The Rose of York (8 page)

She opened her eyes to find Bella shaking her. Merlin was beating his wings and squawking noisily.

“Stop it, stop that shrieking!” Bella was yelling. “What’s the matter with you?”

Anne swallowed dryly. “It’s the dream again, Bella.”

Bella froze. “Oh, God’s mercy…”

Anne crossed herself and hastily pushed out of bed. The dream was an omen that always preceded disaster. “We must pray,” she said. “Hurry, Bella, hurry!” The two sisters rushed to their prie-dieu, knelt on the velvet cushion and, placing their trembling hands together, prayed to the Holy Virgin.

They continued their urgent prayers through Mass the next morning, and silently through breakfast. When the King’s messenger arrived with a missive for their father, Anne reached out for Bella’s hand.

He cut the white ribbon with his jewelled dagger, broke open the seal, and read. He seemed relieved, for his taut face relaxed when he looked up. “Good news, my lords and ladies. The King will visit us next week on his way north to deal with the Bitch of Anjou.”

Bella almost laughed in relief. But Anne turned her eyes to the far hills from whence the King would come riding.

~ * * * ~

“Live pure, speak true, right wrong, follow the King—”

On the last day of October 1463, All Hallows Eve, King Edward IV arrived on a gleaming ebony stallion caparisoned with crimson velvet and embroidered with the golden suns-androses of York. He dismounted before the castle and stood with hands on his hips, grinning at his brother Richard. His startling blue eyes were brighter than the summer sky, his smile dazzling as sunlight, his golden hair more brilliant than the wheat fields of August. He stood six foot four in his stockinged feet and was so tall and broad-shouldered that he blotted out the sun behind him.

“Dickon—you’ve grown!” Edward laughed. “God’s mercy, look at those muscles—I daresay you’d do me damage with those!” He gave Richard a playful punch on the arm.

Richard wanted to run to his great golden brother in his joy, but that would have been unseemly. He was eleven years old, almost a grown man. When Edward was twelve he’d successfully led an army and rescued his father, the Duke of York, from Queen Marguerite’s clutches.

“Aye, my lord brother,” Richard replied proudly. “I’ve been learning much of knighthood here at Middleham.”

“I seem to be sinking ever deeper into your debt, cousin,” smiled Edward as he embraced Warwick, but it seemed to Richard that his brother’s tone had lost much of its warmth. Whether Warwick noticed he couldn’t tell from his mumbled acknowledgement.

“My Lord of Gloucester is becoming a fine warrior,” Warwick said after a pause. “My brother of Montagu is much impressed.” He gave Richard a smile and, turning back to Edward, dropped the formality. “John hopes to be with us this night, Sire. He comes to brief you on matters in the North and to request permission to take Dickon back with him to observe the siege of Bamborough.”

Startled, Richard glanced up at them joyfully, his heart stirring with gratitude to John.

Warwick said, “My lord King, you are journey-tired. Come, rest and take refreshment. We have a fine banquet prepared.”

Followed by Richard, the Neville family and the glittering Knights of the King’s Body, the King and the Kingmaker led the way into the castle, their heads together, talking in hushed tones of Marguerite’s invasion. Richard overheard part of their conversation.

“There’s a rumour the Scots have promised to send an army to Bamborough within the week,” Warwick said.

To this Edward laughed. “Fear not; the Scots keep no promise.”

Nothing daunts my brother
, Richard thought with admiration.

~*~

Dark fell over Wensleydale. Villagers and townsfolk gathered outdoors to celebrate All Hallows Eve with bonfires and revelry, and in the snow-covered castle minstrels struck a lilting melody to commence the festivities. The Kingmaker’s guests rose from their banquet tables with a rustle of silks and a flash of gems to greet the King entering the great hall. Crushing rushes and dried lavender underfoot, King Edward strode forward alone at the head of the procession, greeting his subjects with easy grace. The Nevilles followed. Richard escorted Anne, and a small retinue of trusted knights and councillors brought up the rear.

