The Rose of York (37 page)

He looked up. Everyone in the room was staring at him.

“Make haste!” he roared, taking his anger out on his servants for the first time in his life, as he’d seen Edward do. “The Scots will be rattling the gates of York if you make no more haste than this!”

Strange, but it helped. He felt calm, and in control again.

~ * * * ~

“O ye stars that shudder over me…”

At the end of September, as leaves turned red and gold beneath a cornflower blue sky, Richard rode home from Scotland with his army, his work on the border done. Much had happened in the three months he’d been gone. At the end of April, Kate had given birth to his second child, a son, conceived the September before he’d fled to Bruges. He had named him John. On the way south, he journeyed to Pontefract to see his babe and eighteen-month-old Katherine.

Green silk flashed at the window of the house on Pontefract’s high hill as he dismounted in the walled close and gave his reins over to a servant. Laughing, Kate flew out the door and ran to him, arms wide, long coppery curls flaming in the fiery sunset and tumbling loose beneath a hair band of seed pearls he’d given her.

“Richard, Richard…” she cried joyfully throwing her arms around his neck. “Why didn’t you send word? Oh, love, how long I’ve waited, and hoped, and now, at last, and now…”

Richard was unprepared for the surge of desire that charged through him at the contact with her. A year had passed since they’d last seen one another and he’d thought his feelings for her dead. He was mistaken. There was something between them that would never die, but he could never hold her again, not now that Anne would be his. He tensed, stood perfectly still, not trusting himself to move or speak. The joy drained out of her. She went limp, drew back, and searched his face. Her green eyes held a stunned, wounded expression. He swallowed, looked away. For a long moment, she said nothing.

“I see,” she whispered at length. Her lip quivered, but she lifted her chin in resolve. She turned, led the way up the steps into the hall. He followed awkwardly, acutely aware of her perfume. The rose scent was familiar, one she’d worn ever since he’d first admired it.

The room was pleasant, even cozy, with chairs, a footrest, a table set with fruit, an urn of white roses, and two silver candlesticks that had been his gift to her. He recognised all the others—a book on Sir Lancelot bound in green leather, a chess set of agate and ivory, and two finger-high figurines of coloured glass, one a red image of his beloved St. Ninian, the other a blue of his favourite saint of the North, St. Cuthbert. On the wall over the fireplace hung a small tapestry Kate had worked of Lancelot and Elaine, the fair maid of Astolat who’d died for love of Lancelot. A white wool blanket, yet another gift, had been carefully folded and lay draped over the side of a chair by the empty grate.

His eye went to Kate and the gold locket around her neck that held a snippet of his dark hair. Guilt washed over him in a muddy flood. He felt wretched, utterly miserable. “Kate, I’m sorry… Maybe I shouldn’t have come… Maybe I should have written… I didn’t know what to do.”

“I heard the rumours. I didn’t want to believe them.” There was a quaver in her voice, but she held her head high with dignity. “I knew you loved her before me, but I thought… I thought… I hoped you were over her—that I’d made you forget…”

“I never meant to hurt you, Kate.”

“For the love of God, Richard!” she cried. Then she composed herself, said in a calmer tone, “Why have you come?”

“The children… And to see you, to explain—to make sure you’re well and have everything you need…”

“I have everything I need. You’ve been very generous. You’re a generous man.”

“Kate—don’t make this harder than it already is, I pray you. You know that I care—I’ll always care.”

“Not enough, apparently.” A sob strangled in her throat. She clutched the chair fiercely. “You’re right. We must think of the children. They’re good children. So much like you, both of them…” She dropped her lashes, turned quickly, and rang the bell that stood on the mantle, rang a little too long, a little too harshly. A servant woman came to the door. “Bring the children,” Kate said.

