The Rose of York: Love & War

by Sandra Worth

  When he opened his eyes again, the bearded woman was clamping a damp cloth over the maiden’s nose. Slowly the agonised movements stilled, the muffled cries hushed. The woman stole away. Hasting’s body shook with spasms but the girl lay deadly still.

  Richard’s gaze fixed on the blood oozing down the girl’s thighs. His stomach gave another lurch. Blindly he ran out of the alcove, past Edward, who never glanced up, through the empty red hall, down the narrow staircase. Unable to restrain himself any longer, he turned to the wall and retched. Leaning his head against the wood door, he gasped for breath and passed a hand over his face to banish the obscene image of Hastings thrusting with mounting pleasure.

  Edward was right. Never would he forget this night.

  ~ * * * ~

  Chapter 9

  “A storm was coming, but the winds were still.”

  Richard didn’t return to the brothel again, though Edward and Hastings lingered there for the next several nights. Sullen and miserable, he pondered the fate of the maid who’d had no one to speak for her. She’d died that night, overdosed by opium administered by the bearded lady. To Hastings, who’d done the same before, it was a small matter, soon forgotten. Edward, too, regarded it lightly, but in Richard’s heart, the girl’s fate festered. I should have done something, he thought; I should have helped her.

  So ran Richard’s thoughts as they rode to Pontefract Castle.

  It troubled him more than he cared to admit that Edward had taken the girl’s death so lightly. He could have saved her; he could have stopped Will Hastings. But Edward was in a different room, Richard argued with himself. He didn’t know what was going on. By the time he found out, it was too late. What good would it do to chastise Hastings then? Even if it were not the first time a girl Hastings abducted had died this way, Edward wouldn’t blame his friend. He was too loyal. He always believed the best of others, and he always gave them the benefit of the doubt. Especially those he loved.

  Still, nagged a small voice in his head, he wished Edward had helped her. As for Will Hastings, he’d never see him again with the same eyes. Merely to be near him caused discomfort. He longed to be with John Neville. John, who was as different from Hastings as the North was from London.

  When they finally arrived at Pontefract, it was too late for Richard to see battle. While Edward and Hastings had been whoring at Leicester, John had vanquished the Lancastrians.

  “We crushed Somerset’s forces at Hexham, Sire!” John informed Edward on bended knee. “Two dozen leaders were captured and executed by sentence of the Constable, John Tiptoft, the Earl of Worcester.”

  “And Somerset?” Edward demanded.

  “I personally had him executed on the spot, my Liege.” John hesitated, debating whether to tell Edward of the heated argument he’d had with Tiptoft, who had wished to impale Somerset’s men on stakes in the Byzantine manner. He decided on silence. Though cruelty warped Tiptoft’s character with a viciousness he’d not thought possible in a sane man, Edward favoured him, and it was wise to tread warily where favourites were concerned. “Holy Harry fled so quickly, he left his crown behind.” He held out Henry’s golden circlet.

  Roaring with laughter, Edward took it. “Poor Henry, always losing his crown.” He raised John to his feet and held him by the shoulders. “Such a splendid service deserves a splendid reward… My fair cousin, John, Lord of Montagu, I grant you the earldom of Northumberland. We shall invest you at York in a proper ceremony on Trinity Sunday.”

  Joy exploded in John’s breast. He dropped to his knees. Earl of Northumberland, he whispered silently in his heart, bowing his head to hide the happiness that choked him. Earl of Northumberland!

  With the princely income of the earldom, he’d move his family from the draughty manor house that had been his father’s wedding gift into a spacious castle. Isobel would have servants; she would embroider tapestries instead of darning robes. Their daughters would make good marriages. All was changed. All was now possible. He had not failed his family.

  “Sire,” he managed. “Thank you.”

  ~*~

  In June Richard returned to Middleham, anxious to see Anne. But only the Countess stood before the Keep, dressed in drab grey, looking older than he remembered.

  “My lady, what has happened?”

  “Anne has been sorely ill, Dickon. She caught the ague and her neck swelled so… I barely recognised my own child. But she is recovering, thanks to the Holy Virgin. ’Tis a miracle.”

