He went down on one knee. “Give me leave, Lady,” he said hoarsely, “to kiss your hand.”
She gave him her hand, and he crushed it between his own and pressed ardent lips to it in a manner that said clearly: I love you, too. Oh, don’t let me love in vain. Her brother had not yet gone inside but stood within the open doorway watching. Fortunately, he could see only Thomas’s back, or he would have seen that a respectful salutation was, in fact, the plea of an anguished lover.
“I didn’t know you were in London,” she said and then, seeing Edward start toward them, she said coolly, “Farewell, Sir Thomas. It was good seeing you again,” and turned away to walk back to her carriage.
Chapter 42
August 1460 – London
Sometimes managing an illicit affair was utterly frustrating. When Thomas appeared in her hall, merely to pay his respects as a neighbour to whom she had reason to be grateful, Anne had no difficulty slipping a note into his hand. It directed him to a certain inn at a certain hour a few days hence. The inn had been chosen carefully: its quiet location, the discretion of the host, the softness of the bed and the comfort of its other appointments – all had been taken into consideration before the White Feather in Holborn was selected. Anne enjoyed many an erotic fantasy about rolling around in a real feather bed with Thomas, but when she met him on the appointed day they quarrelled. The King, many of the churchmen who had attended convocation, the three victorious earls, their supporters and members of the council were all going off to Canterbury for two weeks of church ceremonies, solemn processions and a little rest. Thomas must go too because he was a retainer of Lord Cobham. He could have found some excuse if he really wanted to be with her – a sudden indisposition, a horse gone lame, something – but no, not Thomas, her proper knight. So they quarrelled, and she stormed out without removing a stitch of clothing.
Her groin afire, she had to wait over two long weeks until Thomas once more appeared in her hall and she was able to pass him a prepared note. On that occasion, he was there, but it was Eleanor who turned up, to tell him that her mistress had an intestinal disorder that kept her to her bed. So it wasn’t until the middle of August that Thomas fulfilled Anne’s erotic fantasies.
“I’m sorry about our quarrel,” she said, trying to unfasten the points of his doublet. At the same time, he was tugging at the laces of her gown, while exchanging quick, hungry kisses.
“I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have –”
“No, it was entirely my fault. You were right. I was being perverse.”
“I shouldn’t have said that. You are –”
“God, I adore you. Hurry up. We shouldn’t have parted like that. It won’t happen again – ”
“No, never again –”
“I swear it. Thomas, what are you doing?”
“I’ve got your laces in a knot,” he said in breathless anguish.
“Cut them with your knife.”
“You can’t go home like that.”
“No one will know when I have my cloak on. Cut them, and get on with it!”
A slash of the knife and before long her gown, chemise, hose, garters and small clothes, along with all Thomas’s garments lay in an untidy heap on the floor. Before very long, the bedcovers joined them, tossed there by the energetic gyrations of the occupants of the bed. Lying on a featherbed made no difference to the enchantment of their lovemaking or the intensity of their climaxes. But in that sweet hiatus between vigorous bouts of sex, it was wonderful to lie in comfort, with clean linen beneath them and food and drink just a call away.
“If lust is a sin as the church says, we must be the greatest sinners since Helen and Paris,” she said flopping onto her back and lifting her arms above her head, stretching sinuously. Thomas nuzzled her breasts. “Oh, go away, you satyr!” she cried, laughing.
He fell back too, allowing a small space between them while their bodies cooled. The shutters were open revealing part of the roof of the Bishop of Ely’s palace and a mass of grey clouds above it. Now and then a gust of wind blew in a shower of rain. In spite of the rain, it was warm outside and hot within.
“Tell me all the news. Have you heard when my father is coming?”
“Writs have been sent out to the sheriffs, calling for parliament to convene in October, giving him plenty of time to get home. Lord Clinton has left for Wales to meet him.”
