She still hadn’t been sure, and none had been told. Thank God Jesus for that! The only one he’d mentioned it to was Dickon, and the boy was bright enough to hold his tongue. No, it was best if Warwick did not know Lisbet was breeding again, that she might be carrying the son who would take from George his one dubious distinction, that he stood between Edward’s little girls and the throne.
Not that he could be sure that was Warwick’s intent, to claim the crown for George. He was damned well sure, though, that it had occurred to them both and frequently. If they did think they could get away with it…If-they thought the country would accept George…If Johnny could be persuaded to hold aloof…
He knew he was tormenting himself for naught, that such feverish speculation did him no good, but he couldn’t seem to stop. His head was throbbing again, had been paining him for days now. The strain was telling. He awoke at night drenched in sweat, jerked from sleep by the pounding of his own heart.
He found himself recalling a sardonic jest he’d once made when Will had chided him for wandering about London with only a token escort. Who, he’d laughed, would be willing to kill him, knowing that meant George would then be King? Those within earshot had been much amused, but Edward now found nothing remotely amusing in the memory.
The door opened. One of his guards stood there, conspicuously ill at ease.
“Your Grace…my lord of Warwick has ridden in this night from Coventry. He requests that you do join him in the presence chamber.”
Edward didn’t move, stared at him. Remembering a summer night two years ago when he’d refused Warwick’s demand for a midnight audience. It was, he reckoned, nearly midnight now.
The documents had been spread out on the table for him, awaiting his signature. Edward read rapidly. He was not surprised to find Warwick was claiming for himself the office of Chief Justice and Chamberlain of South Wales, a post that had been held by Lord Herbert, who’d gone to the block at Warwick’s command just eighteen days ago. He scribbled his signature, reached for the next document.
This one gave him pause. Warwick was appointing Will Hastings as Chamberlain for North Wales. Edward felt a surge of relief, for that meant Warwick had decided Will was worth winning over. Yet at the same time, he could not deny a certain disquiet. Will was his friend. He trusted Will as much as he trusted any man alive. But his trust was not what it once had been. He’d once trusted Warwick; he truly hadn’t believed Warwick would ever resort to armed rebellion, not after all they’d shared.
It occurred to him now that there was no man he could trust without reservations. Not one. Not Johnny. Not Jack Howard. For sure, not Lisbet’s Woodville kindred! Not even Will and Dickon, for Dickon was an untried boy and Will…Will was Warwick’s brother-in-law. It would seem, he thought bleakly, that he’d just discovered yet another unpleasant aspect of confinement, the erosion of trust.
“I assure you it is all in order, Cousin.”
Edward looked up, met Warwick’s eyes. “I’ve no doubt of that,” he said coolly, “but I was once told that a man who signs any paper without reading it beforehand is a fool twice over.”
Warwick’s mouth quirked, as if he’d suppressed a smile. “As I recall, I was the one who did so caution you.”
“Yes…I know. It was during those months we spent in Calais, after we were forced to flee Ludlow.”
This time their eyes held. By the hearth, George watched with displeasure. There was much about his cousin’s relationship with Ned that he found hard to comprehend. He thought Warwick had every reason to hate Ned and most of the time acted as though he did. And then suddenly he’d let himself be caught up in some common memory. Once, much to George’s exasperation, he’d even found them laughing together over some stupid incident that had happened years ago. It irked him that Warwick seemed unable to sever all ties with the past, that he did let memories matter. It was only today that counted. And today, Ned was a threat.
George did not trust Ned in the least, however amiable he was making himself out to be. George knew Ned too well for that, and for the first time, he found himself wondering if Warwick’s perception of Ned weren’t flawed. Unfortunately, he knew Warwick wasn’t likely to heed him. There were times when it seemed to George as if his father-in-law of a month took him no more seriously than did Ned.
It would have been so much easier had Ned offered resistance at Olney, been killed in the fighting. George had been sure that would happen, had been truly shocked when Ned surrendered himself into Warwick’s hands without so much as a struggle. George had only recently admitted it to himself, would never have said it aloud, but he would rather his brother were dead. Ned’s death would be the solution to all their problems.
