The Rose of York (38 page)

George’s guards were conversing among themselves on the ramparts and their voices floated out to the water from the house. The barge drew up to the water gate, the oars stilled, and the captain helped Richard onto the dock. A sharp voice called out, “Who goes there?”

Richard’s squire gave an equally sharp rejoinder. “Richard of Gloucester!”

The first voice came again, “Pass then!” and the guards resumed their conversations.

Bidding his squire wait, Richard swung the postern gate open and entered the walled garden of the graceful London house that had belonged to Anne’s father. He hadn’t seen Anne in two years, and a lifetime had passed between. With his heart pounding in his ears and his lips as dry as tinder, he climbed the riverbank and crunched his way across the fallen leaves. He reached the sweeping outer staircase, looked up. And froze.

Framed by the torches flaring at the door, Anne stood at the top of the steps, her fair hair shimmering down to her waist, her violet gown fluttering around her lithe form. For Richard it was as though night had shattered and blazing sunlight flooded the world. Wild joy exploded in his breast. On her lips hovered the smile he’d remembered with such clarity, such aching and longing, these lonely, desperate years. Time hurtled backwards and he felt the earth warm, heard the laughter of those joyous days at Middleham. He held out his arms. She ran down the steps and stumbled into them with a sob. “Richard…”

“Anne…” he whispered into her hair, his heart hammering, his blood surging at the first shocking contact of her flesh with his. “Oh, Anne…” He crushed her soft red lips beneath his own and tasted wine. Ecstasy flamed through him. He drew back and stared down at her in rapturous wonder. “You’re so beautiful, Anne… I’d forgotten how beautiful.”

“I saw the barge from the window,” she said in a breathless whisper. “I heard them call your name…”

He pressed her to him and laid his cheek against her silken hair. “Anne, Anne… How I love thee, Anne.” Her name felt like a caress on his tongue and he couldn’t keep from repeating it. “Anne… beloved Anne, how I missed thee… Marry me, Anne.”

Anne looked up at him, eyes wide with joy. Then her expression clouded. “But the King…”

“My beloved lady, the King is grateful and has already granted permission!”

For Anne it seemed the ground on which she stood floated away, that the garden walls melted and a wind picked up the stars and twirled them about her. Then she remembered all that she had forgotten in her happiness. She jerked back from his arms. “But how can we marry? I have nothing to bring you.”

Richard cupped his hand under her chin and tilted her face up to his. “You say you bring me nothing… Aye, ’tis so, if love be nothing.”

She gazed at him, seeing dawn-grey eyes in a sun-bronzed face, and thick dark hair gleaming in the moonlight. He looked glowing and young, though the angles of his face were more sharply defined, the square jaw more firmly set than she remembered. The lines around his eyes and mouth were still there, but now they muted his youth with strength and didn’t wrench her heart as they once had, for the fear was gone. He had changed. He was different from the young Richard she had known at Middleham. This Richard was a man, one who had proven himself with courage and will. But some things had not changed. He was still her rescuer, as he had been in their childish play on the green slopes behind the castle walls, and he still wished to wed her.

“Can this be?” she murmured, tears wetting her cheek. “Can such happiness truly be?”

“It can,” he said, pushing stray tendrils of hair back from her brow. “It is, Flower-eyes.” She was stealing a look at him in the way he loved: shyly, from below. He bent his lips to her mouth.

She lifted her arms to clasp his neck and Richard felt the cold jab of metal in his flesh. He drew away, seized her hand, looked down. “You still wear my ring.”

“It never left my finger,” she whispered as he covered her hands with kisses. “Not even when—not even, even…” She shut her eyes on a breath, and shivered.

Realising what she was trying to say, Richard winced. He gathered his cloak around her, pressed her to him and held her tight in his embrace. “Hush, my love, hush.”

His arms warmed the chill in her heart. Her shivering ceased; the memories of Marguerite and Edouard fled. She opened her eyes and looked up at him. “Never leave me, Richard—the world is too harsh a place without you. Promise you’ll never leave me.”

“I swear it on my father’s soul, beloved Anne.”

She turned in his arms and they faced the river together. The wind had stilled. Fireflies glinted around them and the Thames flowed smoothly past, shimmering in the moonlight. A nightingale sang in the garden, matin bells chimed in the distance, and water lapped gently, bathing the night with calm and a beauty so profound that it caught at their throats. Neither spoke for fear of breaking the magical spell that bound them.

After a while, in a tone of wonder, Anne said, “What more could there be?”

Richard looked down with a soft expression, his grey eyes sparkling, his smile luminous. “But more there is, dearest Anne.” He turned her to face him and took her hands into his own. “I’ve traded my lands and commands in Wales for the North. Edward’s concerned about Percy. He doesn’t trust him and has given me authority over him… He’s also given me your father’s estates of Sherriff Hutton, Penrith and…” He broke off, waited a moment, “Middleham.” He heard her indrawn breath. “My love, we’re going back to Middleham!”

A cry of joy escaped her lips. She flung herself against him and her heart streamed into his. He laid his cheek against hers and he felt her fragrant breath against his face. For one blessed, glowing moment, they stood locked together in each other’s arms, and so piercing sweet was their joy that it seemed that Heaven itself reached out to caress them.

An ugly laugh shattered their enchantment.

“A pretty picture, indeed.” George’s voice.

The lovers separated, whirled around. George stood at the top of the staircase, his face shadowed by the torchlight flaring behind him, his fair curls shining brightly. As he strode down the steps, they saw that his features were twisted with fury. Anne instinctively clung to Richard.

