The Rose of York: Love & War

by Sandra Worth

  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!”

  The corners of the duke’s handsome mouth lifted slightly. “Nevertheless, we’ll accept their terms if they offer us any concession at all.”

  “Nay, Father!” Edward broke in. “You must fight and seize the throne! You knelt to them after our victory at St. Alban’s, and here we are again. Nothing can be resolved as long as that she-wolf rules idiot Henry.”

  “Idiot he may be, but king he is,” the Duke of York replied. “And if there’s a way to preserve my oath and save my men, I shall do so, my son, and you’d be best advised to hold your tongue.”

  At nightfall the envoy returned for the last time. There were no concessions, only demands. The castle prepared for battle.

  “See you at dawn, my lord,” said Trollope with a confident bow as he left to guard the bridge.

  At dawn, Trollope was gone. He and all his men. Crossed over to Marguerite’s side.

  “We can’t flee,” said the Duke of York. “’Tis dishonourable.”

  “We can’t fight,” said the Earl of Salisbury. “Trollope knows our plans.”

  “But the townspeople—if we abandon them…”

  “They’ve had no part in this. Marguerite will let them alone.”

  “Marguerite spares no man. Hers is a blood lust I’ve seen in few.”

  “We’ve no choice,” Salisbury said.

  Everyone fled as best they could. The duke and the earls made it safely away but some of their men were slain and the prisoners were hung and quartered. Then came the punishment of the townspeople…

  Richard’s grip tightened on the candle. He closed his eyes. There was no refuge; no refuge anywhere. People were running, horsemen in pursuit. Swords and axes swung. Men, women, and children staggered, fell. Blood overflowed the gutters as it did on Butchers’ Row before a feast day. The sky was on fire, houses ablaze, blackening the air. From the church came the squeals of animals and the cries of people trapped inside. Shouted orders rang out, mingled with the wails of the dying in a din torn from the bowels of Hell. He felt sick, his knees buckled, and hot urine trickled down his legs. He grabbed his mother’s hand tightly and pushed up against her skirts to keep from falling off the steps of the high market Cross. The sickly sweet odour of burning human flesh stung his nostrils…

  “Richard, you’ve burned yourself!” cried Anne. She dabbed at his hand with a wet cloth. “Richard, you look strange. What’s wrong?”

  Richard grabbed his wine cup unsteadily and downed a gulp. “Nothing,” he lied.

  Anne slipped her hand into his. “Don’t look back, Richard. I get scared too when I look back.”

  He hated that she could see his fear, but she was right, of course. What was it John had said? In last year’s nest, the
re are no eggs. Yet he couldn’t help wondering whether he’d ever forget; ever feel safe again. Ever feel one of them. His gaze flicked the table. He didn’t belong here. Everyone here had forgotten. They were all laughing. Not only could he not join in, but he caught menace in their laughter. What was wrong with him?

  He turned his eyes on the arched entrance of the hall and fidgeted with his ring. He wished John would come. John understood. Not that they had ever spoken of fear. The closest they had come was a remark John once made, something about fears of the past breeding fear for the future. Aye, there was naught to be done about the past. One could only do one’s duty and hope for God’s blessing. He gave Anne a nod and fixed his gaze on the entrance.

  “He might be detained at the front, Richard,” said Anne softly, reading his thoughts.

  At that instant, trumpets blared and a herald’s voice announced, “John Neville, Lord Montagu!” All below the rank of lord stood, and though he was a duke, Richard half-rose from his chair with excitement, almost spilling his wine. Anne jumped up from the table with a squeal of delight and ran to her uncle. Richard watched with an ache as John scooped her up in his arms, laughing, and she gave him a kiss. It seemed to Richard that he’d been thought too old for that since the day he was born. Followed by his ever-present hound, John strode to the King and went to kneel, but Edward rose and embraced him warmly.

  “What joy to behold you, fair cousin!” He turned to motion for a chair and caught Richard’s expression. Under his breath, he muttered, “It seems you must sit with Dickon or break his heart, John.”

