The young duke had left Warwick Castle on the banks of the River Avon earlier that afternoon, where the earl and countess were holding their own yuletide festivities, and was relieved to escape the earl’s anxious eyes. Coventry was a mere twelve miles away, but when Richard saw the massive red sandstone walls of the city, with its many towers and gatehouses, and the soaring spire of St. Michael’s on the far, flat horizon, he let out a heartfelt, “At last!” and the worry over Warwick fled his mind.
Spurring his horse into a canter, he rode through the Cheylesmore Gate and up to the modest but beautiful manor house of the same name, nestled just inside the city wall. Richard understood why Edward needed to be in Coventry, because it was the center of the kingdom, and in these days of unchecked lawlessness, a king might feel more able to put down insurrections from that vantage point. But arriving at the handsome, half-timbered Cheylesmore Manor, Richard could also understand why Edward liked being there. It was a charming place.
A roaring fire in the newly constructed fireplace welcomed the youngest York into the hall, where a scene of domestic tranquility greeted him: Edward was dandling a cherubic blond toddler on his knee; George and Meg were absorbed in a game of chess; and their mother, Duchess Cecily, was dozing on a cushioned settle. Edward’s wife and her handsome brother, Anthony, were conversing at the other end of the hall, but all looked up when Richard was announced, and, to her credit, the elegant Elizabeth rose and was the first to greet him warmly.
“Well met, my lord,” the queen said, motioning to a servant to take Richard’s long velvet cloak.
Richard bowed and kissed her outstretched hand. “Your Grace, God’s greeting to you.”
A smiling Anthony Woodville, now Baron Scales, grasped Richard’s arm in friendship and also bade him welcome. They were indeed two of the most striking Woodville siblings at court, Richard noted, and, like his own, they had a strong family bond. Richard allowed Elizabeth to lead him to where he could give Edward reverence.
“Up off your knees, Richard,” Edward cried, hoisting his young daughter into the crook of his arm and getting out of his chair. “’Tis good to see you, little brother. Bess, you remember your Uncle Richard, don’t you?” The blond curls bobbed and Richard leaned forward and kissed his niece. She held out her fat little arms to him, and delighted, Richard took the child from her father and bounced her gently up and down.
“You are a natural,” Meg teased him, leaving the chess table and kissing his free cheek. “Too young to be a father yet, but I can see you will be a good one some day.”
Richard chuckled. “I shall have to find a wife first, Meggie,” he whispered. “But Edward has to get you married off before he can look for a mate for me. I hope yours is a giant,” he teased her.
Meg made a face. “Charles—the Bold—they call him. I hope he’s only bold in battle.” She took wriggling Bess from him and the child reached for Meg’s jeweled headband.
“Do you have a greeting for me, my son?” Their mother’s familiar voice interrupted the siblings. “They all think I am asleep, but I never miss a thing. You have grown and grown handsome, too, Richard. I am pleased.”
She held out her hand to be kissed before pulling her youngest into her arms. Despite his fashionably padded jacket, she could feel the increased muscularity in his arms and shoulders, although it seemed to her one shoulder did not feel quite symmetrical, and she frowned. Mayhap he had developed more muscle in his sword arm, and as Duchess Cecily was not one to let her imagination run away with her, she thought no more of it. Richard’s mother was, of course, correct. Richard’s spine was growing crooked.
“And you are still the most beautiful mother in the world,” Richard said, “although I suspect Elizabeth is as close a second as a lily is to a rose.” Two women complimented in one sentence he marveled, surprised at his own skillful diplomacy. Although he disliked engaging in this conventional flattery, it was all part of his chivalric training. Elizabeth bestowed one of her dazzling smiles on him, and his mother remarked, “Nicely done,” before subsiding back onto the settle. Richard made a silent note: flattery may be false, but it can work.
“What? No greeting for me, George?” Richard called across the room. “Were you finally winning a game from Meggie, and my arrival interrupted you? Too bad!” George pretended not to hear the taunt and kept his eyes on the ivory figures. Richard tried again as he moved to the chess table. “We shall have to play while I am here. I believe I have improved, at least that is what Isabel says.” Aha, Richard noticed, that’s got George’s attention.
