Beyond them Heloise glimpsed a second bishop, whose horse’s rein was fisted by a servant. An old, diminutive bishop, round-shouldered from too much study, whose expression looked cramped as if both his mind and body ached. For an instant the narrow eyes beneath the furrowed brow intercepted hers and then he seemed to catch an inkling of the confrontation about to ensue. A sense of hope flooded to her across the metal-plated shoulders that sat between them, as if the man’s soul were stirring after a winter of sleep.
Then Rushden was at Heloise’s stirrup, lifting Ned from her. “You are to make your bow to our new king, my lord. Come, madam!” She hastily dismounted, tidying her veil. The crowd parted for them as he carried the child through.
With fair hair and a long build, the royal stripling in his mourning of blue doublet and matching cote sat upon his white horse, fair as a faery prince. She tried to send him a message of peace as he studied his uncles’ bent heads in confusion. His grace of Gloucester rose from his obeisance, brushing off a straw that was clinging to his mourning hose. Buckingham, with a brief scowl at the offending cobbles, lowered himself dutifully.
“Where is my uncle Rivers?” repeated the boy.
“Your highness, we shall explain if you will but step back inside your inn with us. See, here is Lord Stafford come to greet your grace.”
Buckingham reached out a hand to his son and so did Gloucester. With impeccable dignity, Ned took both dukes’ hands and stepped forward until he looked straight up into the chill blue eyes of Edward V. He showed no fear of any of the horses and Heloise said a silent prayer of thanks that the lesson had been well learned. His father lifted him to kiss the reluctant royal hand held out to him.
“Now I have done this, can we please have breakfast?” The five-year-old’s voice begat a rumble of laughter from the newcomers, but the prince’s men stood like statues, waiting for the blond man’s orders.
“No haste, is there?” Buckingham asked the prince affably, straddling his son on his waist with difficulty since he played at father so rarely. “My lord of Gloucester and I have not yet breakfasted nor, I will be sworn, have you, your highness. What say you we return to the lodgings you have just left and talk while breakfast is being cooked?”
Edward V had little choice but to dismount. It was then that Gloucester threw his arms about him, clearly close to tears. The boy accepted his sympathy and, with an uncle at either elbow and his tiny cousin at his heels, he returned to the inn he had quit hours earlier. The press of people following them was so great that Heloise was almost cut off from her charge, but Rushden and Sir William flanked her.
“Where is Lord Rivers?” she asked her husband.
Under arrest, he mouthed at her. Jesu! There could have been a bloody battle then and there; the dukes had cleverly avoided a public quarrel that would have sent panic circling out from Stony Stratford across England.
Inside the warm, fetid atmosphere of the inn, Heloise could still sense the mortal fear pulsing in the minds of the prince’s retinue, but one stocky man was distracted from his dilemma as he noted her standing with her hands protectively upon Ned’s shoulders. His brow creased beneath his black hat and he pushed his way across.
“You are not my aunt Haute.”
Within the instant, Rushden stepped between them, his hand against the man’s shoulder. “You have more pressing matters to concern you, Haute.” His other hand, behind his back, signaled Heloise to retreat swiftly.
Moments later, he located her in refuge behind Knyvett. “Dear me,” he remarked behind his gloved fingers, “you have a poor memory for your relatives. There are a pair of them in this very room.”
“You might have warned me, but thank you for helping me just then.”
“Lady, I am warning you. The Hautes are cousins to the Woodvilles.” But he seemed too exhilarated by the currents of danger and excitement that eddied around them to share her fresh anxiety. Dear God, they were like hunting dogs that had tasted a kill, these Stafford and Gloucester men.
Against the inappropriate backdrop of a wall that was daubed with Adam and Eve sprinting before cherubims armed with flaming swords, their leader, hands clasped behind his back, was telling his royal nephew how saddened he was over King Edward’s death. The entire room hushed to listen to Gloucester’s eloquence. The careful phrases were well couched but one could have been pardoned for wondering if Duke Richard had missed his vocation as a bishop or a schoolmaster. The sermonlike flow of words recalling his loyalty to his brother was listened to in respectful silence but then the floodgates of his dammed-up grievances burst and out poured a righteous indictment of the Woodvilles, of how they had encouraged the late king to whore and glut when he should have been coddling his belly and administering the realm.
