“Your grace.”
“I suggest two things, however, lass. Will you hear me?”
“Of c-course,” she stammered.
“Good.” He straightened, pleased. “Firstly, if your marriage has not been consummated, I suggest you permit me to find you another husband, but before you give me a decision, give yourself time to consider. A month at the least. Is that good sense?” He waited for her nod. “I am glad you think so, because I have to tell you that Sir Miles stated this afternoon that he has every intention of fulfilling his betrothal vow to Rhys ap Thomas’s ward.”
“But he—Jesu!” Dazedly she stared at him as her dreams disintegrated; the pearl brooch on his black brim shimmered in an unsubstantial world. “If my father had not interfered . . .” The words, wrenched out, held no healing, for her heart was bitter.
“Oh, little lass.” Richard of Gloucester stooped before her and clasped her hands. “Never say you have grown fond of the fellow. Holy Paul, I can find you a fine Yorkist with a bloodline back to the Conqueror or a handsome, prosperous London merchant if it pleases you better. In the meantime, I should like you to remain with your family until I send for you. Perhaps when my lady duchess comes south, you may return to us, little cockatrice, hmm?” He tilted her chin up.
“Yes . . . if you please, my lord. Thank you for your care.” He smiled and withdrew his hand. “But . . .” her voice trembled, “it . . . it is hard when someone whom you believe is a f-friend betrays you.”
He drew breath to answer and then thought better of it. “There is someone who desires to see you before you leave.” Heloise’s heart leapt, hoping it was Rushden. She deserved that at least but it was Ned who hurtled in.
“My lady.” Little arms flung themselves about her, pinioning her with butterfly gentleness against the settleback. “Please do not leave me.”
De la Bere stood behind him. “I have brought him to say farewell.”
“SIR!”
Miles, sitting on a bench alone in the inner courtyard of his inn, raised his unhappy head from his hands at the sudden shaking on his shoulder. Seeing Ned at his elbow, impish eyes red-rimmed, he bit back a terse dismissal. Behind the child at a distance, de la Bere coughed and seated himself with his back turned.
“I have just come from saying f-farewell to Lady Haute,” the boy gulped, swallowing back his tears. “M-my lord father says I am to go back to Brecknock without her and I am not to gainsay him but I’ve not been wicked.” The small lower lip quivered rebelliously. “B-but it has to be my fault. She looked so unhappy and she was crying.” He searched Mile’s face uncertainly for help.
“It was not your fault, little lord,” Miles answered wearily, trying to hide his own misery. “Lady Haute’s father has just been killed.” He kindly drew Ned before him and took the little hands in his.
“M-my father says that I am never to see her again.” The little boy stared solemnly, his blue eyes glazed with further tears. “I love her, Sir Miles.” Jesu, Miles felt as though his heart would break. “Can you not make my lord father change his mind?”
“Me?” He rubbed a calloused thumb over the child’s fist, his voice husky with humility.
“You like her too, don’t you, Sir Miles?”
“Yes,” swallowed Miles. “I like her very much but I . . .” He shut his eyes, trying to stanch the pain, the hollowness. “I cannot help you, Ned. I am sorry.” Little hands jerked away. Opening his eyes, he found the thwarted child ugly with anger.
“You and my father want her but you won’t let me have her.”
Oh, God, how much had Ned eavesdropped? But what did it matter anymore? Harry knew it all now. Unhappily, he let the child run from him. But Ned stopped and turned, examining something in his hand.
“I forgot,” he said nastily. “Lady Haute said I was to give you this.”
Something metal hit Miles’s cheekbone and spun into the dirt—the garnet ring that had adorned Heloise’s marriage finger.
“MAKE CHEER, MAN.” HARRY, HIS GOOD TEMPER RESTORED now that he had Miles back on his gauntlet like a tethered hawk, leaned from his saddle and clapped him on the shoulder as they rode out of Northampton next morning in the prince’s retinue. “You made the right decision. You do not want to be in Gloucester’s pocket. A shame ap Thomas fell foul of him but no matter, he will come round in a day or so. ’Sides, there may be richer pickings ahead.” Oh, Harry was damnably forgiving now, a right Job’s comforter!