Without even bidding Richard a good day, George was all impatience. “Do you have a message for me?” he muttered so the group by the fire could not hear. “Ned doesn’t let me out of his sight, so if you do, slip it to me later, there’s a good lad.”
Richard frowned, bristling at George’s imperious tone and belittling “lad.” “What have you done to irk Ned?” he shot back. “It must be more than your dalliance with Isabel.”
“That’s irksome enough, you simpleton,” George snapped. “She is Warwick’s daughter.”
Richard just stared at him. Not for the first time did he wonder at all the secrecy. Isabel Neville was the most eligible, and richest, young noblewoman in all of England. Besides, if truth be told, Richard did not think Edward could question the match given that he had squandered himself, and England, on a nobody like Elizabeth Woodville.
But before he could voice these thoughts, Edward’s resonant voice interrupted them.
“What are you two scheming over there? Come take some wassail with us before we sup, and then I would have a private audience with both of you.”
His tone was affable, but something in Edward’s look made Richard tense.
An hour later, George of Clarence, not as astute as his young brother, sauntered casually into Edward’s ante-chamber, a full wine goblet dangling delicately between his fingers. Accompanied as usual by Will Hastings, Edward stood waiting, backlit by the fire, his face in shadow. Richard chose to stand to the side, resting his fingertips on the parchment-strewn table.
“Now pr’haps you can tell ush why we were royally shummoned here, Ned.” It was clear this was not his first goblet of the night. “I had t’decline an invitation to shelebrate Christmas with the Talbots and come here to wash your Woodville relations lord it over the household. Christshnails, the arrogance of ’em!”
Richard held his breath. Edward remained dangerously quiet: not only had George insulted Edward’s in-laws, but the Talbots were not exactly in favor with Edward.
Oblivious, George persisted. “Were you sent a similar shummons, Richard?” He chuckled on a hiccup. “I like alliteration, don’t you? Shlips off the tongue.”
That tongue will get you into trouble, Richard thought, willing his brother to notice Edward’s darkening face. “I was to spend the season with my lord of Warwick, aye, but I confess I am happier with my own family and welcomed the chance to leave,” he said calmly. Let him soil his own braies, Richard decided, disgusted by George’s behavior. “I am grateful to you, Ned, for asking me to join you—Woodvilles or no. Besides, Elizabeth has been more than civil, has she not?”
Edward abruptly took a long stride forward and poked Richard in the chest. “Stop chattering like a jay. You have not been forthright with me, have you little brother.”
Taken completely off-guard by Edward’s vehemence, Richard’s throat constricted, as he searched for any reason for his brother’s outburst. “Wh…what do y…you mean, Ned?”
“Did I not ask you to report on Warwick’s actions and intent?” Edward growled. Richard nodded dumbly. “Then why did you not inform me that the earl had sent an emissary to Rome? Why did you not inform me that your brother here and Warwick’s daughter were secretly meaning to wed? Don’t look the innocent, Richard!” He pulled Isabel’s letter from his jacket and waved it in Richard’s face. “Did you not carry this missive with you, intending to pass it to George?”
The gui
lty flush on Richard’s cheek affirmed Edward’s suspicions. At the same time, Richard was furious that Ned would stoop to searching his baggage. He balled his fists and confronted his angry sibling. “I admit I did carry the letter, aye. Isabel is my friend, and I saw nothing wrong carrying a letter for her, in truth. And, and…” He fumbled for the right words, wishing to defend himself yet not wanting to betray Isabel or Anne. Most of all, he did not want to break his chivalric bond with Warwick. He had planned to tell Edward of Anne’s whispered words of the possible dispensation, but not like this. Not in front of George. And not under coercion. Besides, Edward would not believe him now.
“And what?” Edward menaced. “I am waiting.”