  A servant set a chair for him between Richard and Bishop Neville.

  “How goes Bamborough, John?” demanded Edward from down the table.

  “We’ve not made much progress, my King. The weather’s been against us.”

  “We should learn from the Italians,” Edward called out. “By gentleman’s agreement they never fight in winter!”

  John grinned. The table dissolved into laughter.

  Richard’s gaze fixed on his golden brother. How he envied Edward. Nothing troubled him. Already he’d put the unpleasant subject of Bamborough aside to engage in carefree conversation with Warwick on his right and Will Hastings on his left. Every so often there was a burst of laughter from the three at the centre of the table. Amid one of these, Will Hastings rose. He stood for a moment, a tall, glittering figure in purple satin slashed with black velvet. The minstrels hushed their instruments and all eyes turned to the royal table.

  Waving his flagon unsteadily, swaying on his heels, Hastings performed a pantomime. Pointing in front of him and pretending to hide his eyes, he shrilled, “Fie, fie, for shame and forsooth, cover thy b-b-b-breasts, shameless maidens!”

  The hall roared with laughter and Richard’s mouth curved at Hasting’s imitation of the monk-king Henry—whom some called Holy Harry—and his horror of nudity. Hastings tilted his dark brows at Edward. “Laugh not so hard, my lord, or your crown will fall off as mine does. And without my crown, who would guess I was king? ’Tis a good thing my servants catch it for me.”

  Playing along with his friend, Edward exclaimed, “Too bad Somerset couldn’t catch you when you fell off your throne, Harry!”

  The company in the hall hooted with approval. Richard grinned. Henry Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, was the leader of Queen Marguerite’s forces. Some said he was also her lover and the father of her son, Prince Edouard.

  A grizzly-bearded friend of Warwick’s, Lord Wenlock, yelled, “But no doubt Somerset caught your queen when she fled from your bed—if ever she was in it.” He gave a loud burp.

  Beside Wenlock sat Sir Friendly Lion, John Howard, who had escorted Richard to Middleham nearly two years earlier, and next to him a former Lancastrian, who had avoided taking sides in the wars by leaving England to study in Italy. Richard knew Warwick distrusted the Earl of Worcester, John Tiptoft, even though Tiptoft was married to one of his fleet of sisters. Their end of the table lay far from Richard, yet a fragment of Tiptoft’s comment reached him.

  “I could make Somerset regret he was born,” Tiptoft was boasting to Howard. “They have a cage in Padua, you know, that is used to…” His voice was drowned out by the noise in the hall, but its ominous quality and the strange flash of his protruding dark eyes fascinated Richard. He noticed that even the seasoned warrior John Howard had paled. He couldn’t help wondering what happened to a man in a cage. Maybe vultures pecked out his eyes and flesh like they did to Prometheus. That had to hurt a great deal. Now that he thought about it, Tiptoft’s bony face resembled a vulture’s. He could see him pecking out someone’s eyes with that curved beak he had for a nose.

  With a glint of gold and gems, Warwick leaned back in his velvet chair. Directing himself to Hastings, he said dryly, “Aye, Harry, as you can’t tell a hart from a hind, you’ve sent us much trouble by letting Somerset do your husbandly duty. Now there’s a bastard prince claiming the throne.”

  Will Hastings looked down his nose at Warwick. “Prince Edouard is the child of the Holy Spirit!” he sniffed.

  Howls and shrieks shook the hall. Anne, who understood little of this, peered at Richard.

  “When mad Harry was shown the queen’s new-born babe,” he explained, “instead of claiming the child as his, as is the custom, he said it was the child of the Holy Spirit.”

  “Oh,” Anne said, filled with admiration for Richard, who knew everything.

  Edward dried tears of laughter from his eyes. “Indeed, Harry, the boy’s not likely to be yours—unless you found a way to get into Marguerite without removing her clothes.” Whistles and the loud stamping of approving feet met this remark.