The massive chamber dazzled like a jewel for the royal visit. A fire roared welcome from the new-styled hearth on the dais and torches threw dancing lights over gilded pillars, tapestries, and coloured glass windows. All the tables were covered with white cloths, and where the nobles sat there were gold trenchers, small boxes of precious salt, and silver bowls piled high with apples and pears.

Richard’s eyes followed his brother. Resplendent in his golden crown of points and a tunic quartered with the Lilies of France and Leopards of England, Edward, who had turned twenty-one in April, was every inch a king. A jewelled girdle with the white rose emblem of York worked in pearls glinted around his narrow hips, and the Yorkist collar of golden Suns and Roses flashed across his broad shoulders. The Sun in Splendour had become his emblem after his defeat of Queen Marguerite at the Battle of Mortimer’s Cross, when three suns appeared in the sky. By God’s grace he’d triumphed over insurmountable odds that day, and the five-pointed rose on a sunburst was a reminder to all that Fortune had chosen him her champion.

Edward eclipses everyone
, Richard thought proudly, trying to imitate his swagger.
Even the stately Kingmaker in his opulent white damask attire, furred with sable and dusted with jewels.
He turned his glance on Anne.

In contrast to Bella, who looked an apparition in a pumpkincoloured gown, Anne seemed clad in living flowers and was never more fair. Now he noticed her startling resemblance to the image of their mutual ancestress, Joan Beaufort, that hung on the east wall. It was from Joan that the Nevilles inherited not only their royal blood, but their good looks.

Born out of wedlock to their common ancestor, John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, and his mistress, Katherine Swynford, Joan was an unsuitable bride for a Neville. Before he died, John of Gaunt wed Katherine and legitimised their four children, giving them the name Beaufort. Never before had royalty married a commoner. The marriage scandalised Europe and outraged the nobility, but allowed Joan to wed her Neville.

Despite the stain of illegitimacy, the Beauforts gained such respectability and wealth over the next sixty years that they became the rivals of the Nevilles for power. Little did Joan and her brothers know when she married Ralph Neville what enemies their descendants would become as the thirst for power cut its way through blood ties. The Neville and Beaufort cousins feuded for decades before the rift broke open into civil war in 1453. But for the Lancastrian Beauforts, mad Henry would have been deposed years earlier. But for the Yorkist Nevilles, Edward wouldn’t be King now.

They took their seats at the royal table. Drums rolled and servants carried in silver trays laden with food, followed by hounds begging for scraps. Within the first half hour Richard counted more than seven courses, including peacocks and swans decorated with their own bright feathers, roasted wild boar, finches, larks, and the more edible pheasants. Never at the royal court had he enjoyed such a selection. Only to impress merchants who might lend him money did Edward throw banquets, and none so lavish. Richard knew Edward was both impressed and irked by Warwick’s wealth. To swell his own treasury, Edward had resorted to trading in wool, tin, and cloth like a common merchant, and his royal ships roamed as far afield as Italy and Greece, seeking high prices for his goods.

A troubadour came to sing of Arthur. Richard noted that Anne was absorbed in the tale, unlike Bella, who was busy making cow-eyes at a new apprentice-knight. But then, the sisters were different. Anne loved to learn, enjoyed reading, and could recite passages from Virgil and Ovid. There was only one blessing that Heaven had forgotten to bestow: If only she weren’t so frail! To make matters worse, she picked at her food and never touched flesh. He’d tried to persuade her to eat meat, hoping it might help her grow strong, but she’d refused. “Would you eat your friends?” she’d demanded, shocked.

He almost smiled as he watched Anne choose fruit and decline flesh. He nodded to a server and the man heaped roasted boar on his gold trencher. A hound nosed under his elbow. Richard fed him a slice. Anne smiled in secret approval. He returned her smile as he devoured the boar and accepted a pheasant leg to share with the hound.

A sharp crack of thunder startled him. The night had turned stormy. The wind had begun whistling and part of a shutter banged against a window, raising an eerie chorus around the troubadour’s song as he told of Arthur’s love for Guinevere. Suppressing his unease, he sipped wine from a gilded wine cup and glanced down the table.