“I was waiting for a private audience, Ned, to report what little I know…”
Surprisingly agile for one in his cups and finally sensing the danger he was in, George sprang forward, rudely shoving Richard aside, and snatched the letter from Edward’s fingers. “If that letter is intended for me, then I should have it!”
Already wound tight as a silk thread on a spindle, Richard instinctively drew back his arm and punched George hard in the gut, emptying the air from his brother’s lungs. “May that be the last time you push me, George!” he warned.
Somehow still holding onto his goblet, George flung the remaining contents in Richard’s face. “You would betray me, would you, babykins?” he snarled, the slurring vanishing, “and the earl, who has done his best to make a runt into more than the puny prince you are? Good Christ, he has wasted his valuable time!”
“Take back your words or I will mar your pretty face so Isabel will shun you forever,” Richard shouted, advancing on his brother.
“Enough!” roared the king, his long arms spanning the gulf between the brothers and grasping each by the front of their pourpoints. He pulled them to within a nose of each other and hissed, “By God’s holy mercy, neither of you will consort further with my lord of Warwick. Do you understand? There will be no marriage between you and Isabel, George—not ever. And you, Richard, will henceforth remain at my side. As of this moment, your knightly training is at an end. I have need of both my brothers by my side and on my side.” He let them go and watched them step back and glare at each other. “We are a family. We are Yorks. We are our noble father’s sons. And we will behave as such. Just because I wear the crown today does not mean I will wear it tomorrow. There are rebellions in the air, traitors to be dealt with, and Lancastrians on our doorstep. Do I have your solemn oath that you will abide by my edicts.” Richard nodded. George looked sullen but reluctantly inclined his head. “No more consorting with Warwick unless it is to ride by his side in my royal train. No more love letters to the lovely Isabel. You best not have given your heart or—God help you—your promise, George, for you will not have her. And no more private time with the Nevilles, Richard. I have come to believe your patron and I cannot agree on policy, and I sense a parting of the ways. He must not take either of you with him.”
“Well said, Your Grace.” Hastings’ voice startled Richard, who had forgotten the chamberlain was even there. “Let us give a toast to York. A York!” and he passed some wine to Edward, who grunted.
George turned on his heel and letting the empty goblet fall to the floor, left the room.
As Richard brushed the spilled wine from his clothes, Edward put his arm around his brother’s shoulders. “Let him sulk, Richard. He is just a lovesick pup. He will get over it. Now what more do you have to tell me of Warwick’s intentions. I can count on you for the truth, can I not?”
“With my whole heart, Ned,” Richard replied sincerely; he never again wanted to feel pulled in opposing directions. It was far too nerve-wracking. “You can always count on me.”
Richard wandered up to the bedchamber he was sharing with George, brooding on the ugly scene, but before he could step over the threshold, he felt the front of his jacket grasped and he was flung rudely to the floor. George stood over him, eyes bloodshot from wine and anger.
“You traitorous bastard!” he cried, and kicked Richard’s side hard while trying to retain his balance. George’s squire attempted to steady him, but George thrust him off. “Leave us, Godfrey,” he commanded. When the door was shut, George watched as Richard crawled to his knees and hauled himself onto the bed, rubbing his sore ribs. “You betrayed me to Ned, you flap-mouthed measle.”
George was unprepared for Richard’s newly muscled body and doubled over with a groan as Richard came off the bed, head lowered, and barreled into George’s midriff. George found himself flat on the floor with strong arms pinning his own and Richard’s angry face three inches from his.
“You betrayed yourself, George Plantagenet,” Richard sneered. “’Tis a wonder Ned has not locked you up before now. I know how many times you have consorted with Warwick behind Ned’s back. You are playing a dangerous game, brother, but you are not playing it with me. You are playing it with the king.”
“You told him about Isabel,” George whined. “You gave away my secret. My own brother!”