The prince’s half-brother, his cousins, and his retainers, with everything to lose, at last began to interrupt. But Grey had lost his only opportunity. Now as the beleaguered young man opened his mouth to refute his guilt, it was Buckingham who tersely bid him hold his tongue while Gloucester, more passionate than Heloise had ever imagined possible, reached a predictable peroration: “Arrest them!” His voice was hoarse as he stabbed a jeweled finger towards the escort leaders.
“No!” Grey flung himself on his knees before the prince, grabbing him above his spurs. “Brother, save me, for the love of God! Stop them! Stop them! This is treason!”
“Why is that man on his knees?” Ned tugged at Heloise’s girdle tassels.
“Treason!” exclaimed Buckingham righteously, grabbing the torch of fury from Gloucester’s exhausted breath. Ebony taffeta rustled assertively as he gestured like a player towards the street. “This—this army—can have no other purpose but evil towards my lord of Gloucester.”
“These men are here to honor me, perhaps, Uncle Buckingham.” But sarcasm and the icy Woodville gaze were merely blunt weapons in the hands of a twelve-year-old. “As for treason,” the prince added, his gaze falling with concern upon his desperate half-brother, “I am sure her grace my mother and Uncle Riv—”
“The ruling of this land is not women’s business,” Buckingham exclaimed indignantly. “Your father left no such authority to your mother. Your so-called friends have deluded you, your grace. Up!” He wriggled a shiny bootcap menacingly at Grey.
“Nephew,” said Gloucester gently, his virtuous anger fled. “Did they not tell you I am to be lord protector until you come of age?” The boy’s mouth quivered. “Do you think that after fighting for your father and holding the north for him over these many years, I should do you harm? I am only carrying out my brother’s will, God rest his soul. Shall you be content with your father’s wishes or not?”
Respect shone in the boy’s eyes. “Yes, of course I am content with the government my father wanted but—”
“Then, Lord Grey,” Gloucester cut in with a quiet courtesy that was more natural to him than anger, “would you and your companions be kind enough to submit yourself to custody until further inquiries have been made?” There was no choice for Grey or for Haute and the others, who were escorted out.
Edward V sniffed: “I am sure you are wrong, Uncle Richard.”
“I sincerely hope so, your highness,” answered Gloucester. “It was Lord Hastings who warned your uncle Buckingham and myself of the danger.” That drove away any argument ripe upon the boy’s lips.
“Come on, lad, let’s have some breakfast.” A man unused to children’s company, Buckingham came in too heavy-handed. “Lady Haute, bring Lord Stafford. He has drawn a picture for you, your highness.”
The prince, as tall as his uncle Gloucester, sent a scornful glance at Ned and then he glared at Heloise as though she were a clod of dung upon the instep of his shoe. “Pray remove him, mistress whoever-you-are.”
“Her name is Lady Haute,” corrected little Ned stoutly.
The cold young gaze fixed upon the wooden arch that crested the ceiling. “Mind your manners, Lord Stafford,” he declared, “you are not duke yet. Come, Uncle Gl
oucester!” Gloucester pulled a face at Buckingham and the two men followed their unanointed sovereign up the staircase.
Ouch! Rushden grimaced, returning Heloise’s lift of eyebrow. If they listened at the new king’s breast, would they hear a heartbeat?
“I do not like him. He is a very rude boy,” exclaimed Ned, fists coiled. “And it was my best picture!”
“Kings are allowed to be bad-humored, especially if they are in mourning.” Heloise crouched down to look him in the face, tickled him in the ribs, and whispered, “and I think your manners are far superior.”
She sat him beside her on the settle beneath the window and produced from her purse a length of knotted string, which she wound around her fingers and then pulled free as if by magic. Ned was too little to copy her but it took his mind off the insults.
