The Rose of York (19 page)

“That has nothing to do with it,” Richard said hotly. “There’s much to recommend France over Burgundy—particularly in securing the crown you wear. Yet you choose to ignore the issues at stake here—only because the advice comes from a Neville, not a Woodville.”

Edward’s blue eyes darkened ominously. “When I was in exile in Calais the year before Father died, I ate with Nevilles, drank with Nevilles, and slept with Nevilles—I could never get away from Nevilles. They think they bought me the crown and that I owe them for the rest of my life. But I’m their king, not their puppet, and they’ll damned well do as I say or I’ll wipe those Nevilles off the face of the earth!” He swept an arm across the chess board. The delicate figurines smashed to the floor and shattered. One landed at Richard’s feet.

He picked it up. It was a white knight. At first he thought it had survived intact but when he turned it over in his hand, he saw that the face had been obliterated. He stabbed his finger on a jagged edge, surprised at the quantity of blood that oozed. He wound a kerchief around the cut and looked at Edward. His brother stood staring out the window. Richard laid the broken knight gently on the board. “You’ve forgotten, Edward. You’re a Neville, too.”

Edward turned, his anger spent. “Warwick assumes that because I don’t pick a fight, I’m easily managed. I am not.”

“Then why Burgundy, if France has more to recommend it?”

“What matters is trade, Dickon. Look there… See those ships bearing gold? Trade generates gold—gold to be spent on enjoyment, comfort, security. Merchants live well because they have gold. Our father had land aplenty and no gold to pay his troops. For that he had to pawn his plate to merchants.” He fell silent, a faraway look in his eyes. “I’ve decided on Burgundy,” he resumed, “not because my queen favours it, brother, but because trade with Burgundy will make England rich. However much my subjects grumble against Burgundy’s embargo on English cloth, the fact is, they hate France. We fought a hundred year war and she gave us the Bitch of Anjou. Not since Boudiccea, Scourge of the Romans, has England known such a queen… Besides, the English still expect their king to make good Henry V’s claim to the French throne.” He went to a wine flagon on a sideboard and poured two goblets. He held one out.

“Too early in the day for me,” Richard said sullenly.

Edward returned with his cup and dangled an arm around Richard’s shoulders. “Little brother, let me give you some advice. Drink with a man and you make him your friend. We of royal blood can’t have too many friends!” He gave a laugh, winked and downed his wine. He returned to the sideboard for another long swallow. “You do love his daughter, don’t you? Answer me; ’tis a royal command.”

“Aye,” Richard admitted miserably.

Edward threw his head back and roared. “And George loves Bella! Isn’t that funny?”

Richard stared at him. Could it be his brother was drunk so early in the day?

“No,” Edward grinned, waving his goblet. “I see you don’t think so. But it does complicate matters, doesn’t it? Warwick may be my enemy. Yet my brothers love his daughters. Divided loyalties are always complicated, aren’t they, Dickon?”

Edward seemed suddenly very sober as he stared at Richard, his blue eyes piercing the silence.

“You know me better than that,” said Richard.

Edward gulped a swallow of wine and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Do I?” He swayed a little on his heels.

“I took an oath to you.”

“Oaths are broken daily.”

“Not by honourable men,” said Richard, averting his eyes and suppressing the sudden discomfort that had come to him.
He had no real doubt what he would do, if it came to that, did he?

He stole a look at Edward. Edward was staring at the broken chessboard and its shattered knights. “We shall see,” he murmured, sipping his wine. “We shall see.”

~ * * * ~

“…And rolling far along the gloomy shores The voice of days of old and days to be.”

How much humiliation could a proud man take? That was the question. Stroking a young black wolfhound, Richard watched the colourful fleet that had arrived from Burgundy as soon as Warwick left for France. The ships had sailed into the Thames, banners aflutter, bearing the Duke of Burgundy’s illegitimate son, the Bastard of Burgundy, who had accepted a challenge to joust with Bess’s brother, Anthony Woodville.

He picked up the wooden board he’d laid aside. The carving had claimed his attention over the past few anxious weeks, yet it remained unfinished. He shifted in his window seat in the White Tower and removed the dagger at his waist. The hound pawed for attention. When Richard ignored him, he lay down with his nose poking mournfully over the crimson cushion and watched Richard chisel.

Why hadn’t Anne written? Her last letter had arrived over a week ago and there’d been no word since. Absently Richard refined the tusk of the boar he had chosen as his emblem. How did matters go with Warwick in France? He wished Archbishop Neville would visit, but he’d remained closeted at his palace in Charing Cross, preparing his speech for the opening of Parliament in June. Edward was expected in a few days, along with Anthony Woodville, officially, for the opening of Parliament and the tournament; unofficially, to seal their sister Meg’s marriage to Charles of Burgundy. Did Archbishop Neville suspect Edward’s duplicity? How about John?

The familiar sick feeling washed over him. He stabbed his dagger into the wood, pulled it out and stabbed again. He threw the carving aside. He didn’t belong in London. He belonged in the North with Anne and his friends, Francis and Rob and the two Toms; with people who meant what they said and didn’t conceal lies beneath their smiles. He’d never been able to feign what he didn’t feel, yet that was what people did at court; how they got ahead—how they survived.

“My lord, here you are, I’ve been searching for you,” a voice said from behind, rolling its
r
’s in the way Richard remembered from his days of exile in Burgundy. Edward Brampton spoke haltingly, for he was of Portuguese origins and not at home in the common English. A swashbuckling naval hero who had captained Richard’s return voyage to England from Bruges, he was a Jew, god-fathered at his baptism by Edward himself, and so he’d assumed the royal name.

