by Sandra Worth
Richard knew the rush of gratitude he felt showed on his face. “You knew my father well, my lord. Could you—would you…” Richard braced himself. “Tell me how he died?”
Desmond gave him a long, appraising look. “Aah… you don’t know? A bitter tale. No wonder they have kept it from you. But perhaps it is time…” He rested a hand on Richard’s shoulder and drew him aside from the circulating crowd.
Richard listened in rapt attention. It had happened during a Christmas truce at Wakefield Castle. Snow had been falling lightly as a small number of the Duke’s men left the safety of the castle to forage in the nearby woods. Suddenly there were shouts and calls for help. A party of Lancastrians had fallen on the Yorkists and were cutting them down mercilessly. The Duke of York never hesitated. Grabbing his armour, he rushed to save his hapless men. Along with him had ridden his son Edmund, Warwick’s father, Salisbury, and Warwick’s brother, Thomas. They were winning the foray when out of nowhere appeared a thousand-strong Lancastrian force, led by the iron-faced Lord Clifford. Heavily outnumbered, the Duke of York and his men had no chance. The Duke and Warwick’s brother fell, fighting bravely, but the Duke’s son, Edmund, seventeen, disarmed and unhorsed, was brutally cut down by Clifford as he fled across the bridge to Sanctuary. Warwick’s father, the Earl of Salisbury, was taken alive and beheaded the next day. Further atrocities followed. The bodies of the Yorkist leaders were mutilated and their heads cut off and borne to York, to be nailed to the gates. Amid derisive laughter, Marguerite had placed a paper crown on the Duke’s head, since he had wished to be king.
“It was despicable… breaking the truce, the double ambush, murdering an unarmed man—a youth, no less—and defiling the bodies of those who had fallen honourably in battle… The world changed after that.”
Silence.
“England lost a good man that day, Lord Richard. A fair-minded man, free from the greed and ambition that plagues others. Ireland only had your father a year, but he governed us with justice, something we had not known before… We will never forget him.”
“There you are, my Lord of Desmond!” came George’s voice. “I’ve been searching for you.”
Desmond’s smile widened. A special tie bound the two since George was born in Ireland and Desmond was his godfather. George was also Lord Lieutenant of Ireland while Desmond was his deputy. The arrangement worked well, since Ireland was governed by an Irish lord for a change, and George, who had neither the interest nor the ability to govern, enjoyed his title.
“My dear George, how well you look,” Desmond said.
“’Tis no doubt due to my dress,” said George, with a futile effort at humility. “Gold flatters me. I have fourteen gowns of tissue of gold alone.”
After exchanging information about the health of absent friends and relatives, George spotted a familiar face. “Sir Thomas! Pray, join us.”
The portly old gentleman hitched up his silver girdle around his ample belly and, excusing himself from his company of ladies, came stoutly to their side. Richard had met him before. Sir Thomas Cook was a former mayor of London. With a sweeping bow, the old man introduced himself.
“I hear you’ve sold a fine tapestry to the Queen, Sir Thomas,” said George. He took a pasty from a page with a silver tray and popped it into his mouth.
The old knight coloured. “Nay, my lord, it was the Queen’s mother who asked to buy my arras. But I didn’t wish to sell, though she offered me eight hundred marks for it.”
“Aha,” Desmond said, sipping his wine. “Then it’s a fine arras, Sir Thomas.”
“I can vouch there’s none finer in England,” George interjected before Cook could respond. “A scene of the Siege of Jerusalem, exceptionally well wrought in gold and worth far more than what the thrifty Duchess is willing to pay.”
“Money’s not the question, in truth,” Cook said quickly. “It reminds me of my youthful fighting days in France. Sentimental of me, I daresay, but I can’t bring myself to part with it.”
“No reason why you should,” George replied, draining his wine cup. He held it out to a page for a refill. “The Duchess has no need of your arras. She has others.”
Richard looked in Jacquetta’s direction. She stood on the dais with her daughter and Tiptoft, the Earl of Worcester. Tiptoft, whose sharp movements were tinged with controlled violence, was deep in conversation, and making a curious gesture. Hammering his fist into the palm of his hand, he twisted it around as if to crush something, while the queen and her mother nodded. Richard felt uneasy. What could they be discussing?