Miles thumbed the garnet ring beneath his glove. Trust me! Ha! What a jest that had been. How Heloise must despise him! Oh, he should have made his peace with her, but Gloucester and Harry—God curse them—had cleverly ensured he was tied down answering the Northampton coroner’s questions while they parceled Heloise and her coffined father back to her family. Then there had been the chaplain, playing message boy, informing him he was to have no more truck with Gloucester’s new ward. The lord protector, curse him, had been swift as lightning in snatching control of Ballaster’s wide resources. Guardian indeed! Itching to cream off a lucrative interest to make up for losing the loan, no doubt, and Miles would wager his soul that Gloucester had no intention of ever letting Ballaster’s vast resources disappear into the Rushden ledger. No, Heloise would be sold off to someone “reliable,” some fawning Yorkist who licked Gloucester’s boots. Christ forbid! He could not bear the thought of another man even touching her.
“Stop chewing the cud, Miles,” muttered Knyvett as they rode knee to knee. “Would you jeopardize a prosperous future for the sake of a wench? Harry has forgiven you, so make the best of things.”
But Heloise’s soft hazel eyes haunted him throughout the journey. Each hay meadow they passed made him daydream of tumbling her. The bluebell wood they rode through conjured possibilities of delightful dalliance. He could only sigh with relief when the royal procession arrived at St. Albans.
The great monastery there had been forewarned, and the abbot’s house—all insects chased out with pennyroyal, scrubbing brushes, and ardent prayers—was at the disposal of the noblest of guests while the lesser beings cluttered the adjoining guest house and overflowed cheerfully into the town. Richard of Gloucester was happily playing uncle and the prince had been gratified—publicly by the address from the townsfolk and privately by a large bowl of luscious cherries all to himself. Only Harry and Miles needed placating.
“This journey is becoming a pilgrimage through my family’s defeats,” the duke groused, rising from the visitors’ prie-dieu, tossing his dressing gown to Pershall, and mounting the steps to the abbot’s second-best bed.
“And mine!” muttered Miles, who had pulled the long straw over whether he or Latimer should sleep on the trundle bed in the alcove by the garderobe, shifted morosely to the bed’s middle. “I hope no one starts a fire,” he jibed, scowling at Harry’s red hair looped in linen twists. “If anyone sees you looking like that, they will never let you within a mile of Westminster.”
“Wait, your grace. One of ’em has come out.” Pershall, like a diligent nurse, retrieved the damp scrap from the oxhide rug and wound it back in place.
Harry was still grumbling as he thumped the pillow: “First Northampton, and then today dear Uncle Gloucester had to take the brat across the St. Albans battlefields. The precocious whelp was smirking at me. Asked me where my grandsire had been slain. And there is Barnet still to come tomorrow, a Yorkist victory conspicuous for my absence.”
“Since you were only sixteen at the time, my lord, surely . . .” Miles broke off wearily.
“That is not the point, is it?” The duke plucked at the abbot’s insignia embroidered on the bedcurtain. “Gloucester was leading the vanguard at eighteen. He will know every poxy molehill on the field and be able to fill in all the gore and glory to his heart’s delight. By supper there will be a martial halo around his head and the whelp will be snuffling out of his hand like a lap dog.”
“Can we not get some sleep?” suggested Latimer from the corner, but the duke conti
nued in a fierce whisper: “I am out in the cold, Miles, and I do not like it one jot. Every time the brat looks at me in that arch way of his, I can see his mother in him. Nudge Knyvett, for God’s sake!”
Miles elbowed Sir William, who was already snoring like a sty of porkers, onto his side, while Harry spat on his fingers and pinched the candle flame.
“I guess we had better pray that the queen is too cowardly to leave the sanctuary.” Miles extracted a spike of lavender that had snagged beneath the pillow and javelined it across Sir William. It fell short of Latimer. “Gloucester is in your debt, my lord. He will protect you.”
“Oh yes, my wondrous lord protector,” sneered Harry. “The trouble is I want him dependent on me, not the other way round. Once we reach London, he will have Hastings and Howard and all his other friends flocking to polish his bootcaps. I shall be as redundant as a flea on a corpse.”
