Red Rose, White Rose

by Joanna Hickson

  Confronted with a fait accompli, my mother had little option but to accept the situation. ‘So be it,’ she said and demonstrated her displeasure by turning her back on us.

  At this point the minstrels struck up for dancing and after Richard and I had led a merry estampie and several prominent vassal-lords had raised toasts to our health and fertility, my new husband told the Master of the Feast to announce that we would retire, generating a chorus of whistles and catcalls from the body of the hall. The minstrels played a stately march but some scurrilously bawdy lyrics sung from the lower trestles marred our dignified exit. Fortunately it was only a short walk to the privy door, when I could hide my burning cheeks from general view.

  ‘In the name of God, what is this?’ Richard demanded, reaching down among the luxuriant covers of our nuptial bed.

  Following Bishop Langley’s fatherly blessing, when my mother and Hilda had drawn the curtains at my side and Richard’s chosen lords had done the same on his, I could not have been more relieved. Amidst the lewd sniggers of the tipsy crowd of guests who had attended our formal bedding, I had made a silent vow that any children Richard and I might have would never be subject to such an indignity. A blessing on the wedding night was one thing but bawdy comments and suggestive remarks were another. I was not called ‘Proud Cis’ for nothing and I had not relished the ignominy of such a barrage of innuendo. Nor, I suspected, had Richard, for in the dancing shadows of the night-lamp his expression was thunderous.

  A wriggling movement among the fur covers in the great bed’s nether regions revealed the cause of his new displeasure. He pounced and extricated a squirming brown and white animal which he held out to me with an expression of distaste. ‘Is this yours?’ he asked.

  We were both still wearing the velvet chamber robes in which we had been put to bed but his had fallen open during his search and for a few seconds I found myself admiring the sculpted muscles of his torso as he held my pet dog at arm’s length. I took the little creature from him.

  ‘Caspar always sleeps on my bed,’ I said. I could feel a volcano of nervous giggles threatening to erupt and I snuggled the terrier into my chest to muffle them in his wiry coat. ‘He must have sneaked in. He has missed me all day.’

  Richard reached over and firmly removed Caspar from my arms. As he did so one of the dog’s claws inadvertently scratched me, drawing a bloody red line across the swell of my breast. Unceremoniously Richard dropped the terrier over the side of the bed and I heard Caspar scuttle away whimpering. My giggles instantly gave way to protest. ‘He does no harm really. He just wants to be friends.’

  ‘He has hurt you though. You are bleeding.’ Richard was staring at my breast where beads of blood were oozing up in the red weal left by the little dog’s claw. He pulled up the rumpled sheet and dabbed at them gently. ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘No, not much; it does not matter.’

  I was still worrying about Caspar and did not notice that Richard’s expression had changed from frowning concern to narrow-eyed lust. ‘It matters to me,’ he said, bending to put his lips to the bloody weal. His voice sounded different – fervent and thickened and I felt his sexual tension as he licked at the blood. Tentatively I indulged my fantasy of plunging my fingers into his luxuriant curly bronze hair and he responded by lifting his head and pulling my robe fully open, taking my breasts in his hands and stroking the nipples with his thumbs. He was smiling now, a proud, possessive, sensuous curve of his moist lips. ‘These are mine now. You are mine, Cicely. I want no harm to come them or to you.’

  I was startled by my own rapid reaction to his ardour. I felt my breasts swell and my nipples stiffen under his caress and something like liquid fire trickled through the core of my belly and into the flesh between my legs. I was deliciously aroused and wanted it to go on but at the same time it frightened me. Surely this was wicked? Against everything I had been taught. Pleasure did not happen between man and wife. Ever since we were children I had expected to couple with Richard in order to get children; it was a duty to be performed, not an act to make me feel as I had felt with … no I would not name him even to myself. It was as if my mind and body were two different creatures; one crying out in protest, the other beginning to arch in ecstasy.