Richard was suddenly transported back to a day long ago, the last time he had seen Fotheringhay. “Then consider this payment for your betrayal of me when I was much younger and had no defense. You gave me away about Traveller all those years ago, and I have never forgotten.” He let go of his brother’s arms and stood up. “We are even, and if you want some advice, take Ned’s warning to heart. Give up the idea of Isabel.” He picked up his fallen bonnet and went to the door. “Never fear, I shall seek more accommodating quarters tonight.”
The two brothers avoided each other for a day or two, but then George said something that made Richard laugh, and the two agreed to shake hands. “Now Meg is not here, I shall have to teach you how to win at chess,” George said. “I swear, neither of us will ever be as good as she.”
When the temperatures plunged at night, most chose to enjoy the warmth provided by another body under the covers. Even so, it was awkward for Richard and George to share a bed again. Richard resented the drink-induced snoring of his older brother, which gave Richard restless nights that yuletide. His childhood nightmares even returned, and one night he shouted so loudly, George came out of a deep sleep to shake his brother awake.
“You must have evil thoughts to be thus inflicted by demons in your sleep,” George grumbled. “You know what they say: no peace for the wicked.”
“Go to the Devil yourself, George,” Richard snapped, wondering himself why his sleep was so disturbed, “and stop your snoring! ’Tis your conspiring with my lord of Warwick that gives me bad dreams.”
“Pah!” George rolled over and muttered grumpily, “Next time I shall simply let you thrash around in your sleep and hope whoever is chasing you, catches and silences you for good.”
Richard ignored him. George had said worse to him over the years, and he realized his brother was half asleep. Besides, he knew that nothing had been chasing him in the dream: it was some terrifying monster inside him who was trying to push his ribs through his back. In the dream his right side was growing more and more misshapen as the demon used Richard’s spine as a brace for its feet so it could thrust the ribs farther and farther out from under his shoulders. Richard shuddered and, as he had been doing for the past few weeks now, allowed his trembling fingers to feel his backbone; it was definitely crooked. Right in the middle of his back, he could feel where it turned sideways.
“Richard,” Rob had said to him one day in summer when all the squires had stripped naked and were refreshing themselves in Aysgarth Falls. “Is there anything wrong with your back?”
Richard had frowned. “Only a few twinges now and again after a long ride,” he admitted. “Why?”
Rob had thrown him his shirt. “Perhaps I am become too familiar, but your back looks askew. Perhaps you should find a mirror.”
Later, Richard had slipped into Anne and Isabel’s chamber where he knew there was a polished brass mirror and, locking the door behind him, had lifted his shirt and tried
to see his reflection. Rob was right, it was hardly noticeable, but there was a slight list to his body. After that, he had tried hanging by his arms from a tree branch, had favored his left arm during wrestling, and focused on building up the muscles of his left side by doubling the weights he lifted.
When did this happen? he asked himself again now. The vision of the cripple outside the church came to his mind, and he choked down a shudder. I am deformed, he thought. What had he done to deserve this? He pondered his many sins: He had cheated at cards when young Francis Lovell was set to best him; he had left the henchman’s dormitory several times to go hunting when he should have been studying; he had refused to dance with Anne on occasion because he had wanted to dance with Isabel; he coveted another man’s wife; he secretly hated George; and worst of all, he had betrayed Lord Warwick’s faith in him. Was God punishing him? Was his deformity indeed a sign from on high? He had been taught long ago that a crooked body came with a wicked mind. Had he been touched by the Devil? Was he capable of evil? The thought was unbearable, and he crossed himself and begged the Virgin Mary to intercede for him. Vowing to live a less sinful life, he found solace in prayer and eventually some rest that night.
The court at Coventry was merry that Christmas, and Richard became acquainted with more of the Woodville siblings, whose numbers seemed to grow daily. He met the once-beautiful matriarch Jacquetta, who took Richard’s face in her pudgy fingers and kissed him square on the mouth. “York’s youngest boy,” she purred; her slanting almond eyes also reminding him of a cat. She called over her shoulder to Richard’s mother, elegant in blue silk. “My dear Cecily, what a sweet child.” Child? Richard thought bitterly; the woman had not kissed him like a child.
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