With a sudden burst of nervous conversation, the two dukes’ retainers mingled better now that they had enjoyed a common enemy and come through unscathed.
“Mistress.” Sir Richard Huddleston bowed above her, sat down unasked beside the boy, and, taking the string, showed the child a simpler trick. “Now go and show Sir William.” The child scampered off. “It seems to me Lady Haute has lost weight and shed at least thirty years since last I saw her.”
Heloise smiled and momentarily set a finger to her lips. “Ask your friends not to give me away, please. I pray you, how is madam your wife?”
“Mistress, a realm is at stake and we are dealing with the housekeeping.” He observed that her husband was glancing suspiciously in their direction. “To be brief, his grace of Gloucester asks if you could let us know anything untoward. New alliances. Whether any of them”—he glanced towards Rushden, Knyvett, and the other Stafford knights—“are ever closeted in secret talks. In return, my lord protector will do his best to convince Holy Church your marriage must be annulled, and we shall find you a different husband.” The child ran back to her and clambered onto her knee. “Think about it, my lady.”
Rushden homed upon her like an arrow after Huddleston left her. It would be pleasing if he was jealous.
“What did that man want, madam?” he demanded coldly, though his hand tugged Ned’s hat playfully enough to tease him.
“Renewing acquaintance. He brought me word from Dionysia. She is at Middleham.”
“You never told me that.” He cast a glance about the room and regarded Heloise speculatively. “How many more of Gloucester’s people here do you know? It could be useful. Why are you glaring at me, madam?”
“Because I now know what it feels like to be a tenez ball,” muttered Heloise.
“Boing, boing!” shrieked Ned and had to be removed.
IT WAS TEDIOUS WAITING. THERE WAS LITTLE BREAKFAST TO GO round and while the dukes placated the prince upstairs, Heloise tried to keep Ned content. She was halfway through telling “St. Brendan and the Whale” to Ned when Rushden joined them.
“When do we leave for London, sir?” cried Ned, grabbing the knight’s hand and swinging his full weight upon it.
“When Lord Hastings sends us word it is safe to do so.” The little boy was seized with both hands, swung in a circle, and then turned upside down for good measure.
Heloise waited until the pair of them had come to a standstill. “We are staying here?”
“No, we are going back to Northampton with the prince. There are far more beds there and it is something to do. Better than hanging round here the rest of the day with that petulant whelp.” He grimaced at the ceiling.
“For shame,” she chided, well aware that deafness was not one of Ned’s attributes. “His highness is young, uncertain.”
“My lady”—Rushden lowered his voice—“he looked at you as though you were scum.” Annoyance tightened his voice as though the insult had been to him.
“Kings can do that, sir,” she warned him, well pleased at his concern.
His face told her he would see about that.
THEY WERE ALL GROWING HEARTILY SICK OF THE ROAD between Northampton and Stony Stratford but the wind had blown the rain away and the air had become blowsy, seductive with the hum of insects and perfume of the meadow flowers.
Rushden, riding back down the column, saluted Heloise indifferently but on his return he reined in between Sir William’s horse and Cloud to tip Ned’s hat askew.
If only she might reach out gloved fingers to tidy Rushden’s wind-ruffled hair, thought Heloise, melting with pride. Astride Traveller, his serpent badge gleaming against a black velvet shoulder, her husband looked as though he had just galloped out of a legend. There was dependability in this man, she thought, remembering his protection of her, but ruthless self-interest too. You could load his shoulders and his spirit would not break, but there were sunless parts of his soul that chilled her heart. Unsatiated ambition lurked like a wolf—wild, untamable in him and Buckingham. And she disliked Buckingham. You cannot change Rushden, her common sense decreed; the treacherous stirring of her body each time he came near her had to be controlled, but the Heloise of the cockatrice and Potters Field did not lack courage.
“You look cheerful, sir,” she teased, reaching out a gloved hand to fondle Traveller.
