The King leaped up, throwing the pear away. Sober and furious, he faced the Earl squarely.
‘You speak against my Queen’s family?’
Warwick, shuddering with the past hour’s repressed rage, said thickly: ‘Why! I speak against all my mortal enemies, who lie about the King’s person. Earl Rivers and his knavish son, Anthony – and John, whom you saw fit to marry to my aged aunt – and Herbert, Devon, scoundrels both! I watch them fawning like curs, draining your strength and treasure. While my own folk go in the shadow, robbed of your Grace’s favour through no fault but loyalty …’
‘Enough! God’s Blessed Lady!’ cried Edward. ‘My lord, you strain my mercy to a thread. Never would I have thought you ingrate, traitor … what of your brother, then? Didn’t I make him Archbishop of York? Translated from lowly Exeter to please you?’
‘To placate me,’ said Warwick sullenly.
‘And John, your other brother – is he not Earl of Northumberland?’
‘Yes, Sire,’ said Warwick insolently. ‘For a season, mayhap!’
They stared at one another. The Earl had gone further than any dared, gambling on the respect once won in bloody, footsore days. But Edward had other, later memories, and they rankled.
‘All know–’ fury gathered – ‘that after my royal banquet for the Bohemian knights, when fifty courses were eaten, there was one who essayed himself more wealthy than the King. Have you forgotten that?’
Warwick’s face reddened darkly. He had been unable to resist temptation, not so much to insult Edward but as a thrust at the flaunting Woodvilles. At his house, the Bohemians, marvelling, had dined on sixty courses. He flew to counter-attack, saying the first thing in his mind.
‘Has your Grace forgotten the time and care spent by me in nurturing the Duke of Gloucester?’
He hated saying it. Dickon had been happy at Middleham, confused and shattered to find his time there ending so suddenly. Dickon, the precious pawn!
Coldly the king replied: ‘Yes! Well, my brother no longer usurps a place in your house, or eats you out of livelode …’ and wanted to bite back his words. Yet in that instant he recalled a rumour; Warwick had invited Richard and George to a great festival, making much of them, perchance pouring sedition in their ear. George, for one, was very susceptible … He tore his thoughts back to Warwick’s reply.
‘Gloucester ate little,’ said the Earl. ‘It was joy and privilege to have him under my roof.’
The two lordly glances met again, both shadowed with heavy regret. The moment passed.
‘We have said enough,’ said the King. Warwick bowed; when he straightened Edward was seated again, and the afternoon sun had moved to gild his head. Memory, pride and loss mingled to choke Warwick.
‘I would have your Grace’s permission to retire to my estates,’ he said. ‘I have affairs to see to, and the court wearies me.’
‘You have my permission,’ said Edward stonily. The door closed softly, and he was alone. Had he not been King, he would have rushed after Warwick, crying: ‘My lord, come back!’ conjuring the old times, sharing laughter, planning fresh feats. But Warwick had slighted Bess’s family, and the Devil could have him. I care not, he thought, if he is gone for a twelve-month. Yet some unfinished business lingered with him, stirred by the recent conversation. He summoned a page.
‘Bring me the Duke of Gloucester.’
Richard Plantagenet, the King’s youngest brother, entered shortly. Young, dark, slender, with an unobtrusive sadness that hung about him like chains. His clothes were shabby and unfashionable; his doeskin thighboots were rubbed to a sheen. His face betrayed little of the joy he felt at being summoned to the presence. The court had already taught him to conceal emotion.
He had one friend in the household; Francis Lovell, a youth of about his own age. But Francis was away for an indefinite time, at Minster Lovell in Oxfordshire. There was no one, nothing. Only Earl Warwick, adored Warwick, who had cherished him at Middleham; Warwick, who had changed so horrifyingly. Richard kissed his brother’s hand and rose, and in the moments before Edward spoke, his thoughts returned to Middleham. The North, the clean, beloved North, with its days of hunting and hawking and prayer amid the sweeping winds. The days of mastery; the French and Latin, the dialectics and the courtly skills. And Anne. Even now she would be waiting for her dancing lesson in the little round turret room. Whom would she dance with now? She would be growing womanly, out of the sight of his loving eyes. There was no one, nothing. The days were gone, and the nights, when he and Warwick would sit man to man before the Hall’s bright fire. There they would discuss war and philosophy, strategy and myth, and Warwick had never sneered or patronized Richard’s halting theories, being swift to compliment him on any mark of wit or understanding. That Warwick had ceased to exist, the night of the banquet.