“I am sure your loyalty will be rewarded threefold, but if you could keep his grace somewhat anxious . . . Suggest he should summon more followers from York.” Buckingham made a face at him and jerked the curtain across to keep out the moonlight from the shutter slats. “By the by,” Miles added, his politic mind beginning to turn once more, “my w—” No, best not mention Heloise. “Someone,” he said carefully, “pointed out to me that Bishop Stillington was traveling with Bishop Alcock’s retinue like a prisoner.”
“Yes, I noted that too. Mind, the poor wretch looked as though he was in dementia. It explains why I hadn’t heard of him since he fell foul of King Edward when Clarence was put to death.”
“Have you ever wondered why King Edward punished Stillington, my lord?”
“Yes, and why he executed his own brother,” added Harry, loosening the laces of his nightshirt. “You are right, it is curious—why should Alcock, the queen’s man, be still guarding Stillington? Pity the bishop’s brain is addled. You think it worth making inquiries in London?”
“Certes, I do.”
“If Stillington had his wits, he would be the bishop dealing with your annulment, would he not?” Binding insult to injury, Harry continued: “Could Mistress Ballaster have put the evil eye on him?” It was tempting to grab the Plantagenet pigtails and hold a fist under the Stafford chin. “You know it adds up, does it not? Hag’s hair, potions, cat, and young Bess said she had a strange look at times as though she was seeing things. Bewitched us both if you ask me. Gloucester’s chaplain wants her examined on her Articles of Faith. Miles? Miles?”
GOD’S TRUTH, THE SMELL OF POWER WAS A HEALING VAPOR! Shading his eyes against the hurtful brightness of the morning, Miles drew rein on the hill and felt the Rushden serpent in him stir. Ahead lay the selfish city of London—the unpredictable powder keg of the kingdom. A calligraphy of walls, spires, and towers on the horizon with the tall letter of Paul’s against the hazy sky, higher than anything else man-made in the entire realm. He glanced at his duke and saw his own emotions mirrored. Mentally they slapped palms and prayed that the long years of waiting were at an end.
“What in God’s name is that?” Harry’s face, of a sudden white as whale’s tooth beneath the black beaver hat and the imported ostrich feathers, froze as the drumming reached them from the wooded valley.
“It seems as though we are about to be either welcomed or attacked,” murmured Miles, then bowed as Gloucester rode up with his nephew and henchmen. Beneath a smile, the Rushden blood was running cold; what if the queen had managed to best Lord Hastings after all?
Edward V looked across at Harry, his cornflower eyes feline beneath the blue Burgundian cap and creamy plumes. “You think it might be my lady mother riding to welcome me, Uncle Buckingham?”
“Won’t that be a blessed miracle if it is,” Harry replied but his knuckles were tight upon the reins as the Stafford and Gloucester heralds rode down the hill to investigate.
Deo gracias! Relief flooded through Miles when the scarlet velvet and black cap of the estate of the Lord Mayor of London emerged from the trees with a caterpillar following of aldermen in scarlet and city worthies in mourning violet with sprigs of rosemary pinned on their shoulders.
LONDON, THE FLOWER OF CITIES! FLOWER, NO! MILES SMELT the city’s odor long before they reached sight of it again at Aldersgate: not just the smoke issuing from the thousands of chimneys but the stinking ditches that surrounded the city, oozing the filth and the detritus into the innocent streams. Hunger was fraying his temper as they traversed the drawbridge into the city but the press of people was a heady antidote. The battlements were iced with citizens cheering so loudly that he could hardly hear the city bells ringing out their welcome. Many of the earls, arrived for the coronation, were waiting on caparisoned steeds with their glittering standards and retinues. Miles recognized Suffolk, Lincoln, Kent, each bowing low as the prince passed before they swung their horses in behind the dukes. Golden chains of office gleaming, jewels flashing in their hats, they made a glistening sable train for the royal fledgling.
The procession followed a circuitous, poetry-hindered progress along Cheapside and then back along Watling to the reception at the Bishop of London’s palace, and in every street liveried guildsmen and apprentices ran alongside tossing up their caps. Chains of flowers hung betwixt the gables, pennons decorated the rooftops, bright cloths cascaded from every window, and maidens, blushing blossom pink, tossed garlands. The prince was wreathed in early roses, white, of course, for York, his shoulders besnowed with blossom. As he waved, the wind played out his sleeves, blue and gold like a kingfisher’s wing, and the crowd roared its loyalty.