Anne was particularly anxious that her father should return to the capital soon in the hope of seeing her family. Since she had already disobeyed her husband by visiting her brother, she had decided she might as well hang for a sheep as a lamb and visit her mother too.
“And the Queen?” She was reasonably sure her husband had survived the battle and hoped he was with the Queen, whose whereabouts were still unknown.
Thomas chuckled. “As a matter of fact, there is news of the Queen. The story goes that while resting in a hovel near Holt Castle, she was relieved of her jewels by Lord Stanley’s men, thinly disguised as brigands.”
“Was he with her?”
“There was no word on her companions except, of course, for the prince.”
“Holt Castle,” Anne mused. “That must mean she’s making for Wales since it lies on the far side of the River Dee. Of course! She’ll be going to Henry’s half-brother, Jasper Tudor, at Denbigh.”
“Out of Warwick’s reach.”
Jasper Tudor, Earl of Pembroke was the product of an illicit union between Henry V’s widow, Katherine of France, and a charming, though low-born, Welshman who had served her late husband as a gentleman of the wardrobe. Daughter of one king, wife of another, mother of a third, Katherine joined herself with Owen Tudor, and the union resulted in the birth of two boys who were Henry VI’s half brothers. Whether the illicit pair married or not was a question that was never satisfactorily answered, but it was a moot point to the English government. Once it was learned what the Welshman had been up to with the widowed Queen, Tudor was thrown into prison and only released when it Katherine was dying. The other brother, Edmund Tudor, married Margaret Beaufort, whose uncle and guardian was that Duke of Somerset killed at St. Albans by Warwick’s men. Edmund succeeded in impregnating his child-bride before passing on to a better place and Margaret Beaufort and her posthumous son, Henry Tudor, were now in the care of Jasper and living at Denbigh.
Anne didn’t waste any sympathy on the Queen. She saw Margaret simply as England’s greatest enemy and destroyer of peace.
“Has the council made any new appointments?”
“The Archbishop of Canterbury took possession of the great seal after Winchester resigned it just before the battle, and had cherished the hope of having the chancellorship restored to him. So he was not best pleased to see it go to your cousin George Neville, Bishop of Exeter, who’s a couple of decades younger and not nearly so experienced in statecraft.”
“He may be young in years, but there’s an old and cynical and cunning head on those shoulders. Anyone else?”
“His Eminence may have been placated by the appointment of his brother, the Earl of Essex, as treasurer. The privy seal went to Robert Stillington, a long-serving member of Henry’s council, who has expressed himself happy to work with Warwick.”
Anne lifted his penis and let it flop onto his belly. “Still limp as a lamprey.”
“Give it but a moment or two of loving attention, my lady, and it will rise to the occasion like a well-drilled soldier.”
“I like the sentiment if not the simile,” Anne said with a gurgle of amusement. “What else?”
“Did you hear about Redface?”
James II of Scotland, commonly called Redface, had spilt over the border at the time of the battle of St. Albans, only to rush back again when her father was on the point of going north to deal with him. Once again taking advantage of his southern neighbour’s troubles, he had invaded England and attacked Roxburgh castle.
“According to Redface, he had received word from his good friend the Duke of York appealing to him f
or aid. To help his good friend in his struggle to assert his right to the throne, he had attacked Roxburgh. The pact was sealed by the proposed marriage of Redface’s daughter to your brother Edward.”
Not the most rabid enemy of York would credit such a story, but there was no doubt that if James were successful, the Yorkists would bear the blame for creating the climate of uncertainty in which such threats could develop.
“The Earl of Salisbury was deputed to raise an army and chase him back across the border. But before the earl could get the business underway, James’ fascination with guns brought him into the vicinity of a large cannon when it burst. And that was the end of Redface.”
Anne’s hand was still on his penis, but he knew her well enough by now to know that her caresses were perfunctory. “What’s the matter?” he asked, kissing her breast.
“What you just said about my father’s struggle to assert his right to the throne.”