He remembered it well; how could he ever forget it? The feast had been in celebration of the enthronement of Warwick’s brother as Archbishop of York. Anne and her sister Isabel had been present; their eyes had admired Richard, resplendent in new velvet with the proud order of the Garter shining at his knee and breast. There was a thunderous crowd present and food enough to serve the whole City. Sixty-two cooks had laboured over a hundred roast oxen, six wild bulls, four thousand sheep, pigs and calves, five hundred stags, four thousand swans, and countless sweets and subtleties. Marchpane saints sported upon silver dishes, and Samson in spun-sugar pulled down a honeycomb temple. Richard realized later how this effigy had symbolized Warwick’s own desires: the Earl the Samson and the temple Edward’s court.
He had drunk a quantity of wine; Warwick had kept his hanap filled. This was a departure, as the Earl, at Middleham, had lectured him upon the perils of drunkenness. Coupled with the noise, the heat, and Anne’s presence by his side, the wine had sent his head spinning. He had smiled at all that Warwick said, until that dreadful, shattering conversation had turned his brain ice-cold.
‘Look you, Dickon! The King your brother has no time for us these days. That woman makes him wanton, careless. It’s meet you turn your back upon him now and follow me. I’ll give you high estates, and more …’
Then Warwick’s piercing, reckless eyes had rested upon Anne, so sweet and unknowing in her green gown.
‘It’s no secret, Richard, how you love!’ said the Earl, laughing.
Then Richard had risen from the board, swaying a little, to say stiffly:
‘I must have mistaken you, sir. I thought you to say I should betray the King.’ And had sat down again, feeling sick.
Warwick, clasping him about the shoulder, had whispered terrible things, about a new day dawning, and the danger to England through the King’s mad policies. That it was left to the Nevilles and their adherents to set the kingdom straight. Plantagenet was fast being disgraced by these Woodville commoners, this machinating Queen. Richard must set spurs and ride after righteousness. He must put off the King. The evening had ended in despair. Writhing, Richard could have taken his dagger gladly and slain Warwick, but chivalry forbade it; he had taken the Earl’s meat and drink. Dimly he heard Anne’s voice, felt her hand on his.
‘Why, Dickon? What ails you, sweet Dickon?’
She was too young; he could not tell her that her father, the man he trusted most, had made nonsense of that trust. Warwick, his god, now gloated on treason. He dragged himself out of these black thoughts; Edward was asking him questions.
‘… and have you seen the new babe? Little Bess, the pretty poppet! Have you not a sweet and comely niece?’
He answered with difficulty, thinking of the child, who looked like any other child, and the Queen her mother, whose eyes burned him with contempt. Francis Lovell had said this was purely fancy, but Richard knew otherwise.
Edward looked his brother over carefully. His heart mellowed. He should pass more time with him; the boy looked downcast and his clothes were disgracefully dull. Unlike Tom Grey, Bessy’s son, whom he had seen that day arrayed in saffron silk.
�
�How do you spend your time? In the tiltyard? Shooting? I trust you pay attention to your letters.’
Tilting. Shooting. Yes. In the thrust of the longbow, the thrum of the axe, there was comfort. The other young knights were wary of the skills that Warwick had taught him. Richard fought like the Boar, his own blazon.
‘You must have new garments,’ said Edward. The boy was the image of their dead father – it made his heart ache briefly, and he wandered among memories.
‘Do you remember the gloves I brought you? When you and George were lodging in London with the Pastons?’
‘Green,’ said Richard. ‘With the White Rose on the cuffs. I have them still.’
‘How you hated that tutor!’ mused the King. ‘Blotting your Latin with tears, both you and George …’
‘I have forgotten nothing,’ said Richard. ‘You brought us gifts and comforted us. You were called by God to win England from Lancaster. At Towton and Mortimers Cross; you were, and are, my loving brother, and praise God, my King.’
He raised eyes black with worship. Edward blinked.
