The Rose of York (45 page)

As he spoke, Anne remembered the poor wretches who had worked with her in the kitchen on Lombard Street. She’d fled that nightmare because Richard had chosen to champion her. The poor had no champion, nothing, not even hope.
Until now
. “Richard,” she murmured, taking his hand in the darkness and drawing close. “Richard, my love…”

~*~

At first it was only the helpless and the poor who came seeking Richard’s justice, yeomen and peasants at the mercy of the baronage, or greedy landlords who found ways around the law. But as time passed, men of all classes sought his aid. His council developed from a court of appeal for the poor into a great judicial body called the Council of the North. Among the councillors who assisted him on his court of equity were other lords who shared his passion for justice: Francis Lovell, and the Lords Greystoke and Scrope of Bolton, who had fought for Warwick against Edward but were now devoted to Richard. The Council of the North placed increased demands on Richard’s time, leaving him little to spare, but during the tranquil autumn he managed to find three days for an important personal mission.

The countryside sparkled in its rich attire of wines and golds as Richard took Anne to Barnard’s Castle to see her wedding gift, which was finally completed and ready to be unveiled. He made Anne close her eyes while he led her into the great hall and placed her in position. “Look, and tell me what you see,” he said.

She opened her eyes and a gasp of awe escaped her lips. Stone, seven feet thick, had been chiselled away to make space for a magnificent, soaring oriel window. Situated directly in the centre of the great hall, it projected out to the cliff and overlooked the thundering River Tees and rich forests of larch and pine. An intricate boar insignia was carved into the stone below the window seat and sunshine poured through a border of coloured glass that displayed the Plantagenet and Neville coats of arms, spilling rainbows at her feet. From where she stood, she could see a sweeping panorama. Far in the distance, nestled in brilliant autumn colours, glimmered the arched stone footbridge that dated from Alfred’s time, and beyond stretched orchards of glistening pears, and beyond even that, the undulating hills covered in heather. Over all this beauty hung the vast sky, splashed with vivid blue and white like a painter’s palette.

As she stood spellbound, Richard flung open the windows. The sound of rushing water and the call of wild peacocks, wagtails, and wood pigeons burst into the room like song. Entranced, she moved to the window and inhaled deeply. The wind felt cool on her cheek, and the air was fresh and moist with the fragrance of fern, for there had been a rain shower earlier.

“Here we can sit in comfort, watch the twilight, and sing the Song of the North,” Richard said as he smiled.

“Oh, Richard, my dear lord,” she whispered. “And here, in the sunshine, I can sit and sew, amidst this beauty—why, ’tis like being by our chestnut in the woods…” She pushed away from the window and moved tenderly into his arms. “Tonight,” she murmured with shining eyes, “you shall know my thanks.”

~*~

During these months regular missives arrived from Edward, recounting the news from court. In May came news that Lord Howard had been made a Knight of the Garter on St. George’s day, that the queen had given birth to another daughter in April, and that Bess’s mother Jacquetta, the old Duchess of Bedford, had died. There was also news that the Earl of Oxford was making raids on Calais with the help of the Hansards and the backing of France, but that did not trouble Edward, who was devoting much of his leisure time to the chase, Archbishop Neville being a frequent companion in these royal hunting parties. This pleased the Countess, who smiled over her embroidery.

Only days later came news that was shocking and unpleasant. Late in April the Archbishop had been removed to the Tower, placed aboard a ship the next day, and sent to Calais. From there he had gone into imprisonment in the fortress of Hammes Castle, there to remain at the will of the King. Edward had seized his bishopric, made a crown out of the gems in his mitre, and given the Archbishop’s other jewels to his son Edward, the Prince of Wales.

The Countess caught her breath, half-rose from her chair on trembling legs. “Of what is the Lord Archbishop accused?” she whispered.

“Of communication with the Earl of Oxford, my lady,” said Richard.

“But Oxford is our brother-in-law!” exclaimed the Countess.

