortar; and a giant of a man with shaggy black hair gnawed on a bone, wiping grease from his beard with a hand like a beast’s paw. None of this made any sense except to remind me of the Wydeville boys and the danger they faced.
Had Elizabeth Wydeville taken steps to ensure their safety? Surely she couldn’t have forgotten my warning?
With shaking hands, I laid out the cards. The Fool capered blindly, the Tower fell, the World hung topsy-turvy and the Knave of Swords turned upon his head as if taunting me. These inauspicious auguries further aggravated my forebodings. Taking up Brother Brian’s journal, I began to read:
“When I dream, I dream of Ireland, of the rich smell of the black, crumbling soil, of the pungent smell of wood-smoke, of haunted glens and gloomy crags, of ancient mountains shrouded in clinging mists, of moss under my feet, dew-spangled leaves at day-break and soft feathers of rain upon my face. And I wake with such an ache in my throat and such emptiness in my heart that no amount of prayer can assuage.”
My own throat ached with unshed tears. I remembered the priest telling me about his beloved homeland. How young and ignorant I’d been then, and how both of us had been shaped by exile and fear. The enigmatic entries concerning someone named Michael filled me with melancholy. The priest’s affection for Alan Palmer drove him to solitude in Yorkshire, just as it seemed his earlier love for this Michael sent him from Ireland to be our priest. Mistress Evans’s prophecy promised love and laughter for me, but I wished I’d s
hown more kindness to the priest. His care had lightened my burdens. Only torture forced him to betray me, and hadn’t I revealed a similar cowardice when threatened by the sinister Raymond with the heated pincers? What would Brother Brian tell me to do now?
About dawn, my head throbbing with frustration, I drifted into a heavy sleep and dreamed Miles had come home. He smiled as I rushed to greet him, enfolding me in his arms. “I’ve so much to tell you,” I said, but he pressed his hand over my mouth and nose until the roaring in my ears burst into a velvet bloom of darkness.
* * * * *
In Castle Street that afternoon I found Elizabeth Metcalf standing by her door.
“How many more men are needed for this coronation?” She pointed to the long lines of horsemen trotting down the road, the bright sunlight glinting off polished armour, sword and spur, vivid painted shield, jauntily caparisoned horse and fluttering pennant. All wore Gloucester’s device of the white boar. Behind them came the rowdy foot-soldiers, the trundling supply-wagons, and the familiar draggle of bold-faced wenches that accompanies every army.
“I suppose it’ll be a very grand affair.”
She snorted so hard her heavy jowls shook. “Aye, but in whose honour? Our Rob says London’s heaving with folk. Men will do owt for honour—even sail off the edge of the world if need be! Our noble duke, or should I say, the king, seems to think he can win folk’s favour with costly banquets. But he’s quick to silence any who speak against him. Even friends aren’t safe.”
I knew she meant William Hastings who’d been executed without even the formality of a trial. This news roused outrage at Middleham, where he’d been a favourite, and made me think of Joan laughing at his audacious flirting with Flemish Gerta in Silver Street. For all his faults, Hastings’ loyalty to York remained steadfast.
“What did Hastings do to merit such treatment? Why does our new king mistrust so many of his courtiers?”
Elizabeth shrugged. “Rob says there’s been no end of trouble in the city.” She drew me inside the door as if she feared eavesdroppers. “He told me the queen’s eldest son by her first marriage escaped from the Sanctuary and was hunted through the streets by soldiers with dogs like an animal. And did tha know her youngest was hanged at Pontefract?”
“What!”
“Aye, they kept that quiet, didn’t they?” Elizabeth’s expression unnerved me. “Rob’s always admired the duke, but all this plotting and killing—it doesn’t seem right to me. I don’t suppose thou’s heard owt from Master Forrest?”
I shook my head.
“Aye, well that’s men.”
“But Lady Anne sends regular messages. She sent me a length of beautiful azure cloth for watching over the prince.”
“Aye, she would. No one can accuse the Gloucesters of parsimony.”
I thought then of Lady Anne lodging at Crosby Place, a sumptuous house in Bishopgate said to be the highest dwelling in London. How I wished I could be with her. Elizabeth’s news offered no reassurance. Who was protecting those Wydeville boys now?
“Will tha take some refreshment?” Sensing my hesitation, she laughed. “No harm can come to the lad while he’s with his tutor. Rob’s out upon some errand but I expect him back at any moment. Come and see the arras Tom sent from London.”
“A few minutes.” I allowed her to lead me inside. “I’ve some shoes to collect—”
I admired the tapestry with its prancing hunting dogs and slender ladies riding jennets festooned with ribbons and silver baubles. Enthusiastically, she regaled me with the tale of its purchase.
“How’s the little Gloucester prince?”
“He’s the sweetest-natured child I’ve ever met. But I wish he’d grow robust like my Dickon. In spite of all the exercise they take together, he’s frail as a kitten.”
“His father was much the same as a child and both Neville girls were delicate.”
“But as for scholarship I can’t fault him. Master Bernall’s forever singing his praises. It’s a pity he doesn’t say the same about Dickon.”
We laughed together then, for when Lord Ned’s tutor agreed to include Dickon in lessons, I encouraged him to learn to read and write. But Dickon showed little aptitude. Instead he proved wilful and inattentive, demonstrating how much he preferred to be outside riding upon the moors or shooting at the butts than pouring over books.