  Richard heaved a sigh of relief. He had been struck with fear for a moment, but there was no cause for concern. As the youngest of twelve children, he himself had been so sickly at times that he hadn’t been expected to survive, and whenever the steward of Fotheringhay Castle had written his parents, he’d always included a postscript: “Richard liveth yet.” Now he was hardy as a young oak. In time, Anne would outgrow her weakness, as he had done. “May I see her?”

  “Later, perhaps. She’s resting.”

  Richard followed her upstairs into the hall. That Warwick, tough as he was, should beget two frail daughters was a source of constant amazement to all. “And my Lord of Warwick, how fares he?”

  The Countess led him to a window seat. She clasped her hands together nervously. “Dickon… I must tell you, I fear all is not well between your gracious brother and my Lord of Warwick. My lord husband made a fine arrangement with the French for their Princess Bona of Savoy, and with Castile for the hand of Princess Isabella. The King has only to choose, and he will not.”

  “But there’s much to be gained from an alliance with Louis XI,” Richard exclaimed.

  “I know, my lord… I know,” said the Countess. “There is also another matter…” She bit her lip, then rushed on. “Thrice now my lord has asked for your hand in marriage to our Anne, and thrice the King has refused it, as he has refused George’s request to marry Bella.”

  A suffocating sensation tightened Richard’s throat. It had not occurred to him that Edward knew about his feelings for Anne. Why was he against the match? Age couldn’t be a factor. The Earl of Warwick and his Countess were not much older when they’d wed. The blood of Edward III ran in Anne’s veins as it did in his own, and she was heiress to the richest, most powerful magnate in England. Their marriage would only strengthen the Yorkist bond. So why?

  Something was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.

  ~ * * * ~

  Chapter 10

  “It is the little rift within the lute

  That by and by will make the music mute.”

  Never will I forget this moment, thought Richard. Never, so long as I live. He stared at Edward, stunned, unable to comprehend what he had just heard. The moment was accompanied by a strange silence, a kind of thundering lull during which a shadow seemed to steal forward, casting an ominous darkness over all who sat around that council table in Reading Abbey. Sick with dread, he saw the fear he felt reflected on everyone’s face. No one could believe it. They all sat still as alabaster. What did it mean for them, and for the realm, that Edward had chosen a wife for himself and married her in secret on May Day? John, in particular, had taken the announcement hard. He looks, thought Richard, as if his heart is frozen in his chest.

  Horrified, stunned, and swept with fear, John himself felt as if a hand had closed around his throat, and for a moment he could not breathe. He knew his brother’s fierce pride; he knew how hard Warwick had laboured to secure an alliance with the French, and how heavily his pride relied on that success. The depth of Edward’s own pride was only just becoming apparent. The boy had grown into a man testing his power. And these two mighty forces had just collided.

  A stony-faced Warwick broke the silence. “Who is she?”

  “Elizabeth Woodville,” replied Edward.

  Shocked voices protested. Warwick drowned them out.

  “She’s a married woman!”

  “A widow,” corrected Edward. “Her husband, Sir John Grey, was killed at the second battle of St. Albans.”


  “She’s of low birth!” Warwick shouted.

  Richard heard the uncomfortable rustle around the table. Anger hardened his own jaw. No matter what he had done, Edward was king. Warwick had no right to take that tone. But Edward seemed strangely unruffled.

  “You forget, my lord of Warwick, that they said the same about Katherine Swynford, from whom we are both descended. Besides, her mother is a Princess of Luxembourg.”

  “Our noble ancestor, John of Gaunt, was an honourable prince who did his duty to the realm! Twice he married for dynastic reasons. Only late in life, when it no longer mattered, did he marry the woman he loved.”

  “The woman I love refused to be my mistress,” Edward replied.

  “So you offered her the crown of England?” Warwick blustered. “You offered the crown of England to a woman whose family is despised throughout the realm?”