“He’s also a bur in Edward’s saddle. He’s sworn to bring down the House of York and is financed by Louis and the Hansards to make raids on Calais.”

“A crown out of a mitre—I see the queen’s hand in this. Lord Richard, I beg you to help him. Hammes Castle, ’tis a harsh place—he cannot survive!”

Richard took her hand. “My lady, you know I’ll do all I can.”

~*~

At the King’s call, Richard arrayed a small force in Yorkshire and led them south. The Earl of Oxford was a serious threat and Edward wished to be prepared. As he reached London, Oxford seized St. Michael’s Mount and was seeking to rouse Cornwall against Edward. Richard found Edward in a foul temper at Westminster and in no mood to listen to entreaties on Archbishop Neville’s behalf.

“Brother, I am done pardoning him! If I could put him to death, I would—Hammes shall do it for me, and good riddance to him. He has been a traitor and now he’s a spy. He’s fed Oxford information to help France. That infernal Louis has been using Oxford and the Hansards to make trouble for England, and Neville is in the thick of it all! As if that’s not enough, he’s been stirring George against me.”

“George needs no stirring, Edward.”

“True, true. But in any case Oxford now has one ally less without Neville. George is enough, by God! Oxford’s seizure of St. Michael’s Mount has encouraged him to array his men— against you, he claims—but I’m not deceived. ’Tis the crown he wants. He calls me bastard behind my back and gives out that I’m the son of an archer and he’s rightfully king!” Edward upended a table, and a bowl clattered to the ground, sending a load of apples bobbing across the tiled floor. He threw himself into a chair, and bowed his head in his hands.

Richard rested a hand on his shoulder.

But Edward was fortunate. Neither Cornwall nor Louis responded to Oxford’s call—Cornwall, because the people had had their fill of dying in battles, and Louis, because he was facing the threat of war from the Duke of Brittany. George, unwilling to commit himself to a lost cause, decided to wait matters out with his small force. Soon Oxford was forced to surrender for pardon of his life only. Edward sent him to Hammes Castle.

In the antechamber of his bedroom, Edward gave a laugh. “Let Oxford keep his friend the Archbishop company. Maybe they’ll kill each other and save me much trouble!” He toasted Richard with a cup of wine and plopped a handful of green grapes into his mouth from a gilded bowl. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and grinned. “At least I’m not alone in my misery. Louis has his share of problems. Francis of Brittany claims Louis poisoned his brother Guienne and he threatens war.” He chuckled, gave Richard a hearty slap on the back, and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “’Tis my turn to have fun at Louis’s expense—I shall send archers to help Brittany. Now, about George…” He took Richard by the shoulders. “He wishes the question of the division of lands to be reopened between you. This time shall be the last, I swear it, brother! This time I’ll have Parliament ratify the agreement.”

Richard closed his eyes. Was there no end to this strife? “I shall never give up Middleham,” he said. Middleham was not merely his home; it was his refuge in this battering world of dissension and greed.

“You shall have more than Middleham, by God! That viper shall not seize all from you. I give you my word.”

“Edward…”

“Aye, brother?”

“Archbishop Neville… will you release him into my keeping?”

“Your request,” Edward said after a long pause, “will be considered.”

With that to comfort him, Richard returned to Middleham. And there, with Anne and the Countess, he spent a blessed Christmas.

Decorated with greenery, bouquets of dried flowers, pine-scented rushes, and hundreds of candles and tall burning tapers, Middleham Castle had never shone so festive and bright, not even in the days of Warwick the Kingmaker. For in those days there were still war troubles to touch them; now there was only George, and he seemed very far away this Christmas. Feasting, carols, mummery, and dancing filled the halls from snowy mornings to dark nights, and laughter rang louder than church bells. Richard and Anne were always together, hands clasped, for there was much joy to celebrate.

Anne was with child.

~ * * * ~

“The birds made
Melody on branch and melody in mid-air.”

