by Sandra Worth
“So we’re useless?” demanded Richard. In his royal blue tunic, with his sun-bronzed face and tawny-gold hair, John looked anything but a dowdy wren.
“Nay, fair cousin. No man is useless who betters the lot of others. We can never turn our feathers to flame and jewel colour like our older brothers. But if we’re true knights, and let honour and conscience guide our lives, we’ll face God without shame when the time comes, and that is the best any man can do.”
Richard burst out passionately, “But what if you can’t be a knight?”
“You’re a knight already. A Knight of the Bath, knighted by the King himself on his coronation day.”
Richard averted his face. Hungering for a win, he’d trained hard for his first mock tournament, rising long before the castle stirred and stealing away to the woods to practise his tiltyard routine in rain and cold. Winning would have helped him shoulder the memory that had haunted him since Ludlow: that, scared witless, he had wet himself like a babe. A year later, Edward had dubbed him knight and had handed him his golden spurs. The solemn pride of the ceremony had made him dream of redemption, of erasing his shame. The old archbishop’s words still echoed in his heart: A knight must throw down his gauntlet to the Devil and fight for right against the servants of sin. Whether you win or lose matters not, only whether you follow the quest. Remember that virtue always prevails.
“I’m not a real knight,” said Richard. “’Tis hopeless.”
John rested a hand on Richard’s shoulder. “Nothing is ever hopeless, Dickon. You fought well. An accident threw you— you tripped on a rock and fell, is all. ’Tis only your first year in training. Power comes from speed and leverage, and can be taught. It’s heart that makes the difference. And that you have.”
Richard knitted his brows together. “‘Heart’?”
“Resolve, Dickon. Have you never seen a mother wren defend her nest against a cat? Or a wounded boar attack a man in armour? It’s will that gives them strength to drive off the enemy.” John gave him an irresistible smile. “You’re as fierce and determined as a boar. Before you’re through, you’ll throw a man twice your size.”
“Do you really think so, Cousin John?”
“I do. Never look back on your failures, Dickon. It matters little how we begin, provided we are resolved to go on well— and end well. ’Tis not what you were that matters. ’Tis what you will become.”
Richard had a wonderful thought. Maybe courage was contagious and he would be like John one day! “You’re as a brother to me,” he blurted.
“Aye, we’re much alike, we four Nevilles and you four Plantagenets,” John laughed. “We’ve two Georges and two Richards among us, and all are fair except for you and Thomas…” Again his dead brother Thomas had slipped into his speech as if he still lived, and suddenly all joy left him. “Much alike… We share the same blood and our lives seem to take the same turns. Four brothers are made three, and our fathers dead on the same day, struck down by the same accursed hand: the Frenchwoman who calls herself our queen.”
Gone was John’s smile. His eyes were dark with emotion and a muscle quivered at his jaw. Aye, Richard thought, blood and loss unites us.
“Knights of yore exchanged rings and mingled blood to seal their bond,” Richard said. “My fair cousin of Montagu, I should like to do the same with you.”
John’s mouth curved at the corners. Removing a heavy gold band shaped into his emblem of the golden griffin, he offered it to Richard. “My lady gave me this. Had our babe lived, it would have gone to him. You’re not only as a brother to me, but also a son, Dickon.”
Richard took the ring and gave him a sapphire from his own hand. With his dagger, he cut John’s palm, then his own. They clasped hands, mingling their blood. “Brother to brother, yours in life and death,” they intoned solemnly. John rose from the ledge, and said with a smile, “Now I have two brothers named Richard.”
But Richard didn’t hear. The talk of death and family had turned his thoughts to his father as he had looked the last time ever he saw his face; and to Edmund, tall, slender, and seventeen. He saw them in his mind’s eye, mounting their horses in the courtyard of their London house. Pigeons were cooing, the sun was shining, the bells on their reins were jingling softly. They rode out through the gates with a smile and a wave, and never returned.
“Remember, Dickon,” John said gently, “you can’t go forward if you keep looking back. In last year’s nest, there are no eggs.”
Framed against the sky, John stood looking down at him with twilight-blue eyes, a hand extended in help. The sun had gone behind a bank of clouds and the wind had risen, whipping his hair and sweeping the trees with a fierce rustling. Richard knew that he’d never forget this moment, that in some strange way it marked his life forever. He accepted John’s hand and pulled himself to his feet. There was truth in what John said. No use looking back. The future lay ahead, beckoning brightly, and could be whatever shape he willed. He eyed the birds shrieking across the hills. In last year’s nest, there are no eggs.