  It was on the tip of my tongue to tell Richard to stop, that this was all wrong, when I felt a stab of pain and he was pushing fiercely inside me as I lay spread-eagled beneath him. As quickly as it had come, all my pleasure abated. I was his wife. I could not refuse him. I must ignore the pain and let him thrust his seed deep inside me so that God could make a child. That was my duty and after several thrusts and a groan of release, duty was done.

  When we had rolled apart and arranged ourselves for sleep I realized that at least, thanks to Caspar, one of my worries was over. Richard had entered me and there was blood on the sheets. Our marriage was consummated and we were one body in the sight of God and the law of England. There was no going back.

  PART TWO

  France

  1442–1444

  12

  Rouen, Normandy 1442

  Cuthbert

  Towards the end of the road to Rouen we broke free of the dangers of the forest and I ordered my troop to draw rein in order to walk the last mile. Armour and harness jangled less percussively as our horses slowed from their fast, working trot to a gentler pace while at the same time their necks stretched out and their nostrils flared as they caught their breath.

  Ahead of us the city gradually came into sight. Once a jewel in the crown of France, it was now a battered shell, its pale stone walls displaying ugly gaps, like the smile of an ageing man. In the twenty-three years since the English had marched into the capital of Normandy after a long and bloody siege, repairs had been done to the cathedral and castle but the damage inflicted by Henry the Fifth’s massive cannons on the city’s outer defences still showed as gaping scars, testament to the fact that the tightly defended borders of the duchy now prohibited any French attempt to retrieve the city at its centre, making repairs unnecessary. In this Year of Our Lord 1442 the commander of those defences and the King’s Deputy and Lieutenant General in France was Richard, Duke of York.

  However, the sight that struck me most forcibly whenever I approached the city was not its crumbling walls but the extraordinary ghostly landscape surrounding them. In fields where crops had once grown, long strips of fabric in a hundred different shades of white now billowed in the breeze like the sails of some enormous land-locked armada. The famous linen weavers of Rouen had taken over farms abandoned as a result of the siege and employed them for cloth-crofting, the complicated business of employing the elements to turn their cloth the purest white. The process took months and involved successive soakings, first in urine and finally in buttermilk, with washing and extended periods of airing in between.

  ‘This is a sight to see, is it not?’ remarked the lady riding beside me. ‘They used to send the raw linen to Holland for crofting.’

  The lady was Anne, Countess of Stafford and I had been sent to Calais in command of a troop of men-at-arms to bring her safely to Rouen for her sister Cicely’s lying-in. Strictly speaking, I was brother to both these noble ladies, although as a mere knight, the division between our ranks could scarcely have been wider and this hazardous journey across the plains and forests of Picardy and northern Normandy had been the first time the Lady Anne and I had ever met. I had expected to find the task of escort irksome but had now decided that a man of any rank could do worse than spend a few days in the company of this spirited female. Although she was nine years older than Cicely and already well into her thirties, she was far from being middle-aged in her attitude to life and her elegant red-leather trappings and fashionable fur-trimmed riding huke disguised a practical, down-to-earth disposition. Several times during our ride from Calais, where her husband was captain of the embattled English garrison, we had been forced to draw swords and engage with desperate gangs of bandits called écorcheurs who haunted the northern fores
ts, preying on unwary travellers, and far from cowering behind her escort the countess had unsheathed a useful poignard concealed in her riding boot and wielded it in earnest.

  ‘There is no trade with the Low Countries now, not since the Duke of Burgundy broke the alliance with England,’ I replied, watching her shift her weight in her sideways saddle and tuck a stray strand of silvery temple-hair back under the scarf of her blue chaperon. ‘So the weavers must bleach all their own cloth.’

  ‘Well it is heartening to see the land put to some use,’ she said. ‘Even a wilderness of white linen is better than thistles and weeds, though it will not feed the people.’

  ‘The duke has ruled that the weavers’ guild should set up feeding stations for the poor and dispossessed. He has even endowed them generously himself,’ I told her. ‘There is less unrest in the city since he took up his post.’