“Mere propaganda, my darling. Everyone knew that James’ real objective was Berwick, and if Roxburgh fell, he would immediately pounce on the fortress.”
“Yes, but… Did you ever read the manifesto Warwick sent out after his return from Calais? He and my father worked on it while he was in Ireland and according to my brother, it was one of the reasons for Warwick’s lengthy stay. They couldn’t agree on the wording. In the end, my father had his way, and a phrase was inserted to the effect that crimes against him are doubly heinous because he and his issue are of royal blood.”
“Which is true enough,” Thomas said, being too pleasurably engaged nibbling at a nipple to pay much attention to the nuances of a manifesto.
“You don’t understand, Thomas,” Anne said, giving him a little push. “When I was growing up, we were repeatedly instructed not to make any reference to our royal blood or my father’s prior claim, because at best it was disloyal to the King, and at worst it could be taken as treason. For my father to insist upon that little phrase being added…”
He lifted his head, frowning. “What do you think it means?”
“I don’t know what it means, but it makes me uneasy.”
Chapter 43
August 1460 – Southwark
One day a note arrived for Edward from his mother informing him that she had leased the house of an immensely rich knight in Southwark and inviting him to visit her at his earliest opportunity. He wasted no time in riding across the river and finding the imposing house. After he had tossed a squealing Richard in the air, tussled with George, made Margaret blush with his lavish kisses and gallantries and dutifully patted her odd assortment of animals, his mother led him to a window seat in her solar
“So you escaped Aunt Anne?”
“She blamed your father for Stafford’s death. After your uncle was killed, she became even bitterer. The situation was untenable. She didn’t want me there, and I didn’t want to be there.”
“I was sorry about Uncle Humphrey’s death.”
The Duchess clasped the jewelled cross on her breast. “He should have given your father better support.”
“But he did – as far as his conscience would allow. He was the King’s man, never the Beauforts’. He always said that.”
“If there is a difference, Edward, it is becoming less and less evident. The Beauforts support Henry, and he supports them. How can we deny it after Ludlow? I am glad you weren’t there to see it. St. Lawrence’s was looted as if it were a Mohammedan mosque. It was unimaginable.”
He supposed she was right. Things were changing. Attitudes were changing. Henry would never have sanctioned such an assault on an English town, yet he was powerless to stop it and powerless to punish the offenders. What manner of King was that? Weak. It was Warwick who coined the term ‘Daft Harry.’
“I saw Anne after the Tower surrendered. She is very unhappy.”
“I know, but she must bear what God sends, as must we all.”
I don’t think it was God who sent Exeter.
“She is stronger than she knows. She’ll learn to adapt. Is she still in London?”
“No, she left for her manor of Thorpe Waterfield. I’m sure she would have waited had she known you were coming.” That was a lie. He had told her their mother was expected, but she had gone anyway because little Anne had a fever. She’s a quiet, serious, child. I don’t think you’d like her.
He told his mother of his adventures in Calais – at least some of them – and noticed that her attitude toward Warwick had changed too. The criticism was very subtle, but it was there.
“Come with me,” she said when he made to leave. He followed her up a winding stair and along a passage that led away from the ducal chambers.
“Here is someone you should greet,” she said mysteriously, opening a door slightly and then moving away before Edward could question her.
He pushed the door open and stepped into a small, airy room, filled with feminine clutter. He should have guessed. She stood in front of the bed, his Elizabeth, her hair unbound and tumbling to her hips, a touchingly uncertain smile curving her lips. As soon as he saw her, he was overcome with guilt that he had thought of her so seldom in the last months and hadn’t even noticed her absence among his mother’s ladies when once she had been all he could think about. I am an inconstant lover. How could he have forgotten that flagrantly red hair and the way it felt rippling through his fingers, or those blue eyes dancing with delight as she undressed him, or the sensual promise of those ripe red lips? As if to make up for neglecting her in his thoughts, he crossed to her in two swift strides, gathered her into his arms and began to cover her face with ardent kisses.