  “I offered the crown of England to a woman of virtue whose father is a lord and whose mother is of royal blood,” Edward said coldly, his patience clearly at an end. “May I remind you, my lord Warwick, that Elizabeth Woodville’s mother, the Duchess of Bedford, was the first lady in the land before Marguerite d’Anjou married Henry?”

  “And may I remind you, my lord King,” Warwick retorted acidly, “that her father was nothing but a low-born knight before the Bitch of Anjou raised him to lord? As for Elizabeth Woodville’s mother, the Duke of Bedford stooped to marry her— she brought him no dowry and her family is descended from the monstrous serpent, Melusine. ’Tis even said she’s a witch, that she consorts with alchemists and occultists!”

  “You don’t believe that folly any more than I do, Warwick!” Edward hurled back. “The House of Luxembourg traces its lineage even further than we Plantagenets—all the way to Charlemagne, no less.”

  “Luxembourg means nothing to England! Charlemagne less!” Red-faced, Warwick slammed a hand on the table and pushed to his feet. Hunching over the table, he rested his weight on his fists and stared down at Edward. “An alliance with Burgundy would have cemented our ties of commerce. An alliance with France would have prevented the Bitch of Anjou from invading us with a French army at her back.”

  “We had a French queen once, and she brought us neither peace nor riches.” Edward’s tone had chilled and his narrowed eyes held warning. “Besides, too late now—’tis done. We shall have to find other means to pacify Louis and Marguerite.”

  “For God’s sake, how could you? She has two sons.”

  Edward’s sensuous mouth curled into a smile. “That means she can have many more.”

  “She’s five years older than you.”

  “And the most beautiful woman in England.”

  “Her father and brothers fought for Lancaster—her husband died for them. My father and brother gave their lives to make you king!”

  Edward scraped his chair back and rose. His brilliant blue eyes flashed dangerously. “And king I am. Best you remember that, Warwick.”

  The two glared at one another. Then Edward swung on his heel and strode from the room, leaving Warwick and his councillors staring at the open door. Warwick’s friend Lord Wenlock heaved himself from his chair. “The King is right, my lord.” His shrewd eyes looked up at the Kingmaker from beneath their craggy brows. “’Tis a fait accompli. We must accept it.”

  John knew he must add his warning to Wenlock’s before more damage was done. After the initial shock, he had become more concerned by his brother’s reaction than by Edward’s marriage. So a treaty was lost. No real harm was done. But a feud with a king…

  “My lord brother, ’tis well known that Elizabeth Woodville’s mother is a sorceress. She must have cast a spell on the King…” A medley of voices cried, “Aye, sorcery!”

  “The King is bewitched,” John added. “He knows not what he’s done.”

  “What he’s done, brother, is to make a fool of me before all of England and Louis of France!” Warwick stormed, his bright blue eyes pained, his sharp-etched face taut. “He’s treated me like a common varlet.”

  Aye, Edward had made it clear to the world that he ruled alone, that he deferred to no one, not even to the mighty Kingmaker. He had brought his proud cousin down in men’s eyes knowing that, more than any man alive, Warwick measured himself by his reputation. He was richer than Edward, a famed soldier and a friend to foreign kings, but now Edward had tarnished the image. No longer would men bow as low to the great Earl of Warwick, or kings embrace him as an equal.

  “You’re no varlet,” said John. “You’re the most powerful baron in the land. It’s not a mortal blow, brother. Men will forget this insult. And I pray you to forgive… For England’s sake.”

  Warwick turned his proud head and stared at the open doorway through which Edward had left. Slowly, he sank back into his seat. John rested a hand on his shoulder. His brother had suffered a sore wound. A worthier ruler he might make— more dedicated, capable, and wiser than Edward—but he was not born to the throne. By birth God had appointed Edward king and Warwick his servant. Edward answered to no one. Warwick answered to the King—like a common varlet, aye; in that his brother was right. Even a baron, mighty though he be, was not master of his own destiny. And that knowledge, striking its mark with this day’s work, had to taste as bitter to Warwick as a cup of hemlock.

  John felt compelled to add, softly, “There is no way to go over the wall without bringing it down, brother.”