  As the company in the hall resumed their conversations, the minstrels took up a lively tune and servants returned to their duties, clearing tables, filling wine cups, and bringing sweet courses. There was pudding to choose from, and marchpane, stewed fruits, and almond cakes. Richard chose cheese and Anne selected cake. Smiling at one another, they ate in silence.

  From his royal seat beneath the canopy, Edward observed Richard. His baby brother had changed much, he thought, watching him tear into the bread and cheese he loved. His dark hair, bobbed at the ears, shone with a healthy lustre; his grey eyes were clear; and his complexion no longer dead white but lightly bronzed by sun. Tonight he was attired in bright crimson and gold, a stunning change from his favourite dull greys and wines. He could scarcely substitute this new Dickon for the sickly child he remembered two years ago, after the battle of Towton, standing on the deck of the ship that had bought him home to England from his exile in Burgundy.

  Dickon had been wearing a plain dark tunic that made him seem sadder than ever. In the dimness of dusk, with his dark hair and pallid face, he looked like a waif. “Are you going to bring back Camelot?” Dickon had asked, gazing up at him with his solemn eyes.

  “I certainly hope so,” Edward had replied.

  “Then I wish to be one of your knights of the Table Round.”

  “Indeed?” Edward had smiled. “But such a knight must have training.” He exchanged a look with Bishop Neville who had come along to greet the royal brothers, Dickon and George.

  Barely suppressing a smile, Bishop Neville said, “Sire, may my brother Warwick have the honour of training a future knight of the Table Round?”

  “I can think of no better household, fair cousin,” Edward had replied. “Dickon, go to Middleham and there learn to be a knight so you may serve your King and seek the Holy Grail when you are grown.”

  Edward came back to the present slowly, looking down the dining table at his young brother. Dickon had grown into a broad-shouldered boy with muscular arms, and about him there was a quiet strength. Edward thought of frivolous George, three years older, who seemed such a child in comparison, and wondered again how his two brothers could be so different. He frowned, as thinking of George always made him frown.

  Leaning past Warwick, he addressed himself to the Countess. “Middleham’s been good for Di
ckon. He looks well and seems to be mastering the accomplishments of knighthood.”

  “He practices hard, my lord. I’ve never seen a boy his age work so earnestly at his lessons.”

  “Does he relish the art of war so much then?”

  “No, my lord. He relishes peace. He says he does it for you, for to keep peace in the kingdom you will have need of strong and loyal men. It seems the little duke has a wisdom far beyond his years.”

  “Indeed,” replied Edward thoughtfully. “Indeed.”

  “Edward,” said Warwick, his proud head held high, “Dickon and Anne are fond of one another, as you know. They desire to be wed. A marriage would…”

  Edward’s roar of laughter interrupted him. “You’re the one who keeps reminding me that love has nothing to do with marriage—that it’s solely a commercial transaction, a means of acquiring wealth or extending power. How many times have you said that, cousin?”

  “But their union would benefit our two great families and show the realm we Yorkists stand firmly united,” Warwick countered, his face flushed. “Let us be joined. Delay gains us nothing. ’Tis a good time to announce the betrothal, cousin.” His eyes pierced the distance between them.

  “My Lord of Warwick,” Edward said coldly, using formal address to put distance between them, “marriage is a weighty matter. We shall consider it another time.”

  He turned away, irked by Warwick’s manner and his nasal voice, which underscored his insufferable arrogance. Even his motto was arrogant: Seulement un. The only one to what? To have made a king? The only one who was always right? Fit to govern? England had anointed him her hero and sung his praises so loudly that he thought himself a deity. Since his cousin had helped him gain his throne, Warwick thought he owned him. In the past year the Kingmaker had decided that the King should marry, and had bandied the King’s hand around Europe as if he were so much meat to be auctioned to the highest bidder. Your people fear that their sovereign lord has been long without a wife and not chaste in his living, he had scolded. They do not approve, Edward. The audacity! Louis of France had turned out to be the winner and Warwick fixed his mind on wedding him to Louis’s sister-in-law, Bona of Savoy. Persistent and tireless, he urged the marriage alliance at every turn.