~ * * * ~
Chapter 6
“The teeth of Hell flay bare and gnash thee flat!”
Anne couldn’t sleep. She shared a bed with Bella, who always caught cold at the change of seasons and was snoring heavily. Bells from nearby Jervaulx Abbey clanged periodically, owls hooted, and through the open window the October sky glittered with stars. Her thoughts turned to Richard.
Eighteen months had passed since he’d come to Middleham and so much had changed. Life was exciting now. Before Richard she had been so afraid. Messengers always brought bad news, villages pretty in the spring were charred ruins when she returned in the fall, and young men who left the castle to fight returned wounded and drenched in blood, if they returned at all.
Voices murmured and hushed footsteps fell in the stone passageway. She tensed. Bella stirred. For a moment, light fell through the crack under the door, then it was dark again. Anne exhaled with relief.
“What is it?” Bella demanded, still half asleep.
“Only Mother, going to the village to help a woman give birth.”
Bella sat up on an elbow and rubbed her eyes. “Why are you still up?”
“Because you’re snoring.”
“I don’t know what you see in Dickon,” Bella replied, guessing the truth. She fluffed her pillow. “He’s so glum.”
“He’s… different…” Anne replied dreamily. “Like the knights the troubadours sing about.”
“Pooh. He doesn’t laugh or like to dance.” Bella pulled up her covers.
“He likes music and books.”
“I hate books,” Bella retorted. “They make me sneeze—except for the one with the pictures of the nude statues in Padua.” She giggled. “I dusted that one carefully.”
Anne’s eyes flew open. “Where did you see such a thing?”
“In Father’s chamber. Cousin Tiptoft brought it back for him. Father hasn‘t any idea he has it. He never reads, unless it’s a treaty or something. Do you want to see it?”
Anne blushed a furious red. “No.”
“You’re well suited to Dickon, sister. You’re no fun either. They say his brother George is handsome and witty and loves to dance. I think I shall like him much better than Dickon.” She turned her back on Anne and soon began to snore again.
Church bells tolled for matins. Anne wiped her nose and closed her eyes. A cool breeze stirred in the room. She snuggled under the cozy feather comforter and heard Merlin, her pet raven, flutter on his perch. I’m glad Richard was able to heal the injured baby owl I found in the woods, she thought. Richard was clever, and kind. She supposed he took after his father, the Duke of York, who had been much loved and respected. The noble duke had died bravely, but cruelly, and his head had been nailed to the gates of York. That much was common knowledge, but the manner of his death remained a secret. Adults spoke of it in whispers and fell silent whenever she approached. She only knew that he died at Wakefield Castle, with her uncle
Thomas, who had been so much fun, always making playful faces and twirling her around.
She shut her eyes tight to banish the image that suddenly came to her: Thomas’s rotting head, caked with dried blood and buzzing with flies, nailed to the gates of York beside the good Duke of York’s. She tossed in bed. Poor Richard. It must be horrid to lose a father. She would be so sad if she lost hers.
She was always so glad to see her father after he’d been away that she couldn’t stop herself from shrieking with joy and running to him with open arms, though her nurse said it wasn’t ladylike. But her father didn’t mind. He always smiled and swept her up to him. Poor Richard had no father to run to.
Anne saw him again, wielding his sword and shield in the rain. In her mind, he turned and smiled at her. Richard, Richard…
She saw him dreamily as she floated through the woods like a leaf in the breeze under the branches of the chestnut in the woods she and Richard had made their own, past the gentle River Ure with its banks of lilies. The breeze lifted her over Yorkminster’s ornamented towers and deposited her in the nave. She gazed up in wonder at the stained glass glittering around her like jewels. The jewels enlarged, fractured into pieces, and she laughed as they twirled around her. It was then she realised something was wrong.
She was no longer in the nave but in a dark space outside. Demonic gargoyles danced around her as her father struggled to balance on a steeple. He stretched out a hand for help but they reared up between them, snatched him away, and sent him hurtling to earth. She heard weeping and thought it was her father, but when she looked down, there were no tears, just blood. It was sticky and it smelled sour, and it rose like a river, tearing at her skirts. She opened her mouth and started screaming. The demons laughed. She covered her ears. They yanked up her head to cut it off. She saw their faces and let out one last, shattering scream. They were all Marguerite d’Anjou.
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.
~ * * * ~
Chapter 7
“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 Kathe
rine 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.