He did not want, however, to have a hand in Ned’s murder. Not when he thought of his lady mother, thought of Meg and Dickon. He’d never be able to face them if that happened. Never. Not unless Ned gave him no choice.
Well, it might not come to that. Warwick had a scheme, one that gave George a great deal of excitement. There were other ways to depose a King than by death, after all. There was, Warwick had pointed out, that rumor put about years ago by enemies of York, that Ned was, in fact, illegitimate, was not the true son of the Duke of York.
George doubted if even the most devout Lancastrian had ever believed it, but belief wasn’t all that important. It could be used, could give parliament the excuse it must have to act, to confer the crown upon him. He did not permit himself to tarnish his dream by considering his mother’s reaction to such an accusation. He’d convinced himself that she’d understand it was Warwick’s doing, not his.
Still, though, it was risky. So very risky. His smile faded. No, far better for them if Ned were dead. He studied his brother with cold eyes. What a pity he’d not died at Olney!
Edward reached for the last of the documents put before him. But with the first words, he stiffened, stared down in disbelief.
“The King, to the venerable father in Christ, Thomas, Cardinal and Archbishop of Canterbury, greetings. Because on the Friday before Michaelmas next to come, We decree to hold a parliament at York, We order you to be present in person on the day and place aforesaid—”
Edward’s head came up sharply to find Warwick watching him with a sardonic smile.
“As you can see, Ned, there’s to be a parliament in York on the twenty-second of next month. I want you, therefore, to send out writs under the privy seal to the prelates and peers of the realm.”
Edward stared at him. His mind was racing. A parliament…why? To confer the crown upon George?
“I see,” he said slowly.
“I rather thought you would, Cousin.” Warwick saw with satisfaction that some of Edward’s vaunted control had slipped; there was a tightness about his mouth that hadn’t been there moments before.
“George did think you might refuse. Why, I don’t know.”
Warwick was enjoying himself. There were times, he admitted, when the unreality of their situation struck him with overwhelming force, when he found it impossible to believe he and Ned had ever come to this. But not now. Now he relished this particular moment, thought it ample payment for what he saw as years of Woodville-inflicted humiliations.
“I did tell George he was wrong, of course. I said I was sure you’d appreciate…the necessities involved, would be quite willing to cooperate.”
Edward’s fist had clenched. He gazed down at the whitened knuckles, the ruby-red coronation ring. A moment passed, and then another. And then he reached for the pen.
“Why not?” he said briefly, and Warwick looked over to smile at his son-in-law.
“That’s a trait I’ve often admired in you, Ned,” he said pleasantly. “You’ve always been a realist.”
He moved to the sideboard, signaled for a servant to pour him wine.
“Now your brother Edmund, as I recall, took a rather pessimistic view of events. And Dickon, God help him, is both an idealist and a moralist. But you’ve always taken a very cle
ar-sighted approach to life, uncluttered by lofty notions of chivalry or high moral principles. That’s commendable, Cousin, it truly is.”
Warwick heard George laugh, but Edward refused the bait, said only, “You’re slighting your son-in-law, aren’t you, Dick? What of George?”
“I think he can speak for himself! Tell us, George, how would you describe yourself?”
George was watching Edward, even as he answered Warwick’s playful query. “As a man who knows how to make the most of an opportunity,” he said softly.
The chamber was silent for some moments after that. Both Warwick and George were watching Edward as he wrote. Warwick sipped his wine, savoring both the taste and what was to come.
“There is one more thing, Ned. You’d best prepare yourself for a journey.”
He saw Edward’s pen pause and then continue smoothly across the page, and he felt a flicker of admiration. He’d seen few men who could equal Ned’s coolness in a crisis. With a smile that was almost affectionate, he said, “Yes, I’ve decided your interests would best be served by a stay at Middleham.”