All during the blessed months of her pregnancy, life unfolded for Anne like an heirloom tapestry lovingly stitched in jewel colours, detailing joyous intimacies and many a tender mercy. Friends came visiting bearing gifts and laughter. There was Francis, who journeyed from Minster Lovell, his home in Oxfordshire, and there were the lords Scrope of Bolton and Scrope of Masham, and Greystoke, who lived nearby and dropped in frequently. There was Richard’s sister Liza, Duchess of Suffolk, and her ten-year-old son Johnnie, Earl of Lincoln, whom Richard nicknamed Jack and grilled fondly on poetry, for in Jack’s veins ran the blood of Geoffrey Chaucer. On one occasion when young Jack gave the correct answer, Richard rewarded him with the prize of a hound, born to a litter sired by Percival, who had passed the years of strife safely within the walls of Middleham and now had reached the venerable age of ten.

There was one who came and brought a special joy: John’s wife Isobel, Lady Montagu. She arrived hand-in-hand with her seven-year-old son George Neville, the little Duke of Bedford, and her eyes never left the boy. She had married again, as widows are obliged to do unless they take the veil, and had borne two more children in the intervening three years. Anne thought she looked too thin and a trifle weary, though Isobel assured her she was well enough.

But there was one who came not.

Anne had not seen Bella since that terrible night George had deposited Anne in the kitchen of the house on Lombard Street, and she felt her sister’s continued absence keenly, like a rip in a perfect tapestry.

Sitting in the window of her solar in the early evening as she embroidered a blanket for her baby, Anne’s needle hovered in the middle of a stitch. She missed Bella, especially now. There was so much to share. The blanket, which bore her baby’s coat of arms of the Neville saltires and Richard’s fleur-de-lis, could as well have been designed for Bella’s son, two-year-old George, whom she’d never met. He, too, was half Neville and half Plantagenet, like her own unborn child. She swallowed on the knot that came to her throat and drove her needle and its load of scarlet through the velvet. The minstrel in the corner began a lullaby on his flute, and a tiny voice spoke in her head:
Don’t let morbid thoughts blight your happiness—who knows what the future brings?
Servants appeared to light the tapers and brightness flooded the chamber. She cut the thread and knotted it firmly. “How do you like the blanket, my lord?” She glanced at Richard, poring over papers at his desk, and held it up for his inspection.

Richard lifted his head. Griffins and crosses, lilies and leopards, danced brightly across the white velvet in silvers, golds, and shades of reds and blues. Below Anne had embroidered his motto,
Loyaulte Me Lie
, Loyalty binds me, and the motto of the Nevilles,
Ne Vile Velis
. Wish nothing base.

“Splendid, my love.”

“Can you not come and sit beside me?” Anne patted the wine silk cushion where she sat. She wished Richard didn’t drive himself so hard. “The sunset is lovely.”

“I must finish, dearest… To think tomorrow is the first of May—how time does pass! It seems we were only yesterday celebrating Christmas.”

“And such a lovely Christmas it was. I never would have guessed there was so much happiness in the world.”

Richard laid down his quill pen with a sigh. “If only there were not so much work.”

“You’ve been up past Matins these three days. What’s so important?”

Richard heaved a sigh and sank back in his chair. “Percy.”

“I thought your troubles with him were over when you formed the Council of the North… He swore to recognise your superior authority, and I know you’ve been considerate with him. ’Tis not in your nature to be otherwise. So what can the matter be?”

“I try not to offend him, but there’s still friction between us. He resents me. On occasion I’ve had to step in and reverse a decision he has made. As I am doing now…” His voice faded away wearily.

“Tell me,” Anne pressed.

“The city of York discharged one of their clerks, and the man went to Percy, who reinstated him. The city appealed to me. I looked into the matter, and I had Edward’s own lawyers examine the case as well. The man was abusive and incompetent. York was perfectly within its rights to dismiss him. I shall have to rule against Percy. Once again.”