The morning’s bloodless victory had pleased Rushden; his eyes were like quicksilver against his tanned face. “The country of French romances, this,” he exclaimed, pointing a crop towards the woods horizoning the pastures to the west, his smile roguish. Heloise’s body stirred treacherously, remembering the pleasure of his hands caressing her.
“If Elizabeth Woodville had not waylaid King Edward while he was hunting in that very forest, we might not have had this morning’s confrontation,” Heloise answered.
“The problem was that he married her,” muttered Sir William beneath his breath. “Two things to be avoided in a wife, greed and cunning. Shirt off your back in no time.”
“I assure you, Sir William, I have not had my husband’s shirt off his back,” Heloise murmured silkily, rearranging Ned before she sent a flirtatious glance sideways.
“My dear Lady Haute,” interrupted Rushden, “perhaps you have not tried.”
ONCE MORE IN NORTHAMPTON, HELOISE EVADED FOUR O’CLOCK supper, preferring to sit on a bench outside the inn and mend a tear in Ned’s second-best cote. Martin stood by to guard her against any froward soldiers. She watched as a platter was taken across the road to Lord Rivers’s inn. It was returned untouched and then went forth again, this time to the house where they were holding Lord Grey. The platter was returned empty.
While she sat watching the world pass, the fat bishop, Alcock, the President of the Royal Council at Ludlow, rode in from Stony Stratford too, and there again in his company was the mysterious churchman, garbed like a bishop but with no retinue of his own, drooping in his saddle. Heloise felt the old cleric’s mind groping, struggling to free itself. Eyes, beneath drooping lids, met hers. Help me, he seemed to be saying, bleak with despair.
“Find out the old man’s name,” she bade Martin. He returned, cheerful with success.
“Robert Stillington, Bishop of Bath and Wells. Seems that the late king, God rest ’is soul, ordered ’im to be kept in custody. Isn’t Bramley within ’is diocese, my lady?”
“Oh yes,” murmured Heloise frowning, “indeed it is.”
AT GLOUCESTER’S INN, MILES, NOW THAT THE DANGER WAS temporarily in abeyance, felt like celebrating. A breach in the Woodville-Yorkist wall after all these years of waiting! The Rushdens would be powerful again as they had been under Henry VI.
“Now you, sir.”
Miles tried to concentrate as Ned—permitted grudgingly into the prince’s presence—pushed the walnut halves back along the table. Obediently Miles slid them in a figure of eight, covering them with his palms. “Which one now, little lord?”
“There! There!”
The child’s excitement drew a royal scowl. “Can you not play outside, cousin!”
Miles took Ned back to Heloise and returned to wait on a bored Harry. Gloucester had finished signing his
dispatches to London and was suggesting the prince might wish to reward some of his household back at Ludlow. But there was no manual for being a lord protector.
“It might be advisable for you to practice your new signature before you sign the order. A wobbly script denotes indecisiveness and the people want a strong king.”
Parchment and quill were set before the prince. The boy wrote Edwardus, hesitated, then added Quintus. His handwriting, Miles noted, was anxious and the script sprawled, large and untidy, barely legible.
Harry was getting fidgety, clearly frayed with listening to the schoolmaster oozing out of Gloucester. “It is said you can read a man’s character from his writing,” he remarked, examining the raw royal signature with a feigned interest.
“Indeed?” replied Edward haughtily. “I have never heard that before.”
Miles watched Harry keep a snuffer on his temper. The prince was a Woodville to the thick skin of his heels. Did the brat not notice he was turning Uncle Harry into an implacable enemy?
“You write something then, Uncle Richard.” Dipping the shaft into the inkwell, the prince handed the quill over.
Gloucester smiled round at the amused audience, was pensive for a moment, and then in small neat writing scratched out Loyaulte me lie. “Loyalty binds me.”
“Yes, I know what it means. I did not quite waste my time at Ludlow.”
“But it means more than that, sire,” replied Gloucester gently. He wet the point again and wrote R. Gloucestre underneath. “I took the motto for my own when your father made me Duke of Gloucester and now I am pledging my loyalty to you.” He bracketed the motto to his signature in eternal synonimity.
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