Edward betrayed himself at that; his pen jerked involuntarily. Middleham! Two hundred fifty miles from London. In a region that had long held for Lancaster, had high regard for Warwick. But not for him, not for the House of York. He saw he’d blotted ink upon his signature; the first four letters of “Edwardus Rex” were unreadable. He crossed it out, wrote above it in a slanting scrawl quite unlike his usual Italic hand, and then looked up.
“It’s been five years since I’ve been North. I’d say a visit is long overdue,” he said calmly, and saw Warwick was amused by his unruffled response, that George was not.
It was queer, Edward thought, that George should have proven to be the most difficult to deal with. He’d never before realized just how much George disliked him. Blood ties did mean so much to him that he’d refused to recognize they could mean so little to George.
Now it was George who said mockingly, “You know, Ned, I’ve always wondered how fond you were of your Woodville kin. Clearly enough, you were rather taken by the lady herself, for reasons we all do understand well enough! But what of the rest of the Woodville clan? How do you feel about them? Your father-in-law, say?”
“I don’t see how that matters, George, or how it concerns you,” Edward said, very evenly, and George smiled lazily at him.
“Oh, but it does, Ned. I’m curious, you see. Indulge me.”
The last of Edward’s patience ebbed away in the hot sticky silence that followed.
“Lisbet comes from a large family. It is to be expected that I’d not feel the same degree of affection for them all,” Edward said wearily, and paused only a beat before adding, “Unfortunately, Brother George, one cannot choose his relatives as he can his friends.”
Surprisingly enough, George’s smile didn’t waver. Edward was suddenly alert; his brother was never one to accept insult with amusement.
“Well then, that does put my mind at ease, Ned, about what I have to tell you.”
Edward knew he was expected to probe now for details; he said nothing.
“Did you know…no, I expect not; you’ve been rather out of touch these past eleven days, haven’t you, Ned? Well, it so happens that your wife’s father and brother John were taken the other day near Chepstow.”
Edward was very still, kept his eyes on George. His brother seemed in no hurry to speak, however. He drained his wine-cup, set it down on the floor rushes by his chair, snapped his fingers at one of Warwick’s alaunts, and at last, glanced up.
“We had them beheaded yesterday noon outside the walls of Coventry,” he said and smiled.
12
Middleham
August 1469
In the five years since Edward had taken Elizabeth Woodville as his wife, Francis Lovell had conscientiously chronicled the fragmenting relationship between the Earl of Warwick and his royal cousin, and on this humid August night, Francis was flipping back through his journal entries as the Earl’s household awaited his arrival with his unwilling guest, the captive King of England.
Francis had been no more prepared for the Earl’s action than had Edward himself, and he was still dazed and disbelieving four weeks after the King had been taken prisoner at Olney. He didn’t know what Warwick meant to do, knew only that the entire incredible episode filled him with apprehension. Apprehension shared by Warwick’s wife and daughter Anne, who were now awaiting the Earl in the great hall, word having been sent ahead to expect his arrival within the hour. Francis was sure they’d had no advance warning of Warwick’s intentions; the news of Olney seemed to stun them as much as it had the country at large. For if rumor were to be credited, England was in turmoil.
Francis eagerly pounced upon every scrap of gossip that came his way, and drew some consolation from what he heard. Warwick, it was becoming increasingly apparent, had misread the mood of his countrymen. Even those who were most virulent in their opposition to the Woodvilles had been shocked that Warwick should have moved against Edward himself. Francis knew that was why Warwick had chosen to convey Edward northward to Middleham. Warwick Castle was too close to London, and London was still loyal to Edward.
Francis closed his journal; it made disheartening reading. Rising, he returned the journal to the security of his coffer and began to extinguish the candles, one by one. As he did, he heard the barking of the castle dogs.
The great hall was aflare with a score or more of torches, keeping the shadows at bay and casting flickering light over the scene being enacted before Francis’s astonished eyes. Standing in the glare of torch-fire, Edward bore little resemblance to a man who’d endured a six-day forced march. Still less did he resemble a man held prisoner for nearly a month’s time. He was accepting the deferential but uncertain salutations of the Earl’s retainers as if holding court at Westminster, and as Francis knelt before him, he smiled easily.