Next to the King sat Lord William Hastings, who had married one of Warwick’s many sisters. Hastings was Edward’s bosom companion and Richard thought they made an odd pair, since Hastings was eleven years older and his hair was already silvering at thirty-two. But, like Edward, he laughed easily and his blue eyes raked women boldly. Richard had heard the ladies talk and he knew they thought Hastings irresistible. Men found him genial, too, yet Richard had always felt uncomfortable around him. Maybe because Hastings was too rowdy for good company, or maybe because he reminded him of what he wished to forget…

Ludlow.

He’d met Hastings at Ludlow Castle on his sixth birthday. On that same October day he’d also met his two eldest brothers, Edward and Edmund, who had been sent away to learn knightly conduct in another noble household. Edward was then seventeen, Edmund barely sixteen. There had been much joy at Ludlow.

And fear.

Richard’s goblet slackened in his grip. It was at Ludlow that he’d first met Queen Marguerite. He blinked to banish the image of the fiery queen astride her horse in the marketplace, looking down at him with loathing and contempt. God’s curse on her, all England’s woes flowed from her evil doings—hers, and her corrupt favourite, Henry Beaufort, Duke of Somerset. If Marguerite d’Anjou hadn’t wed mad King Henry, or if King Henry had kept his wits, Richard’s father would never have died. It was Marguerite’s mortal hatred that forced his father to remember that he—by his descent from an older son of Edward III—held better title to the throne than King Henry himself. By the time Richard had turned six, there had been several bloody battles between the Yorkists and the Lancastrians. Fearing that Fotheringhay Castle was no longer safe, his father moved them to Ludlow, his stronghold on the Welsh Marches.

Ludlow
. Absently, Richard picked up the candle before him, brought it close and stared into the flame. He could feel its heat in his face.
Danger
, it warned.
Danger
…

Aye, there had been danger at Ludlow. And treachery. And unspeakable horror. The world had changed after Ludlow. He stared into the flaring flame. The bright hall dimmed and receded, laughter faded; time hurtled backwards and Ludlow rose up before his eyes.

Standing high on a hill near the River Teme, Ludlow Castle had been cold and damp, the walls thick, the windows narrow. The castle had been crowded with his father’s soldiers, friends and servants. Since there was little furniture besides some trestle tables and a few benches and stools, they sat on the stairs, slept on rushes and lounged on cushions. The air was pungent with the smell of horses, dogs, sweat. And the scent of fear. Death lurked in the shadows at Ludlow.

Besides his father and three brothers, Edward, Edmund, and George, there was Richard’s uncle, the Earl of Salisbury, and his son Warwick, and many others whose scarred and pockmarked faces flitted in and out of the shadows in the castle. As the gloom deepened, torches and tapers were lit. Richard crouched in a corner, trying not to notice the grotesque shapes the candles threw on the walls, concentrating instead on his nine-year-old brother George, who sat at his mother’s feet by the cupboard, bare because his father had pawned his plate to pay his soldiers. As she embroidered a war banner, George waved a plume, shook his golden curls, laughed his merry laugh, and regaled her with tales of how he would single-handedly vanquish their enemies. Richard remembered that she had smiled.

But there was no smile on his father’s face. Tense and drawn, he carefully went over the battle plans with Salisbury, Warwick, and the fierce leader of the Calais regiment whom Warwick, the Captain of Calais, had brought over with him. Andrew Trollope reminded Richard of a pirate with his scarred cheek and blackened teeth. Hideous as he was, Richard knew his father felt lucky to have this fighter of known repute. Without Andrew Trollope and his seasoned fighting men, he had no chance against Marguerite’s forces.

“We’re outnumbered,” said the Duke of York.

“Fear not,” grinned Trollope. “We’ve something the Bitch’s army ’as naught of.
Heart!
Bah, we’ll chop ’m up like raw liver, for they’re naught but gutless swine and know not what real fighting’s about!”