The hound sat up expectantly. Richard took a moment to compose himself before turning around. Brampton was as cheerful as always and gave Richard a broad smile, white teeth sparkling in his tanned face. “Everything is prepared, m’lord. We can leave for Windsor as soon as you wish it.”

~*~

At the head of his retinue, Richard clattered through the crowded streets, the dog that refused to leave trotting alongside. All London throbbed with excitement. It was at its most festive this May, with thousands of banners and tapestries decorating the bridges and streets. People thronged everywhere: lords, to Parliament; commoners, to the joust. As they passed Charing Cross towards King’s Street and the Strand, Richard cast a glance at Archbishop Neville’s palace on the River Thames. He wished he could halt his journey here, instead of going on to the tournament. Windsor would be crawling with Woodvilles.

He wondered what the Archbishop was doing this morning.

~*~

After a brief absence, Archbishop Neville had returned to London early that day from his Manor of the Moor in Hertfordshire. Still in his riding outfit, he stood with feet apart, hands behind his back, a sombre expression on his face as he listened to his messengers’ reports. His sermon for the opening of Parliament lay half-completed on a brocade-covered desk.

“Antoine, Bastard of Burgundy, was accompanied up-river by many knights and ladies in barges decorated with arras,” a messenger was saying on bended knee. “At Billingsgate he took horse and rode in a splendid procession past St. Paul’s to his lodgings in the Bishop of Salisbury’s palace. The Bastard’s chambers have been hung with cloth of gold, Your Grace.”

The second messenger continued. “King Edward plans to greet him with great ceremony. The sheriffs at Smithfield are rushing to complete the construction of the lists for the tournament, which are larger than any ever built—ninety yards long by eighty wide…”

“Enough!” Archbishop Neville barked. “I’ve heard enough.” He dismissed them and waited for the heavy oak door to shut before turning to his companion. “What do you make of it, Will?”

Sir William Conyers, one of Archbishop Neville’s many cousins, was from the wealthiest of all non-baronial families in the North. Gravely, he said, “You’re right, my lord. Such a warm welcome is a guise for something more significant than a mere tournament. I fear the King has sent your brother Warwick to France only to get him out of the way while he connives with the Burgundians.”

The Archbishop slammed a fist on the table, rattling the Great Seal. “We’ll not stand for another humiliation!”

“The old nobles of the land are brought low, the commons oppressed, the people discontented, while the Woodvilles plunder and the King wastes our substance on concubines… These are ill times indeed.” After a pause, Sir William Conyers added, “How go the negotiations in Rome?”

The Archbishop’s tight expression relaxed. “Well. The King has written the Pope to request he deny the dispensation, but his brother George has outbid him. It shall be granted soon.”

“Good. Once Bella is married to the King’s brother, Edward will come to his senses.”

“Let’s hope so, cousin. For if Edward continues down this road, I fear the consequences…”

“Aye, civil war is too terrible to contemplate.”

Archbishop Neville’s glance fell on the Great Seal. “Pray Edward is as aware of that spectre as we are. Meanwhile, I’ll show our displeasure by not addressing Parliament next week. I’ll plead ill-health.”

“Indeed,” agreed Conyers. “’Tis time to let Edward know we’ll not stand for more.”

~*~

Edward was furious.

“Ill-health! Nevilles are never ill!” he roared. “George Neville is chancellor by my grace and he shall know it, by God! Come, Dickon. I want you at my side when I take back the Great Seal.”

Richard put down his dog miserably. They rode to Charing Cross and waited in the cold, stinging rain for the Archbishop to come to Edward at the palace gate. In a tone of ice, Edward demanded the Great Seal from the Archbishop; with a face of stone, Archbishop Neville placed it into his hands.

Swinging his magnificent destrier around, Edward rode back to Westminster with his entourage and immediately conferred the chancellorship on Robert Stillington, Bishop of Bath and Wells.

“At least you’re not a Neville!” Edward informed the stunned Stillington.

~*~

In the bright afternoon of St. George’s Day, the day of the tournament at Windsor, Richard sat in the solar stroking the black wolfhound, his Book of Hours open on his lap, the prayers unread. Except for a few varlets, everyone from the castle had gone down to the lists. Though he’d promised Edward to attend, he was unable to stir himself from the apathy that gripped him.

The periodic blare of distant trumpets floated up from the lists followed by roars of excitement. He moved to the tall lancet window and gazed past the steep stone walls of the castle down to the dusty plain by the river. The forked pennants of the contending knights fluttered from their pavilions and the bright sun flashed off their armour. A knock came at the door, open behind him. The hound sat up, barked once. Sir Friendly Lion stood at the threshold, his silvering head gleaming in the dimness of the room. John Howard was in full armour and wore the ceremonial white silk jupon embroidered with his coat of arms, the Silver Lion, since he was an afternoon contender in the lists.

“You don’t go to the jousting, my lord?” Howard’s tone evinced surprise.

Richard shook his head.

“It would banish your cares,” he said kindly. “If only for a while.”

“Nay, my lord. For me, the management of weapons is not a sport, but a duty.”

“In all my years, I’ve heard that only once before.”

Richard looked at him uncertainly. He believed himself an anomaly, yet somewhere there was one other who felt the same. “May I ask who it was?”

“The last person I’d expect,” replied Howard. “The Earl of Northumberland, John Neville.”

Richard winced. Dimly he heard Howard excuse himself. The clink of armour faded down the hall. Clouds of dust kicked up by the horses obscured the field now but the roar of excitement from the crowds was louder than ever. Richard wished he could enjoy the things that brought others so much joy. He only knew that for him there was no such ease; for him the world resolved itself into a tangled mass of fears against which he struggled helplessly and for which he found no weapon except prayer. A deep yearning for John and Anne and Yorkshire swept him, leaving a trail of desolation in its wake. He picked up his Book of Hours.