“Francis Lovell…Of course I do remember you. Ward to my cousin of Warwick and companion to my brother of Gloucester, as I recall.”
His words bore evidence to an uncannily accurate memory. His tone was friendly. But his eyes were opaque, sealed all secrets in a sea of clearest blue. Francis glanced over at Warwick, who was being greeted by his wife and daughter, and then back at Edward. He is far more clever than Warwick, he thought suddenly, and for the first time since word of Olney reached Middleham, Francis was no longer so fearful for what the future might hold.
Prisoner or not, Edward was well able to take care of himself, Francis decided, and gave the Yorkist King a smile of such unguarded admiration that Edward paused, let his eyes linger on Francis in sudden appraisal.
Much to Francis’s secret amusement, Edward greeted Warwick’s wife with such warmth that she was visibly flustered, pulled back from his embrace with an abruptness that bordered on rudeness. Edward, appearing oblivious of the unsettling effect he’d had on the mother, now turned toward the daughter, Nan’s namesake.
Anne was in the shadows, came forward reluctantly to drop a stiff curtsy before him. He caught her by the elbows, raising her to her feet and drawing her toward him. Tilting her chin up, he stared into her face with an interest that was unfeigned.
Francis, who knew Anne’s face as well as his own, found himself studying her with Edward’s unfamiliar eyes. Isabel would always overshadow the fragile Anne. But Francis noted now the translucent skin without flaw, the wide-set dark eyes, a warm deep brown flecked with gold. He saw that there was a bright lustrous shimmer to her hair; it had darkened considerably since childhood and was an intriguingly elusive color, shaded under changing light from a sun-streaked chestnut to a burnished russet-gold. Saw, as if for the first time, that her full lower lip gave her mouth a provocative pout, in unexpected and arresting contrast to the finely drawn cheekbones and narrow straight nose, and thought, in some surprise, Why, she’s quite pretty!
It was a startling revelation to Francis, for until tonight, he’d always viewed Anne with the same af
fectionate unseeing eyes that he turned upon his own sisters. His sudden appreciation went no further than that, however; he was well aware that Anne’s heart had been given long ago. He did find himself thinking, though, for the first time in many months, of Anna, his wife, who was Anne’s age but far more of a stranger to him than Anne could ever be. Had she, too, been flowering toward womanhood? he wondered, suddenly curious.
So caught up was he in these novel speculations that he missed the murmured exchange between Anne and Edward. Edward’s comment, rather—for Anne had said nothing. She backed away, bumped into Francis, and he saw her skin was burning with hot color.
“Whatever did he say to you, Anne?” he whispered.
She hesitated and then said in a very low voice, so that he had to strain to catch her words, “He said…he said, ‘So, you’re Dickon’s Anne.’ ”
In mid-September, George and Isabel rode with an impressive entourage into Middleham Castle, and villagers long accustomed to the magnificent pageantry that seemed always to surround their lord of Warwick were, nonetheless, dazzled by the elaborately staged arrival of the Duke of Clarence and his Duchess.
It was only then that Edward learned the scheduled parliament had suddenly and without explanation been canceled. Learned, too, that he’d been right in his suspicions as to Warwick’s true intent.
It was Isabel Neville who unwittingly confirmed his fears—Isabel, who avoided his company whenever possible, who seemed acutely uncomfortable in his presence. He had no trouble guessing why. Isabel knew what her husband and father were planning, to crown George in his stead, and she did not know how to treat the man they meant to dethrone…or worse. He’d amused himself by teasing her at first, but soon saw she was genuinely distressed and, after that, took pity on her, made no further attempts to seek out her company.
He continued to feign nonchalance, was so gallantly attentive to Nan that she finally began to thaw under his smiles and was soon acting as if he were, indeed, an honored guest and no more than that. He’d made a deliberate attempt to charm the unresponsive Anne, before realizing that, as with Isabel, the greatest kindness he could do her was to leave her alone.
The Sunne In Splendour: A Novel of Richard III Page 20