They waited in silence. Moments later a wail sounded in the passageway along with giggles and the hurried patter of little feet. Then the footsteps were halted, the giggles and wailing suddenly checked. The nurse appeared in the doorway, cradling an infant in one arm and holding a little girl by the hand with the other. The child was sucking her thumb and hid behind her nurse’s skirts as soon as she saw Richard, though auburn curls and huge solemn grey eyes peered out intently from the folds of the woman’s coarse brown kirtle.

Kate knelt. “Come here, sweet one…” She smoothed the child’s unruly locks. “What have I told you about your father, Katherine?” She waited. “That he’s a prince,” Kate prompted, “and good and…”

“I lub…” the child managed, trying to remember.

“Love… aye… you love him…This is your father, Katherine.”

Katherine stared at Richard a moment. Then, with a shriek of glee, she toddled to him, arms outstretched, smiling broadly. Richard swung her up in the air. Her little arms went around his neck in a strangling hold, and she smothered him with kisses wet as Percival’s. Then Kate brought Richard his four-month old son and tenderly gave the tiny infant over into his care. “And this,” she said, “is John.”

John
. Born a week after Barnet. Richard swallowed. The babe gurgled and the memories fled. He was suffused with a sudden, almost intolerable joy, a wild, sweet happiness so unbearable that it threatened his composure. He buried his face in the babe’s soft neck. “Thank you, Kate,” he said in a choked voice.

A sob escaped Kate’s lips. With a hand twisted to her mouth, she fled the room.

~*~

Riding in the autumn sunshine the next morning, Richard relived the scene, every vivid detail. He felt such guilt for what he’d done to Kate and wondered miserably if he’d ever forgive himself for the hurt he’d caused. Partly because of his heavy heart, he found himself reluctant to linger at Pontefract for the children, and instead, departed at first light after spending the night at the castle. They would never meet again. From now on, whenever he visited the house high on Beech Street, Kate would not be there. It was what she wished, and best for both of them. Poor Kate. Poor, beloved, dear Kate, who deserved so much better than he had given her.

He closed his eyes and swallowed on the knot in his throat. So many memories. So much pain he could not undo. All at once the children’s smiling faces intruded, blotting at the sadness, chasing away the regrets. They were God’s own miracles, these two little innocents, and he would never let them suffer. They would always have the best. They might be bastards, but they would never feel the sting of their bastardry. And, pray God, little John would never know the anguish of losing a father in battle as he himself had, or the horrors of war, as his namesake had. For peace had come at last to England.

The lesson he had taught James III was a harsh one, and there would be no more infractions of the truce for a long while. He was relieved. He had no wish to repeat the measures he’d been forced to take.

There had been scant fighting as James retreated before him, leaving him no alternative but to scorch the earth on the way to Edinburgh. Though he forbade his men to ravage and pillage, many Scots lost what little they owned. They blamed England, but in truth they should blame France, for Louis’s hand was behind the troubles. Since Louis had supported Marguerite’s invasion of England, he feared Edward’s retaliation. To keep Edward from invading France, the Spider King had stirred up the Scots and helped Jasper Tudor foment rebellion in Wales. But news of the truce had sent old Jasper fleeing, taking his confounded nephew Henry Tudor with him. God be praised, they never reached France. A storm blew them astray to Brittany where Francis, Duke of Brittany, granted the Tudors refuge. Now there was hope that Francis would ransom those two sorry Lancastrian remnants in order to spite Louis, whom he hated.

If Brittany did indeed hand over Jasper and his nephew, Edward could at long last bury the Lancastrian threat forever. That was something to look forward to. He wished he could look forward to returning to London. The image of Anne beckoned him back, but court was another matter, more like sticking one’s nose up the chute of a privy. One could be sure to find trouble there, and trouble had two names: Bess and George.

While Anthony Woodville was away in Portugal, Hastings had been granted Warwick’s old title of Captain of Calais, angering the queen, who had wanted the honour for her brother. For sure, Hastings would have to watch his back now. As for George, he was upset that Edward’s seven-month old son had been made Prince of Wales, since that was the hereditary title of the heir to the realm and he considered it his. Had not the act of the Lancastrian parliament declared him heir to Edouard of Lancaster, if Edouard died without issue? Good old, mad old George—who could understand George?