“A fine sight and a fine thing when one’s brother sneaks in by night to steal!”

Richard stared at him. “Sneak…? Steal…? What are you talking about, George?”

“You wish to marry Anne.”

“Aye. And I will. What does that have to do with sneaking and stealing?”

“I’ve not given my permission.”

“Your permission? All I need is Edward’s permission and that he gave me in Coventry.”

“She’s not for you and you’ll never marry her,” George sputtered. “The affairs of the Nevilles are in my hands. I’m her guardian and I will never grant my permission!”

“We’ll see about that!” Richard shouted. After all he had been through, to be treated thus by his own brother, a brother still fresh from his treasons both to his King and his father-inlaw— it was too much to be borne. “You’ve gone mad, George. I shall marry Anne and there’s nothing you can do about it. I’ll appeal to Edward and we’ll see which of us he favours.”

“Aye, let’s see which of us wins this contest.” George spat the words.

Something in his manner struck a chill into Anne. George did not make idle threats. Aboard ship, he had sworn to make Edward pay. And he had. Greed and jealousy were poisons in his blood, driving him ever closer to the dark edges of madness. No sane mind could anticipate his next move. She tightened her hold of Richard’s arm.

“My dearest love,” Richard said gently, “I fear you must obey for now, but know that I shall be back for you.”

Sudden dread kept her frozen at Richard’s side. When she made no move to follow, George grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her up the steps.

“Richard…” she cried, casting a long look back.

“I’ll be back, Anne! Never fear, dear heart…”

The door slammed shut behind her. Its angry echo shattered the stillness of the night. Richard kicked the ground, and cursed.

~ * * * ~

“O brother… woe is me!
My madness all thy life has been… thy curse.”

Through the halls and passageways of Westminster Palace crowded with boisterous, boasting Woodvilles, past the glittering, silently watchful Queen playing cards with her ladies, Richard made his way to the King’s bedchamber the
next morning. Magnificent in a green velvet doublet slashed and reversed with purple satin, his splendid legs encased in high black boots of fine Milan leather, Edward stood with a flask of wine in one hand, the other reaching for the skirts of a laughing chambermaid as she bent to smooth the bed. All the while the Keeper of the Wardrobe and his meinie struggled to measure the stately frame and to hold up bolts of gold and silver tissue, rich crimsons, and colourful silks and velvets for his inspection.

Edward said, “George was just here. He says you fought.”

He took a gulp of wine.

“It seems we always do these days!” Richard exclaimed, betraying his frustration.

“What about this time?”

“I must speak with you in private, my lord,” Richard replied in a formal manner. He had sensed the sudden interest of the servants in the room and already regretted his display of emotion.

Edward waved a hand and the room cleared instantly, with the exception of two men-at-arms by the door and the minstrel, whom Edward ordered back to his stool. The man began a lilting melody on his flute, but neither his cheery tune nor the fire crackling in the hearth, nor the opulence of the room with its bright tapestries and coloured tile floor, could brighten the dismal day. The chamber felt damp and cold, reflecting the gloom of the leaden skies and the rain-swept Thames.

Edward sank into a velvet chair, flask in hand, while Richard moved to the hearth and related his tale of the events of the previous night.

“George and his insatiable greed. I’m beginning to think he’s a viper,” sighed Edward. “He wants the Countess’s lands and he fears that if you marry Anne, he’ll have to share them with you.”

“But the Countess’s lands can’t be confiscated—she had no part in Warwick’s treason.”

“I know, I know, but I fear I must give him what he wants, or he’ll give me no peace.”

It was an old tale. George had long ago figured out how to manage Edward and the years had taught him to hone the practice. Richard remembered one incident in particular and thought it strange that something so insignificant should linger in his mind after all the years.

They had just returned from exile in Burgundy after Edward had won the throne, and George was showing off his new clothes. “Purple and gold suit me best, don’t you think, Dickon?”

he’d demanded. Richard had stepped into his grey gown without a reply, thinking that every day it was the same question, only a different colour. “You have but two gowns,” continued George, “while I have twenty. Does that not bother you?”

Knowing George would persist until he received an answer, Richard said, “I don’t wish to trouble Edward about such things when he has important matters on his mind.”

George had regarded him thoughtfully. “I’ll let you in on a secret, Dickon. You have to keep reminding Edward of what you want until you get it. He forgets, you see.”

Nothing had changed, Richard thought now. The grown man was little different from the boy. He watched as Edward drained his flask and called for another. A server hurried over. Edward drank greedily.

“Clarence always wants something more than what he has,” Edward said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “To prove he’s a better man than he is, I suppose. I know him, but I know not how to appease him. Once he has the Countess’s lands, he’ll turn his eyes back on the crown.”

Richard noted Edward’s new habit of referring to George by his title, as if to distance himself from their brother. Whether this was deliberate, he didn’t know, but clearly, his affection for George had cooled and only on account of the blood bond did he tolerate him at all. But then, George had a way of wearing one down.

Edward pressed a hand to his brow. “George is in a foul and dangerous mood, Dickon. I must find a way to appease him. For the peace of the realm.”

“Edward—you will not require me to give up Anne?”

Surprised by his tone, Edward regarded him a long moment. “George means to have her inheritance at any cost, Dickon, for the honours I have given you fester in his mind and he has a spiteful, jealous nature.” He paused thoughtfully before he resumed. “As you know, I’m not one to seek a fight… But neither do I shrink from one when my honour is at stake. Nay, Dickon, I won’t ask such sacrifice of you a second time. I shall send to George not to interfere with your suit. You may have the girl, and I wish you both joy.”