“I meant no offence to the Duchess of Bedford when I refused her offer, my lords—indeed no offence was meant,” Sir Thomas insisted, clearly uncomfortable.
“Indeed not,” Desmond said, and changed the subject. “The King has planned much entertainment for the morrow, then I depart. Urgent tidings summon me back to Ireland sooner than anticipated.”
“I hear you have a particularly fine manuscript of Tristan and Iseult, my lord,” Richard said quickly. “If you should return again, would you bring it with you? The tale of Tristan is one of my favourites.”
“Then you are fortunate,” announced a voice in his ear. “For I have it on the best authority that tonight the tale shall be told by the finest raconteur in France, fair cousin!”
Richard swung around. “John! I thought you’d not come! I feared the Scots might keep you.”
“They tried. But since the King was so good as to include me in the Earl’s festivities, I got away from them. I grow dull alone in my tent with only my maps for company. Besides, I wish to finally meet the Earl of Desmond, who has long been a loyal friend to the House of York.”
John’s deep blue eyes twinkled as they always did, but he looked different. Richard had never seen him so splendidly attired. The fabric of his azure velvet coat was thick and rich, his furs magnificent, and around his neck hung the golden collar of York sunbursts and roses that Edward had given him.
There was another change that was not as flattering. In the months since Richard had last seen John, he’d grown leaner and the lines about his mouth were more deeply etched. Too much campaigning in bad weather, Richard supposed. He remembered the bone-chilling cold of Northumberland, the soaking rains, the sleet and icy snows that made the mud-mired paths they traversed so laborious during the siege of Alnwick and Bamborough. A soldier’s life was not an easy one. Not even when the soldier was an earl.
“My lord of Northumberland, I regret we didn’t meet earlier. I believe you were otherwise engaged when the Duke of York came to Ireland?” Desmond said with a hint of amusement.
John laughed. “Aye, fair Marguerite insisted on entertaining me in the York dungeons at the time.”
Richard looked at him with renewed admiration. He had not known until Desmond told him how John had saved the city of York. But for John, York would have been razed to the ground like Ludlow, its women raped and its men put to the sword. No one had dared beg mercy for the citizens in the face of Edward’s rage after he had seen his father’s and brother’s rotted heads— no one except John. Yet John’s own father and brother had been beheaded and their heads nailed to those same gates.
A voice added, “Count yourself fortunate. You might not have lived to enjoy her hospitality if I hadn’t been holding Somerset’s brother prisoner in Calais myself.” It was Warwick. He was with his brother, George Neville, the newly created Archbishop of York, and his majestic presence commanded a rustle of attention, not only from the nobles nearby, but from the queen and Tiptoft across the room. “That stroke of good fortune was all that kept your head attached to your shoulders, John.” Warwick’s thin smile was forced and it was clear that other matters weighed on his mind.
After a short silence the conversation turned for a while on the neutral topic of manuscripts. Richard, who delighted in books, listened with rapt interest, but George had heard enough.
“Tell me, my lord Desmond,” he said, choosing a sweetmeat from a tray prese
nted by a page. “How do you find our new Queen?”
“Very beautiful,” Desmond replied, startled at the abrupt interruption.
“Edward would agree with you, of course, but to me she looks like a rat with that pointed chin.”
The Earl of Desmond, in the motion of taking a sip of his hippocras, froze with his cup at his lips. Silence fell. Heads turned. A woman’s laugh floated across the room. It was Bess Woodville. At that precise moment, she turned and stared directly at them. On her face was a look so malevolent that Richard understood why she was called a sorceress. Beside her, Tiptoft also met their gaze, his stony black eyes protruding over his hawk nose, giving him the appearance of a vulture that had just sighted its prey.
Sir Thomas Cook immediately excused himself on a pretext and slipped away. Richard noticed that the Earl of Desmond and the Nevilles had turned a sickly grey colour, but George held his head high, staring at the queen as if issuing a challenge. Richard hoped she hadn’t overheard his words, impossible as it seemed from across the room. Yet some instinct told him that despite the distance and the crowds that separated them, despite the music of the minstrels and hubbub of conversations, somehow she had.