“They can’t all be scholars.” Elizabeth Metcalf chuckled. “But it’s astonishing to think that yon frail lad is all the Gloucesters have when the Nevilles were once the most powerful family in the country. Why, old Ralph Neville had three and twenty children.” She paused, shaking her head as if troubled by her thoughts. “But times change.” She sank down upon one of the luxurious cushions. “Other families have waxed strong in their stead. Think of the Wydevilles. That witch, Jacquetta spawned sixteen children and her daughter’s borne ten to the late king, God rest his soul.” She gave me a sharp look. “Tell me, honestly what does tha make of that Wydeville marriage?”
The mere mention of the word witch made my heart jump. I grew even more uncomfortable under Elizabeth Metcalf’s scrutiny. For all her gossiping, she possessed a shrewd brain.
“You mean that the king was bewitched?” I made an attempt at carelessness.
“Don’t be so dismissive of the tale, for they were wed upon May morning—and in secrecy. The king spent the previous night under their roof. Everyone knows the last day of April is the great witches’ Sabbath. What enchantments might have been practised upon him to bind him to their will?”
“It’s just an old tale.” I swallowed hard for Elizabeth Metcalf’s face thrust close to mine and I caught the light of fanaticism in her eyes.
“I thought tha’d have something more to say about it than that,” she said, disappointed. “Didn’t tha have some dealings with witchcraft yourself? Wasn’t there that nasty business with Stillington—”
“I was interrogated about a woman I knew, that’s all.” I pressed my nails into my palms. Would these accusations of witchcraft never end? The memory of Nerys and her fiery death still haunted me. “She was accused of witchcraft at Middleham’s May Fair. Her mother was the local wise-woman in my village.”
Elizabeth Metcalf leaned back as if considering this unlikely excuse. “Someone mentioned tha’d some fortune-telling cards.” Her easy remark made me flinch.
“I used them to amuse my women friends but it was just a game. I told Bishop Stillington. In any case, I burned them a long time ago.” What an adept liar I’d become.
“That’s a pity. We might have used them to see what mischief’s working in the kingdom.” I wasn’t sure whether she was serious. Her heavy face looked grave but a slight upward tilt to her mouth suggested amusement.
Rob’s noisy arrival interrupted. Discovering me with his mother, his face lit up and I flushed at the memory of Genevieve’s giggles.
“I’ve been looking for thee, Mistress Forrest. That sour-faced nursery wench, Widow Idley, told me thou’d gone to the shoemaker’s.” He handed me a bag heavy with coins, grinning at my amazement. “Master Forrest told me to give thee that. Aye, it’s a goodly sum. He said to be sure and tell thee to get a fine gown made and buy something for the lad. Since his appointment as attendant to the late king’s bastard, he’s received an increase in his wages.”
Something in my silence halted him. The cheerful grin faded. “I suppose thou art disappointed he can’t come home?”
“Attendant to the prince?”
“No longer officially styled a prince but still treated with the courtesy due to base-born sons of kings.” He chewed a ragged nail.
“Where are the Wydeville boys?”
“Lord Edward’s still in the Tower but kept in all comfort. Besides Master Forrest, he’s several servants and a physician. The other lad’s with his mother in the Sanctuary. But there’s plans to bring him to his brother so they—”
I didn’t hear the rest. I fainted.
“This heat’s terrible.”
Elizabeth pressed a damp cloth to my brow. “Rob’s thoughtless delivering news so suddenly. When all this pother’s over Master Forrest’ll surely be recalled to Middleham.”
Her words washed over me.
How many times had I warned Miles about his loyalty to Gloucester? Why had Gloucester chosen Miles for so great an office? The money bag lay heavy in my lap. What price would the new king exact for such a royal payment?
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Richard of Gloucester was crowned with all honour on the sixth day of July. Details of this magnificent event dribbled back to Middleham all through that hot, whirlwind summer. Rumour and gossip set us spinning like hapless dust motes. The snatching of the crown kindled such passion among the people of the north, it seemed as if a great torch had been lit and its sparks carried throughout the county.
“Did tha know the coronation banquet lasted more than five hours?” Elizabeth Metcalf revelled in telling tales she’d had from Rob. “Imagine, our little Lady Anne’s queen now—I can hardly believe it.” She leaned back on her settle, florid face lit by a satisfied smile. “She wore ells and ells of purple velvet for her crowning and the king wore an embroidered cloak of purple cloth-of-gold and ermine so long Harry Buckingham had to carry it. Eh, I’d have given anything to see that.”
“It’s a pity we weren’t invited.” I feigned a mischievous smile. “But we’re much too important to fritter away our time at such grand occasions.”
Elizabeth laughed. “Well, some have profited already. Francis Lovell and Rob Percy have been made king’s officers—There’ll be some envious southern faces at court now.”
“Perhaps some of the king’s favourite northern henchmen will win new honours too,” I answered. “Maybe one will bear the name of Metcalf.”
“Well, as our Rob says, the Metcalfs have allus been loyal to Richard of Gloucester. Sometimes I wish tha and he—” She sighed. “The king mun think very highly of Master Forrest to appoint him attendant to the Wydeville lad—”
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