  She pursed her lips. ‘I am glad to hear it. At least he puts his riches to good use.’

  I made no comment. Richard of York was, as everyone knew, the richest man in the two kingdoms and there was much barely concealed envy among those of the landed nobility who were not so well endowed. Although the Earl of Stafford was almost as wealthy, it seemed that even his countess was not averse to passing the odd mildly caustic remark.

  Our conversation was forced to cease because we had reached the city gate and became caught up in the crowds queuing to press through the narrow tunnel beneath the battered barbican. Encouraged by our trumpeters’ noisy blasts they shifted reluctantly to let us pass but our royal banners and white rose badges were not greeted with any enthusiasm by the sour-faced citizens of Normandy. Indeed, despite the fact that many of their leaders now apparently worked willingly alongside their English conquerors, the common people of Rouen still tended the graves of their siege-starved forebears and went about their daily tasks in silent resentment, taking the money their goods could earn but hating the hands they took it from. It was pointless to tell these stiff-necked Frenchmen that the men they called ‘conquerors’ were Normans like themselves, back in their own duchy two hundred years after the French had stolen it from them. In their eyes the invaders were ‘cochons Anglais’, English pigs, who hid tails under their doublets and murdered their kings. Rouen may be peaceful but it was not content.

  I led the troop across the busy market square towards the castle where extensive patches of new stonework indicated the level of damage the siege artillery had inflicted. It was a sprawling warren of towers and courtyards centered on an imposing buttressed hall with a steep sloping roof of green slates which housed the law courts and meetings of the Normandy Estates. It was the seat of English government and therefore the official residence of the Duke of York. I was pleased to see the lily and lion standard flying from the hall tower, indicating that the Royal Council was in session. The duke would be entertaining his fellow councillors and my rumbling stomach welcomed the fact that there would be plentiful feasting at dusk.

  Elbowing a squire out of the way, I made a point of assisting Lady Anne to dismount myself. She smiled as I set her lightly down on the cobblestones of the central courtyard. ‘Thank you, Sir Cuthbert, although after all the hours we have spent and alarms we have experienced together I think I may truly call you brother. I envy Cicely her good fortune in having you to rely on.’

  I returned her smile and added an admiring bow. ‘I am honoured to be related to two such great ladies but I will not yet say farewell. Cicely instructed me to deliver you to her side and that is exactly what I shall do. Her chamberlain will show your female companion to your lodging where your baggage will be sent and, with your permission, I will personally escort you directly to the privy apartments.’

  The splendid civic clock, recently installed in the marketplace, was sounding four when, having adjourned his council meeting, Richard, Duke of York, surrounded by his entourage, came striding out of the great hall and intercepted us at the foot of the grand stairway which led up to the ducal lodging. ‘My lady of Stafford, good sister, you are safely arrived! May God be thanked,’ he said enthusiastically, bending over the countess’s hand. ‘How kind it is of you to make such an arduous journey to support Cicely at this crucial time. She will be overjoyed to see you.’

  ‘It was not so arduous with Sir Cuthbert beside me,’ responded the countess. ‘He is the kind of companion who clears the road and lightens the load, to say nothing of seeing off bandits with a flick of his sword. I have never felt safer outside the walls of Calais.’

  The duke raised his eyebrows at me. ‘Praise indeed, Cuthbert! I can see Cicely chose the right escort for her sister.’

  I grinned back at him. ‘Allow me to tell you, brother, that whenever swords were out, Lady Anne was doing her fair share by a masterly use of the small blade. I cannot believe it was not I who trained her.’

  Anne laughed and bent swiftly to demonstrate her sleight of hand with the poignard. It appeared in her hand without a visible movement of her skirt and Richard took an involuntary step back, as surprised as I had been the first time I saw her do it. ‘I pride myself on giving no quarter,’ she said proudly. ‘It has proved useful in the past but on this journey I drew the blade for show only, I was protected from all danger.’ With equal skill she re-sheathed the knife and took the duke’s proffered arm. ‘But tell me, Richard, how is my sister? I am sorry I was unable to attend her previous lying-ins. Has she recovered from her grave disappointment …?’