There was one note of humour, though. The tiny Prince of Wales had been provided with a chancellor—no doubt on the insistence of Edward’s pretentious queen, since a babe couldn’t dictate letters and scarcely had need of a secretary. Unfortunately, George had ridiculed Bess and her affectations when he knew she was within earshot, and though it served her right, Richard feared George’s tongue would surely be the death of him one day.

Ah, court, what joys have you in store for me?
he wondered.

~*~

London’s city walls came into view, dark against the glow of the setting sun. Richard shifted in his saddle, gripped his pommel closely. How he hated London! He had hated it as a child and his aversion had only grown with the years. London was a place where the sun never shone, a place where the vast sky of the moors was darkened in narrow streets by the leaning upper stories of the gilt and gabled houses of the merchants. Four times the size of York with its fifty-thousand inhabitants, it was a filthy, crowded place, filled with whirling wheels and clamour. Mercers, haberdashers, and customers argued in the streets while from the blacksmiths’ shops the clanging of metal on metal mounted an assault on the ears. Turning into Butcher’s Row, Richard averted his gaze. He had no desire to view the blood of freshly slaughtered animals in the gutters that reminded him of the carnage of a battlefield. There was no escape, however, from the rancid smell of urine from a nearby alley, so offensive it knocked the breath from him as surely as if a fist had reached out and punched him in the nose. The only aspect of the city he enjoyed was the churches. London had over a hundred. Their steeples could be seen everywhere and the city resounded with the eternal ringing of bells and the voices of singing clergy.

He clattered through Bishopsgate with his men, picking his way through muddy, unpaved streets to the river and holding his nose as he approached Fishmonger’s Hall, releasing it when he reached Thames Street. Thames, which skirted the warehouses and wharves, was crowded with all manner of shops selling pitch, wax, thread, rope, fish, minerals, wines, and grains, but it was paved and afforded small glimpses of a wide blue curve of river, with swans and gilded barges.

A chorus of ravens announced an approaching funeral procession, led by a priest bearing a cross and a herald with a banner. Richard tensed. In dark robes with kerchiefs around their noses to ward off the stink of the rotting corpse, mourners followed the litter with lighted candles, swinging incense. The sour smell of death reminded him that he was responsible for the death of yet another Neville. While in Scotland, the Bastard of Fauconberg had experienced a change of heart, and had tried to join the Earl of Oxford, who was plundering English ships on the high seas and making raids on Calais. Caught aboard a ship he was attempting to commandeer, Fauconberg was executed on the spot. Richard had written to Anne about the incident and expressed deep sorrow at the step he’d been forced to take, but once again he feared her reaction, that she might blame him for yet another kinsman’s death.

Blue twilight was falling and bells rang for Vespers as the high walls and battlements of his mother’s London home, Baynard’s Castle, came into view above the tiled roofs. The castle was a huge fortress on the banks of the River Thames, almost a city in itself, large enough to house much of his army. Since it was not the kind of place that turned one’s thoughts to God, his mother came rarely to London, preferring her establishments in the North, usually at Fotheringhay or Berkhampsted, where she found the peaceful serenity of the countryside more amenable to her chosen life of prayer and contemplation.

After a hasty meal and bath, Richard donned a russet and silver doublet, threw a dark mantle over his shoulders, and took a barge to the Herber, Warwick’s London house that now belonged to George. The night was chill but beautiful. Twinkling stars adorned the dark sky, and the black river, clear as a looking glass, reflected the brilliant moon and the torchlight from passing barges. The hour of Compline had chimed and a wind had risen by the time he reached George’s residence. Only the sentries were about. No matter. He’d sent word ahead that he was coming and Anne was expecting him. His hand strayed to the letter he kept near his breast, inside his doublet.
If it takes forever, I will wait for thee
. He felt elated, yet dreadfully anxious.