  Warwick twisted in his chair and gazed up at him with unseeing eyes. He had heard, but whether he had understood, John could not be sure.

  ~ * * * ~

  Chapter 11

  “…she hung her head…

  the braid slipped and uncoiled itself

  and the dark world grew darker towards the storm.”

  John’s wise counsel prevailed. Warwick decided to accept with as much grace as possible what he couldn’t change. On Michaelmas Day, ten days after the council meeting, Elizabeth Woodville was escorted into the chapel of Reading Abbey by the Earl of Warwick and the King’s brother, George, Duke of Clarence, and honoured as queen. Though of common stock, she looked very royal in her gold and blue brocade robes with an ermine cloak over her shoulders and her abundant white-gold hair loose in shimmering ringlets down to her knees. Warwick himself knelt before the lovely bride and kissed her hand. He even paid assiduous attention to her throughout the event. Edward, in gratitude, raised Warwick’s brother, George, to the Archbishopric of York.

  Everyone rejoiced at the amity between the King and Kingmaker, but John was unable to shake his unease. In the recesses of his mind, a small voice warned that all was not well. Still troubled, he left for Carlisle after the ceremony to meet with the Scottish embassy, who wished to sue for peace.

  At the same time, Warwick left for York to inform the members of parliament gathering there that Parliament was adjourned. Explanations were unnecessary. Everyone knew the King was frantically making love to the bride who had withheld her virtue for a crown. “My Liege,” Bess Woodville was reported to have told Edward, “full well I know I am not good enough to be your queen. But ah, my Liege, I am far too good to be your mistress.”

  They had met after the battle of Towton in 1461, when Edward paused at Stony Stratford, a few miles from Grafton, where Bess Woodville’s father, Lord Rivers, lived with his wife, the former Duchess of Bedford.

  John, Duke of Bedford, the most able and trusted brother of Henry V, had been a mature widower when he met Jacquetta of Luxembourg, daughter of the Count St. Pol. He’d never expected to marry again, being quite comfortable and set in his ways, but he fell hopelessly in love with the lively, beautiful, fifteen-yearold French princess and married her in France while presiding over the trial of Joan of Arc. When he died soon afterwards, the lovely Jacquetta was escorted to England by a guard of English knights under the command of Sir Richard Woodville, the handsomest man in England.

  Without the royal permission necessary for a royal to marry a commoner, Jacquetta married Richard Woodville.
Parliament was furious and confiscated the duchess’s lands. Later it was restored by a sympathetic young Frenchwoman who’d just become Queen of England—Marguerite d’Anjou.

  Jacquetta and her handsome knight took up residence in Grafton Manor. Elizabeth was the first of twelve children born to them and a dazzlingly lovely child. When she was old enough, she was appointed lady-in-waiting to Marguerite d’Anjou and at twenty-one married a Lancastrian knight, Sir John Grey. Grey was commander of Queen Marguerite’s cavalry and died in battle, leaving his widow with two sons. As soon as Edward became king, he confiscated Bradgate, seat of the Grey family, and Bess Woodville and her sons found themselves in poverty.

  It was Bess’s mother, Jacquetta, who devised a way to get back her lands.

  “They say the new King is more ardent in the pursuit of ladies than of the deer in the royal forest,” she told her daughter in her sweetly accented English. “Alors, don your prettiest mourning dress and go to him and plead our case, Bess.”

  “God’s mercy, Maman, they’d never let me see him.”

  “Ah, that is why you must go to him when he is hunting in Whittlebury forest.”

  “But…”

  “Listen to me, ma fille. I am always right, no?” she demanded, bustling about the chamber, checking coffers and wardrobes. “I have found out he is hunting there today. Take the boys and wait for him under the oak tree—you know the one. For certain, he will come. Then he will see you, eh?”

  Bess nodded. Her mother was French and used to intrigue, and so far most of her schemes had worked. She’d had no relatives to protect her, she’d fought her own battles, yet she’d married the man she loved against the will of powerful men and had him made lord. It was why they called her a witch. Her success defied all other explanation.