  They began to climb the stair together and I followed a step behind. The rest of the entourage had dropped well back. ‘In truth I think she has not,’ the duke replied. ‘She tries to hide it from me but there is her lassitude, I have never seen that in her before, and she spends much time with our confessor. I know Cicely is deeply melancholy. But I cannot discover if there is a reason, other than the death of our son, of course. Perhaps you might have more success.’

  ‘Is not the death of a longed-for son enough reason to be melancholy?’ demanded Anne. ‘It is only a year ago. And before that our mother died. Cicely was closer to her than any of us. Perhaps she has not recovered from either death and now she must face another birth and with it the possibility of another death. It is not easy, my lord. You must be patient.’

  Richard frowned, his head uncharacteristically lowered. ‘I hope she does not find me impatient. I never blamed her for the death of Henry. I, too, was devastated, but it was God’s will.’

  The countess patted his arm. ‘These things happen, but you are both young. There is plenty of time. I will try and cheer her up. Does she have any other ladies to help her? When will she take to her chamber?’

  ‘Next week. There is to be a service in the cathedral and then she will retire.’

  ‘So the babe will be born in May then?’

  ‘Do not ask me! That is women’s talk. Perhaps tonight will cheer us all. We have a banquet and entertainment planned for the members of the council and their wives. I am sorry your lord could not attend but I hear the pirates in the Straits of Dover have been trounced. Two ships captured and ten scoundrels hanged. It was worth him missing the meeting.’

  ‘He will think so,’ said Anne grimly. ‘It is hoped their confederates might be deterred, for the present.’

  When we reached the arched doorway that led to the great solar the guards threw back the double doors. Servants and chamberlains waiting in the ante-chamber scrambled to their feet as we entered. One of the chamberlains bowed and knocked on a door with his staff for entrance to the solar. The door was opened from within.

  The young ladies stood and curtsied but Cicely remained reclined on a cushioned couch, one hand on her swollen belly, the other extended in welcome. ‘My dearest lord, you are finished early in council. And Cuthbert and my sister are here at last! You are so very welcome, Anne.’

  The two women embraced warmly, seats were brought and the young lady companions trooped from the chamber in response to Cicely’s wave of dismissal. I stood to one side and studied my pregnant sister�
��s face. It looked puffy and her belly seemed to pin her down like a barrel. Sensing my gaze, she turned and I caught a glimpse of the old Cicely in the smile she gave me.

  ‘Thank you, Cuthbert, for bringing Anne to me. I have been counting the hours.’ She turned back to the countess. ‘You are so good to come – and through such hostile territory, too. Did you have any trouble?’

  Lady Anne brushed the enquiry aside. ‘Never mind all that. How are you, Cicely? You look very pale.’

  Although they both now lived in France, to my knowledge the two sisters had not seen each other since their mother’s funeral nearly two years before, when the whole Neville clan had suspended hostilities to gather at Raby castle. The cortège journeyed from there down to Lincoln where Lady Joan was to be buried in the cathedral beside her beloved mother Katherine, Duchess of Lancaster. Being great with her second child, Cicely had opted not to follow; instead her own procession, and I with it, embarked on a cautious fifteen-miles-a-day progress south to Fotheringhay Castle. Riding beside her cushioned litter, I had listened to her sustained sobbing.

  ‘I should not have endangered my baby by travelling to Raby, but how could I not attend my mother’s funeral?’ she had cried in despair during one unscheduled stop at a crowded roadside inn when she had complained of dizziness and agonizing cramps. ‘I do not have good feelings about this baby, Cuthbert.’

  Those fears had proved well founded. Her little boy, baptized Henry after the king, had died a week after his birth in early February. It seemed to me that she had not regained any of her spirit since.