Desmond broke the silence that held them in thrall. “There is danger in words, my lord,” he said to George in a voice so low that Richard had to strain to hear. “At court even murals have ears.”
“She can’t touch me,” George replied, making no effort to lower his voice. “I am heir to the throne!”
Richard realised that George, who was overly fond of sweet wine, was half-drunk on his favourite malmsey. He knew he should leave, but he couldn’t just abandon his brother.
The Earl of Desmond had no such hesitation. “My lords, pray excuse me. I find the room exceedingly warm. I shall seek air in the garden.” He bowed deeply.
Hastily, Warwick said, “The blooms are profuse this time of year. Allow me to give you a tour, my lord of Desmond.”
Richard watched the two earls leave. So did the queen, he noted. A sick feeling churned his stomach. John, still pale, left in search of his wife with whom he said he wished a dance, and George Neville, the Archbishop of York, suddenly decided to consult the Archbishop of Canterbury on some point of clerical law.
“Come, George,” said Richard gently, taking his elbow. “I’ll take you to your chamber.”
George shook off hisarm. “The night’s young,brother!” Richard realised it was useless. He couldn’t save George from himself. He excused himself without preamble and left the room.
~*~
Outside it was refreshingly cool. A brisk wind blew from the river, rustling the trees. Except for a small group of maidens sitting around a young man playing a lute on the stone steps, the garden was empty. Richard headed past the clipped yew hedges to the river’s edge and sat down by a clump of lilies. The Thames was inky black and deadly still. He preferred to look up at the stars. God was up there somewhere. Maybe his father, too. Maybe even looking down at him.
In the distance, a barge passed, torches flaring. Men’s voices came to him, distant and muffled, then grew more distinct. At first he thought they came from the barge, then he knew that he was mistaken. They came from somewhere behind him, from one of the walks behind the hedges of yews.
“Edward asked me what I thought of her when we were hawking today.”
“I hope you didn’t give him the same answer you just gave me?” There was humour in the tone. The voice seemed familiar to Richard but was still too faint to place.
“If I had, I wouldn’t be here talking to you now, would I, Richard?”
Richard jumped at the mention of his name, then realised that it was the Earl of Desmond, Thomas Fitzgerald, addressing the Earl of Warwick, Richard Neville. They had drawn close now and their voices came to him clearly on the night air.
“No, you’d be in the Tower, Tom,” Warwick replied.
“Minus a head.” A chuckle.
“So how did you respond?” Warwick asked.
“What I told George. That she is very beautiful.”
“Was he satisfied with that?”
“No. He pressed for my true opinion.”
“And?”
“I told him nothing he doesn’t know himself,” Desmond said. “That a royal French bride would have brought the country peace and an alliance of trade.”
There was a long pause. Richard’s unease grew and his heart began to pound. When Warwick spoke again, his voice was low, anxious. “What did he say?”
“That the last queen was French and brought the land no peace and no trade.”
“Aah… He told me the same.” Warwick’s tone evidenced relief. And I’m still alive, it suggested. “How did you respond?”
“I told him that a marriage negotiated by the Earl of Warwick was not the same as one negotiated by that traitorous fool Suffolk, who sold out England by marrying Henry of Lancaster to a penniless princess for his own ends,” Desmond said.
“True,” replied Warwick. “Marguerite had only a single soiled dress when she arrived in London. Henry had to supply her wardrobe before he could receive her. It was a disgrace.” He
paused. “So how did Edward react?”
“He took it well enough. He laughed. You know Edward.”
“I thought I did, once. Now I’m not so sure.”
“He’s a good man, Richard. All will be well, I’ve no doubt,” Desmond said.
Here they began to move away, for their voices became muffled, grew faint, and faded into the night, leaving only the gentle lapping of the waves to break the silence. Richard looked up at the sky, crowded with stars. He wished Desmond had not trusted so much in the truth. It was not safe to speak freely about the queen. At court even the murals have ears, Desmond had warned George. Why hadn’t his father’s loyal friend taken his own advice?