“Stop!” She laughed trying to hold him off enough to get the words out. “Your lady mother didn’t bring you here to see me. There is another waiting to greet you.”
He had assumed they were alone in the small room, but now she moved aside, and he saw what her body had hidden from his view. The shock left him speechless. Lying in the centre of the bed was a swaddled infant with a round rosy face. Some men were intimidated by such smallness and some, of course, were completely indifferent. Not so Edward. Setting Elizabeth abruptly aside, he leant down, scooped the baby up and settled it in the crook of his arm as naturally as if he had done it a hundred times before.
“I named her Grace. I hope you approve.” It was a suitable name for a noble bastard.
“Grace,” he murmured, staring at the sleeping infant as if transfixed. “You have given me a treasure, Bess. She’s as fair as a perfect rose. How old is she?”
“She’s just four months. As a matter of fact, she was born on May Day.”
Edward settled on the bed, tugging Elizabeth down beside him, and the baby slept peacefully on.
“Amazing! I’ve been a father for four months and never knew it,” he said in wonder, as if vaguely surprised that some sixth sense hadn’t informed him. “Why didn’t you let me know?” he asked, looking at her at last. “Why didn’t you write?”
“It seemed for the best since you were so far away and I didn’t want you concerned on my account. Besides, wasn’t it better this way?”
Edward laughed. “As shocks go it was a most pleasant one. But what of my lady mother? Was she awfully hard on you, sweetheart?”
“For a good half hour, she berated me for my wantonness and lack of judgment in squandering my good name on a lustful young lord whose own morals are reprehensible. After that, she cared for me as if I were her own daughter.”
“Bless her for that. So you were with her all along?”
“After Ludlow was sacked Lady Say and I were able to join her in the King’s camp. Then she was sent to the Buckinghams at Brecon, and she insisted on keeping me with her. Grace was born there.”
Edward was silent, reviewing in his mind all she had not said. She must have watched the sacking of Ludlow and seen the hanged men as she rode through the devastated town. And while he didn’t doubt that his mother had been treated courteously, he wondered what indignities women of lesser rank might have
suffered in the King’s camp. And then the months in the chill household of the Duchess of Buckingham, wondering what his reaction would be when she presented him with a bastard if he would repudiate the child and her. As for the agony of childbirth – he couldn’t begin to imagine that. Women said it was worse than any battle wound but how would they know? He had never been wounded so he had no point of reference. Leaning down he kissed Elizabeth on the brow in silent commiseration of all she had suffered and all she had left unsaid.
“God, I missed you, sweetheart. Here.” He handed her the sleeping infant. “Put Grace where she can’t see what her mama and papa are doing and come to bed.”
“I’m nursing her myself,” Elizabeth said, placing the baby in a linen-lined woven basket.
“Does that mean your breasts are swollen?” he asked innocently, pausing in his undressing to give her a look that made women melt.
Blushing, Elizabeth shook her head and began to undress self-consciously. Stripped to her shift, she looked at Edward lounging on the bed in all his glorious, youthful maleness, already ready for her. He held out a hand.
“I’ll finish that if you like.”
“Edward, there’s something you must know,” she said abruptly. “I’m not as I once was.”
Propping himself up on one elbow, he let his eyes wander over her voluptuous figure causing her to flush.
“There’s something I must tell you too, sweetheart. I suffered a wound at Northampton. You can’t see it, but it’s a horrible scar.” Sinking back on the bed, he covered his eyes with one forearm and added tragically, “If you no longer want me I shall be wretched, but I’ll understand.”
Elizabeth laughed, grabbed a pillow and hit him with it.
Playacting done, he got up, took her in his arms and kissed her gently on the mouth. “Sweetheart, if you have a few scars from your battle to bring our daughter into the world, I shall cherish them, every one. Now stop being foolish and taxing what little self-restraint I possess, for my eyes are famished for sight of you.”
This Sun of York Page 39
