White Boar and the Red Dragon, The (26 page)

But it is all over now—thanks be to God! And Richard has placed me here in sanctuary, where I am safe until we are married.

Yes, we are to be wed in the spring, at Eastertide! My heart’s desire has come true! King Edward has given his consent, and scheming George cannot touch me again, ever.

Richard vows he will find some way to punish George severely for his actions—he will not get away with what he did to me! He arrested the landlord and his wife and threw them into prison without trial. That is unlike Richard, but he was so very angry. But they were probably forced or bribed by George to do what they did. The landlord’s wife did treat me as well as she could, in the circumstances, I suppose. I tried to get Richard to let her off, but he would not listen.

The two henchmen who abducted me were also gaoled at once.

Isabel comes to visit me here. She is shocked by what George did to me, but not surprised. She is starting to realise how ruthless her charming husband can be when faced by anyone who thwarts his desires!

Richard has had to go away again for a short while. Some more trouble in the north, I suppose. He did not say why he had to go. But he has promised to be home for Christmas for sure, when he will take me to the court at Westminster for the great holy feast.

After New Year’s Day, preparations will start for our wedding at Easter. I cannot believe how my fortunes have changed in such a short time, from hopelessness to joy! Richard is a truly good man, and I am a lucky woman to have him. I have known him all my life and trust him entirely. He will be a devoted husband, I know that. I love him deeply and I am completely certain that he loves me—has always loved me—as I have him!

Henry Tudor, Brittany, Late 1471

I feel confused and unhappy, in spite of being given every comfort here by Duke Francis at his court in Brittany. Uncle Jasper and I are treated like honoured guests, and we have many friends and supporters with us, Lancastrian exiles who fled from the Yorkist rule, especially after Tewkesbury.

I am kept constantly entertained with hunting, hawking, tournaments, feasts, and pretty girls of the court who flock around me, and I am given plenty of money to spend as I wish. But I miss Maude. We would have been contracted to marry soon. Lord Herbert wanted it. Maude wanted it and I wanted it. There was an understanding between us. I miss the whole Herbert family—and I miss my homeland, Wales. This place seems alien to me. It is very beautiful, especially the wonderful coastline. But I keep thinking of Pembrokeshire—not too far away across the Channel—and Gwent, where my beloved horse Owen must be missing me as much as I miss him.

I wish I were not so important a pawn to the Lancastrians, for that is all I am. They are keeping me safe here to checkmate the House of York ‘whenever the opportunity presents itself’, according to my Lady mother. Whenever that may be! I just had another letter from her recently going on about the same thing, always harping on my possible wonderful future! But I am more concerned with now. Meanwhile, I am forced to live in exile from all I love and know. I admit, I am homesick, very homesick.

The regular letters from my mother do not help at all. She is so obsessed with my future she does not realise how I hate my present life. I have been shunted around from pillar to post most of my short life, and just when I felt settled—at Raglan—Henry VI is briefly restored to power, and I am taken to London to see him by Uncle Jasper and my mother. His strange prophecy I did not believe at all. After all, everybody knew he was mad, anyway. His words could be given no credence. And then, when Edward was restored, stronger than ever, and poor Henry VI was murdered in the Tower that same night, Edward rode in triumph into London to claim his throne. Every other noble of any importance had been killed at Tewkesbury and, I was bundled off here in haste by Uncle Jasper. To be honest, we set out for France, actually, but got blown off course in a terrible storm and landed in Brittany instead, lucky to be alive! It would not have mattered which ruler welcomed me—they only do it because I may be useful to them anyway as a bargaining tool! King Louis would probably have treated me as well as Duke Francis does, for his own ends. I am old enough to realise that. King Edward wants me back, my mother wants me back too, I know, but advises I remain here for the present. I am very wary, and so is Uncle Jasper. Circumstances have made us so. Who knows? Edward may have me killed if I return. He is not to be trusted, not one whit. He has even promised my mother to give me lands and estates—but it is just an empty promise to get me back into his clutches. And anyway, the Duke of Clarence still owns my real inheritance—the Earldom of Richmond and all the estates that go with it and will not give it up. He is a greedy, avaricious, and untrustworthy man. Even the king cannot trust him—his own brother! Especially since he allied with the Earl of Warwick against Edward earlier on—though he is reconciled with the king now. Edward always forgives him everything! The king will not make him give up my lands, however much my mother begs on my behalf. She has been doing it for years. King Henry promised to let me have them back, at his brief readeption—but of course, nothing came of it, as he did not last long!