Because he trusted Edward, came the answer unbidden to his mind.
He turned his gaze back on the river and frowned. Strange, but in that deep black water, he could not see the reflection of the stars.
~*~
Bess stood naked beneath her shift while a lady-in-waiting brushed the hair that fell to her waist. In the mirror she watched Edward as he entered the bedchamber, came to her side and, with a wave of his hand, dismissed her lady-in-waiting. The door clanged shut.
Edward wrapped an arm around her midriff, and met her eyes in the mirror. She could feel his uneven breathing on her cheek. Winding a fistful of her hair around his hand, he lifted it to his lips. “I can’t decide whether it’s silver or gold. ‘Gilt’ they call it, did you know?”
She smiled at him in the glass. He kissed her neck.
“How do you like Desmond, my love?” he murmured, his breath hot against her ear.
“Did Warwick appoint him, my dear lord?” she asked.
Edward jerked his head up. “I appointed him. On Warwick’s recommendation.”
“Oh.”
“It was one of Warwick’s better pieces of advice,” Edward said, relaxing. His hand slid under her shift to skim her hips and thigh. “Desmond’s done well in Ireland. There’s peace there, for a change. But let’s not talk about Desmond.” He bent his golden head and kissed her shoulder.
Bess reached behind her and explored his thigh. He gave a gasp, sought the ribbon of her shift and untied it. The gown fell to the floor in a silken heap, exposing her naked body.
“Bess, oh, Bess,” he murmured, brushing her cheek, her neck, her arms with hungry kisses. “I don’t understand your power over me, but if it’s witchcraft as they say, never let it end…” He gazed at her in the mirror, face flushed, eyes glazed with passion. “There’s no one else in the world like you. I love you, Bess.” Suddenly, he looked up and laughed.
“What amuses you so, my dearest lord? Not my body, I hope?”
“Never your body, which grows sweeter like ripening fruit,” He cradled a smooth, plump breast in one hand.
“What then?”
“Desmond said I s
houldn’t have married you,” he laughed. “That a royal princess would have brought me a trade alliance. ’Tis amusing, eh, Bess?”
She lowered her eyelids so he wouldn’t see the expression in them. “Very amusing.”
He swung her around and crushed her to him. “No trade alliance this side of Christendom can compete with your charms, Bess. Marrying you was the best thing I ever did.”
Bess pulled away and looked up at him, a smile on her lovely lips. “My dearest lord, I’ve been waiting to tell you. We’re going to have a child.”
~ * * * ~
Chapter 14
“They… that most impute a crime are pronest to it.”
On a chilly March afternoon, the day after he had returned from attending a council meeting in York with Warwick, Richard stole away with Anne to the stately chestnut they had made their own. Pine needles swished under their feet and the din of the castle receded into a gentle quiet, broken only by birdsong and the sweep of the wind through the woods. A running brook gurgled nearby with water so clear the speckled gravel at its bottom glistened like shiny gems. The brook marked the boundary of their stronghold, their secret place, their own mythical kingdom of Avalon where as children, they had ruled supreme as king and queen, with no grown-ups to tell them what to do.
But they were children no longer. It was 1466 and the cares of the real world could not be banished so easily. On this day a sense of dread enveloped Richard like a pall.
“All will be well,” Anne said, watching him. “The King has asked my lord father to be godfather to the newborn princess, and my gracious uncle to baptise her. Surely that’s a good sign?”
Toying with the ruby ring his father had given him, Richard made no answer. Aye, to all outward appearances all seemed well enough. Edward made gestures and Warwick accepted them. In February, three days before the feast of St. Valentine, the queen had given birth to a girl she named Elizabeth, in her own honour, and Edward had made Warwick godfather. He sent the three Neville brothers to negotiate a truce with the Scots and let Warwick head embassies to Burgundy and France. But Richard had spent time in both camps and knew the truth. He’d been with Warwick and Edward as they passed through London and the villages. He had heard the crowds cry, “Warwick! Warwick!” as though the Kingmaker were a god dropped from the skies. And he’d been with Edward in his private chamber and seen him pace back and forth, angrily shouting that the people loved Warwick more than they loved him, their King.