‘Aye!’ he said, pleased. He wondered whether to ask Richard about George, who, as everyone knew, hankered after Warwick’s eldest daughter Isabel, and whose loyalty was therefore suspect. He decided against it, and said:
‘You will soon be grown. Able to minister to my affairs in the courts of justice, and ride on campaign.’
There was that look of gratitude again, almost frightening in its passion. The youth was too serious; no frivolity. To Edward this seemed wrong. He should be dancing, gaming, and soon there should be mistresses. These thoughts brought on a fierce lust for Elizabeth.
‘So!’ he said, hastily, and stretched his hand again for Richard’s salute. ‘Be gone, now. Amuse yourself.’
The young Duke left without a word, and Edward extended himself upon a day-bed. Soon, the Queen would enter and come to him. It was uncanny – some days there was no need for him to summon her. It was as if she knew his wishes; the mystical implications of this made his flesh crawl pleasurably.
Within five minutes he was watching her disrobe. The sunlight gleamed upon her whiteness. At his leisure, while the afternoon danced and ebbed like a wanton, he got her again with child.
‘Tell me again,’ said Elizabeth.
She was fatigued. There had been a revel that evening, and dancing, which her heavy body could not enjoy. Edward was still closeted with her father and brother and the other ministers in the King’s privy chamber. She had looked forward to being unrobed by Renée and sinking into sleep. But Margaret Beaufort had craved audience – a matter of urgency, she said – and now sat at the Queen’s feet, fresh as if it were dawning, unruffled, keen-witted. She had done with childbearing, she was often heard to declare, as if she were an old woman. Her eyes roved expressionlessly over Elizabeth’s heavy roundness.
‘Say again, my lady. My wits are dull tonight.’ The windows were open but it was still stifling in the Tower apartments. The rooms were too narrow; a pungent mist rose from the summer Thames, but Greenwich and Sheen were being sweetened so she must endure it. Sometimes she thought of Bradgate. Bradgate was hers again, but she had not been back. Lady Margaret leaned close, casting an eye over the attendant ladies. Most of them were dozing or working intently on their tapestry.
‘My informant is reliable,’ she said softly. ‘My clerk.’
‘So?’
‘Reynold Bray.’ The narrow black glance was amused. ‘These clerks! They go like church mice, soft and docile. They weasel in and out of the most privy conferences, bringing back tidings like snips of cheese. No great lady should be without them.’
At the news that Elizabeth owned no such servants, she pursed her thin mouth, shocked.
‘It would honour me should your Grace require my man at any time to work her bidding, were it in his own blood.’
Elizabeth said carefully: ‘Why should I need such service?’
As if in chapel, Lady Margaret bowed her head.
‘All have enemies.’
Instantly alert, Elizabeth said: ‘Tell me their names,’ and Margaret glanced about, maddeningly covert. Whispering, she replied: ‘Hastings – he would bring you down an it were possible. And the Deputy Lieutenant of Ireland …’
Elizabeth froze. So Desmond’s laughter was not the mere crackling of thorns; there was real malice beneath it. Small wonder he had incensed her so with his smile; her instinct had not lied.
She said: ‘Recount me what your church mouse has learned.’
‘Not here, Madame. It’s better from his own lips. If your Grace will accompany me …’ She cast waspishly about at the drowsy gentle-women. ‘I will support you; ’tis not far.’
Minute and upright, with many obsequious gestures, she led the way to her own apartments. In an antechamber, Bray was writing at a lectern. A pale and shadowy man; anonymous. At the Queen’s entrance he dropped his quill, yet neatly so that no ink scattered; he drew a low obeisance, flourishing a soiled kerchief. She looked about her; this day everything revolted – the smell of dust from a pile of parchments in the corner; dog-hairs on a worn cloak. The child kicked fiercely beneath her girdle, as if it were distressed by the smell of sweat and stale beer.
‘By St. Denis, Master Bray, you live like a hog!’
He raised a white face, he begged her pardon and that of Lady Margaret.
‘Sir,’ said the Countess, ‘recount to her Grace the conversation between Earl Warwick and Lord Desmond.’