Before, I was not really very important. Now it seems I am. But all I want is to go to Raglan and see Maude and Owen. I want what I know and love. Isn’t that a natural thing to desire? I am sure it might be very grand to be king one day, and Uncle Jasper keeps telling me about the absolute power it brings and the wonderful palaces, jewels, and clothes. But I am not ambitious like him and my Lady mother. They assure me that I will become so when I am old enough to realise what it would all mean. Meanwhile, I suppose I have to make the best of things as they are. What else can I do?

Fotheringhay Castle, Northamptonshire, Late December 1471

My Dear Richard,

Your mother extends her greetings for the Holy Feast of Christmas to you, also her congratulations on your forthcoming marriage to the Lady Anne Neville. You have chosen well to marry her, especially as her great estates will fall into your keeping! And of course, I know you have always loved her, since you were brought up together at Middleham Castle.

I like the girl, but she does not look very strong to me, and you do need a wife to bear you lusty sons in your position!

I fear I now have unsettling news for you about Kate, whom you left in my care. The boy John flourishes and grows apace, but I feel his mother is far from well. After her terrible ordeal which you told me of, at the hands of that appalling Dorset and his brother—God rot those two vicious dissolutes!—it is not surprising, I suppose. However, she should have shown some recovery by now, but does not. Physically and emotionally, she is at a very low ebb. She insists it is not because of your betrothal to Anne, though that would be cause enough to give her great sadness, as she loves you well. That is obvious. She says she realises it had to happen sooner or later—that you could never marry her. It is something more. She cannot eat and does not even try. She is often sick. She says nothing of it, but I know. I fear indeed that she may be pregnant from that terrible double rape. She talks of going home all the time and that she would find the help she needs there. She is very thankful to me for my care of her but obviously wants her own mother. She is even willing to dare the terrible anger of her father when she goes home with John, your son. And I feel I must let her go, for her own peace of mind, if nothing else. If she is pregnant, then her own mother is the right one to care for her. I am sure you agree. I love the child, John. He makes me feel young again. But he too should be near his maternal grandmother, if Kate goes.

Try to come and visit the poor girl—indeed, visit us both, as soon as you can after Christmas here, if she remains, or go to Appleby Hall, her home, to see her and come to me either before or after. Fotheringhay is not far away from her home, thank goodness, so you can easily do it.

She is determined to go to Appleby Hall for Christmas. I shall provide her with an escort to protect her on the journey.

I agree with you that morality no longer exists in this poor benighted country of ours and deplore Edward’s lack of it, as you know, and especially now his unwillingness to punish these depraved friends of his, who have led him astray all his life—along with Hastings, that other degenerate—for this despicable deed. I think Edward may have sunk so low into depravity under Hastings’s influence that he no longer has a conscience! A good king should have a conscience!

I feel so sorry for Kate. She did not deserve this treatment from the hands of such vile men.

May God bless you and keep you safe, my dear and most upright son! You are the best of my sons!

How I neglected you as a child! I pray to God every day for forgiveness for that, along with my many other sins. You have grown into a man to respect and admire. Pray God you will one day be in the position to put your deeply held ideals of justice and morality into practice for the good of our country! Edward, sadly, is on the downward slope. George also. I pray for them both daily too, that the good God will turn their hearts away from immorality! Your time will come, Richard, as I have assured you many times before. And the sooner, the better!