Sweet Christ, the boy would be a saint not to have his head turned. There were huzzahs also for Gloucester but few for Buckingham. Harry was not well known yet—but he would be, vowed Miles, trying to see him as the crowds would: handsome and striking with the red-gold hair (no longer curling) bright against his sable collar. Would they be offended by the knops of gold that belied the mourning or the nosegay held closely to the ducal nostrils at Paul’s churchyard, where the excess of reeking armpits was strongest? Miles sympathized, trying to hold his breath as the odor of the charnel house added a bass note to the already sweaty air. But better this than a few damp Brecknock aldermen and a scatter of rounded-up Welshmen.
He brushed a scatter of petals from Traveller’s mane—Heloise would be amused to hear how—
Suddenly the glory and his pleasure diminished. It took two to tell a story.
Seventeen
“I never care if I set eyes on it again but here’s to Wales!” exclaimed Harry, bashing cups with Miles and Knyvett. Three damnably long weeks since they arrived in London and Miles was weary from carousing and being careful with anyone who mattered. It had been edging curfew tonight when they arrived back at Harry’s London house, the Manor of the Red Rose in Suffolk Lane, but they had really something to celebrate.
“Justiciar of North and South Wales! Thank you, Gloucester! I could almost wish Lord Rivers at liberty so I could gloat.” Harry gestured Pershall to remove his boots. “Dame Fortune at last is playing godmother but if that royal brat tries to make me appear a Philistine one more time, I shall turn rebel. ‘Oh, have you not read the Institutes of the Emperor Justinian, Uncle Buckingham?’ I could kill him.”
“Still early days,” consoled Knyvett.
“Pah, if Gloucester lets the child be crowned next month, the boy will immediately invite his mother out of sanctuary and she will have our heads. And another thing, Gloucester will not be able to hold Rivers and Grey hostage much longer. The royal councilors are already muttering about conciliation and, ooh, we have to please them. What do you say, Master Sagacity?”
“Perhaps we have not gone far enough,” suggested Miles and let that droplet swirl in their minds.
Buckingham swaggered to the window, hands on waist, and swung round. “I want my Bohun inheritance which King Edward withheld from me,” he declared through clenched teeth. “The devil of it is that it can only be given by a king, a friendly one, and it is not within the p
ower of a lord protector to make the grant.” He glanced at Miles. “Now if Gloucester were to wear the crown, he would hand it over gladly but this Woodville whelp will not.”
“Just so,” Miles agreed, twisting the garnet ring. “Leave the matter with me, my lord.”
“Ah, now I think on’t, you will be relieved to know that your erstwhile wife has been brought down to my aunt of York’s household. Dr. Dokett tells me the deceitful creature is consumed by guilt for her father’s death and is thinking of taking the veil. Gloucester is not pleased but if that is what the woman has decided, it should speed the matter of your severance.”
No wonder he had received no answer from Northamptonshire. The bewitching bane of his existence was but a short boat ride along to Paul’s Wharf. Becoming a nun? The trouble was it might just be true.
A SCRAWLED, OVERDUE NOTE AND AN UNEXPECTED WHITE rose of peace were delivered to Baynards Castle, but the plethora of prayers and penances in her grace of York’s household had left Heloise as implacable as a caged-up lioness. It was true that Gloucester’s mother, the Duchess of York, had been compassionate but Heloise, younger than her grace’s companions by some thirty years, felt she might scream if she had to endure another pious reading from Walter Hilton’s Scale of Perfection or St. Bridget’s Celestial Revelations. She loathed the hushed conversations over meager helpings, the snoring naps, and the inflexible regime of devotions. Stirred by Dr. Dokett, they were trying to net her soul. A silk chemise in exchange for a hair shirt? As for self-scourging—No with an illuminated capital! But her joints ached from hours of kneeling and it was a wonder that her rosary beads had not been worn down to a nothingness. Miles Rushden could go hang. How could she have ever considered him as a permanent husband at Northampton? She must have been moon-mad. Three weeks it had taken the knave to remember her existence. Well, Myfannwy was welcome to him. She could decorate him with leeks and daffodillies and bed him in a sheep byre.
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