He smirked and twisted his hands together. ‘I was saying my morning office,’ he began. ‘The chapel window was open, likewise that of my lord Warwick …’
‘Come, Sir Clerk!’ cried Elizabeth. ‘I care not how you heard it. Speak, or I’ll have you whipped.’
The smirk vanished. He said quickly: ‘Your Grace. My lord spoke first; he said: “Tom” (so he calls Desmond) – “Tom, can you not influence the King? He loves you well and will hearken to you.” ’ He shot a narrow glance upward. ‘Your Grace, ’tis almost treason…’
‘Would you lose your tongue?’ Now she found she could be ruthless and savage, like the Butcher of Worcester.
‘He said: “The Queen wastes our sovereign. This rift with Spain and Savoy gives me bad dreams. Through her, our realm is plunged into vulnerability. The Queen is an ill-omened person.” ”
Through her growing rage she felt a little chill. The clerk continued:
‘He asked my lord of Desmond if there was any means by which he could persuade the King to … to put your Grace away.’
‘And what said Desmond?’
‘I could not hear.’
‘But he did not disagree?’
The clerk spread his hands, a yea-nay gesture. She thought, curdled with fury: I’ll have Desmond’s head, and I will see the blood of Warwick. Cursed Warwick! The child plunged within her as if pricked by memory carried in her own blood: Warwick’s men unhanging the Goliath tapestry; Desmond’s smile. The two things oddly mingled. Lady Margaret’s hard black eyes were upon her, her hand upon her arm.
‘Your Grace,’ she murmured, ‘shall I bid my mouse hide in the wainscot a few more weeks?’
Speechless, she nodded, and quit the chamber where Bray mopped and scraped in duty. Flashes of fire ran through her belly. I must be calm, she told herself. Or I shall miscarry Edward’s child. Sometimes she hated him for making her carry the child through the sweltering summer. The burden added viciousness to her thoughts. She felt the weight of enemies all around her, synonymous with this pull of flesh within flesh. Jacquetta of Bedford was constantly at her side, feeding her capers in honey for pains in the womb, and violet syrup for her throbbing head. The King’s ardour was undiminished at the sight of her swollen body. He possessed her almost nightly, though now with the tenderness of a nurse. Often she caught herself wanting to scream: ‘Leave me be, you lustful Yorkist ram!’ She clung to discretion. The glitter in her blue eyes he mistook for love. Jacquetta smiled, mixing little simples, murmuring
quiet consolations.
Thomas, the Queen’s firstborn, approached manhood, and she saw John in him, a dull, aching memory. But he was arrogant where John had been courteous. He was rumbustious, and bullied the young pages in tiltyard and Hall. He mocked the King’s brothers: Richard of Gloucester, and, when he dared, George of Clarence, for Clarence was sixteen and owned his own manor, spending little time at court. One of Warwick’s toadies? she wondered, and watched him when she could.
One day Edward, impulsive and restless, burst into her chamber with the announcement that he was riding out. He said it was time to cast an eye over his southern provinces, to attend the oyer and terminer in a few shires, and to pray at a shrine or two on his progress.
‘Would that you were coming with me, sweet heart,’ he said. Hands in her hair, warm lips on her throat. She extricated herself with a little laugh, weak with concealed relief.
‘Our child must not be born upon the road, Ned,’ she agreed. ‘How long will you be gone?’
‘Oh, weeks, days,’ he said vaguely. ‘I leave the court in your hands. Send for more minstrels; the Flemish are skilled in song.’
Something awoke in her, and stirred. She said: ‘Is there not more to ruling than music, my lord? Are there no matters of policy which I should know? While you’re away, should I not be aware of statecraft?’
He laughed indulgently, picked up a tapestry frame in one great hand, admired the birds and flowers, and set the frame down.
‘Pretty one,’ he said. Then, reconsidering: ‘Aye, well. My ministers will attend you daily. I shall take Hastings with me, and your father, and Anthony perhaps. No?’ seeing her face fall. ‘Very well. Your father shall stay. But there are offices I must confer before I leave – the Deputy Lieutenancy of Ireland for one …’
She said sharply: ‘That is Desmond’s commission!’
‘Yes. But I intend to confer greater honours upon him. He’s wasted in Ireland.’
She said casually: ‘Have you thoughts for his successor?’
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