Your loving mother,

Cecily, Dowager Countess of York

Kate, Appleby Manor, Northamptonshire, January 1472

I was so very happy when I was here last. In this bed, my bed, I knew the most blissful time in my life. With Richard. Here, I discovered real love and pledged myself to my dear one for life and he to me. Now that I am sick unto death in the same bed, I can hardly bear to remember. Any of it. It is all finished for me now—I know it.

I did not tell my parents about that terrible rape at first, though I realised I was pregnant from it, against my will. I just had to get here and rest, though I knew what I intended to do. It was enough to put up with my father’s rage over John, which I had anticipated, but he has calmed down now and is charmed by the boy, as most people are. But he still swears he will make Richard pay if he ever gets the chance. Now that I am ill, he is so worried about my condition that he forgets his initial anger.

I knew there was an old woman on the outskirts of Appleby Village skilled at helping girls in my condition. And she did. I try not to dwell on the horrors of that morning—it was something I would never willingly experience again. But it was afterwards the real trouble began for me. A few hours later, I began to haemorrhage badly. I had been warned that this could happen, so I just took to my bed and rested, hoping it would gradually stop and told my mother that my stomach was upset. But the heavy blood loss persisted. Now, two weeks later, I still bleed constantly. I had to tell my mother the truth in the end about the rape and the abortion, as I needed her help so badly. But she could do little, nor the village doctor, though they both tried every remedy they knew, to no avail. They think I have been damaged internally. I daily grow weaker, as the life blood ebbs from me. I cannot rise from my bed. Indeed, I can barely lift a hand to drink or eat, not that I want to. Ruth does her best too, trying to get me to take nourishing beef broths and cordials. They all minister to me constantly, even my father, but I just want to be left alone—to sleep. It is the only escape.

If I die, which I am likely to do—and soon, I feel—so what? My life is over without Richard anyway. He loves another and is to marry her—a great lady—just as I knew would happen. I pretended that I did not care about it—but the hurt was terrible inside—more so than the damage to me caused by the rape and that terrible abortion.

My love will never come to me again—even if he wants to—he will not be able to. So what does it matter what becomes of me now? Mother will care for John. She has promised to do this with Ruth’s help—and Richard’s support. If the worst comes to the worst—if he keeps his promise and sees that the child is provided for—the boy will lack for nothing—except his mother. I do not have the strength to strive for my life any more, though I know I should go on trying to recover—for little John’s sake, but I am just too tired, too tired to think, to do anything any more, to care any more. I just want to sleep.

Richard, Appleby Hall, Northamptonshire, January 1472

‘You say that she is probably dying? Never! Now that I am here, she will rally, I am sure of it. Has she told you what happened to her? The wickedness of these men is beyond belief, and they think nothing of it, have probably forgotten her by now. The chase and getting their own way was all that was important to them. I pleaded with the king to punish them, but you can imagine he took little notice of me in this matter—to his shame. And the Marquess of Dorset and his brother—both depraved libertines—are the queen’s sons, of course, so she protects them. But I will find a way to make them pay, somehow, if not at once, then certainly in the future—make no mistake about that!

Now please, take me to see my poor Kate. I would cheer her, if I can.’

‘You may cheer her by your presence, my lord, for which she has longed, but you cannot cure her—nobody can. It is in God’s hands now and probably only a matter of time before…’ sobs Lady Appleby.

‘Come, come, my dear. Have faith. She has youth on her side, after all. If her spirit could be awakened again and her wish to live, then perhaps our constant prayers will be answered. My lord, I was so angry with you at first, but I see now that you loved each other truly. She still loves you, but how can you give her the determination to live, even if you still love her? She knows you are to wed soon to a great lady and she has just given up.’

‘Sir Mortimer, I will never desert her, even if I am married to another. She always knew it would be impossible for me to wed her, ever, and accepted that, long before this terrible trouble afflicted her. Let us go up to her, now—I would try to comfort her.’

‘Kate, my dear one, it is I. I have come to you, as I said I would. Now you will get well, you must get well! Think of the boy. He needs you so much, his own mother—as I do. Do you hear me? I will never desert you. Or John.’