“As you explain it, Ned, it makes much sense,” Richard conceded. But as he stared down at the wavering bath water, it was not his own reflection that stared back at him; it was the face of his cousin, as he’d last seen him in the courtyard of the priory, tense and drawn and unhappy.
“Johnny said nothing to me about this, Ned,” he said, choosing his words with uncharacteristic care. “I’ve been speaking for myself, not for him. It was only…only that he did seem so careworn this afternoon, like a man with one wound too many.”
“I don’t wonder at that, Dickon,” Edward said, and his voice was suddenly flat. “You see, I did order the arrest of the Archbishop of York this morning.”
Richard nodded. “Poor Johnny,” he said softly. He had only to think of George to understand all too well how Johnny must be feeling. He was suddenly cold, hadn’t realized the bath water had been cooling. He didn’t bother to call for more hot water; somehow, it didn’t seem to be worth the effort. He signaled, instead, for a towel.
“Ned, have you any word on the whereabouts of Warwick’s wife, his girls? Are they still at Warwick Castle?”
“I don’t know. There were rumors that Isabel has been in Exeter for the past fortnight, but whether that be true or not…” Edward shrugged.
For the first time, Richard realized that if Warwick and George fled England, they might mean to take their wives with them. And Anne. So disquieting a thought was it that he found reasons to reject it almost at once, and shook his head incredulously.
“Surely they don’t mean to take the women? My God, Ned, Bella’s babe is due this month!”
Edward didn’t answer. Richard wasn’t surprised. What, after all, was there to say?
Word was slow to trickle north, and it was on an evening in late May some weeks later that Francis reached for a quill pen and, with deliberation, made the following entry in his journal:
Done at Middleham on this the day before Ascension, in the year of Our Lord 1470, tenth year of the reign of King Edward.
The Earl of Warwick reached Exeter on the Devonshire coast on April 10th and took ship that same day for France. After a perilous Channel crossing, he was turned away from Calais by his erstwhile ally, Lord Wenlock. He then sought sanctuary at Honfleur in Normandy and was warmly welcomed by the French King. No more is known at present, either as to his whereabouts or his plans. But this I do know, that my lord of Warwick is not a man to tamely accept an exile’s lot.
15
York
August 1470
During the last week of July, Edward had word of an uprising in Yorkshire, instigated by Lord Fitz-Hugh, ally and brother-in-law of the exiled Earl of Warwick. Edward wasted little time in gathering a force and, with Will Hastings, rode north to rendezvous at York with Richard, who had spent the summer recruiting soldiers in the western midlands.
But by the time Edward reached the ancient market town of Ripon, the rebellion was over. Fitz-Hugh fled across the border into Scotland; his accomplices hastily offered submission to the Yorkist King. Edward returned triumphant to York and there set about restoring order in this, the most troubled and troublesome region of his realm.
The news of Lord Fitz-Hugh’s abortive rebellion brought dismay to the beautiful valley of the Windrush, some 185 miles to the south, scenic setting for Minster Lovell Hall. Francis was appalled; Lord Fitz-Hugh was his father-in-law. He was not long in receiving a hysterical letter from Anna, imploring him to intervene with the King on her father’s behalf.
Francis needed no such urgings. He did not want Anna to suffer for her father’s folly. Still less did he want Fitz-Hugh’s treachery to cast a shadow upon the Lovells. For treason he knew to be the most contagious of afflictions and innocence no guarantee of immunity.
Francis mulled over Anna’s letter and dawn the next day found him on the Ermine Way that led north, toward York. Though not yet seventeen, he was acutely aware of his family obligations. His mother had been dead for four years now, after a brief and ill-considered second marriage to Sir William Stanley, younger brother of Thomas, Lord Stanley. His sisters had only what protection he could provide, and he was determined that they’d not be tainted in any way by their unwilling association with Anna’s foolhardy family.
He was spurred on by apprehension, and by Monday, August 27, he was in sight of the white limestone city walls of York. There he was welcomed with enthusiasm by Richard and with flattering friendliness by the King. Almost at once, he blurted out the reason for his mission, and Richard listened in astonishment and Edward in amusement as he solemnly assured them that Lovell loyalty was pledged unwaveringly to York, for now and for all time to come.
At that, Edward laughed and said he demanded no avowal of loyalty that extended beyond the length of a man’s lifetime, and Richard interrupted to ask how Francis could ever imagine his loyalty might be doubted. Francis, happily submitting to the banter of the one and the reproaches of the other, knew that he would never have such fears for his family again. His future was inextricably entwined with that of the House of York, and he was more than willing to have it so.
He saw disappointingly little of Richard in the days that followed, for his friend was heading a commission of oyer and terminar in York and his hours, from dawn till well past dusk, were taken up with the duties of this latest responsibility. On the third night following his arrival, Richard at last managed to make time for pleasure, and the two boys ventured forth to sample the more disreputable delights York had to offer.
Francis wanted to sup in one of the inns on Conyng Street, but Richard was seeking an escape into anonymity, and he prevailed. They purchased baked lamprey pies at a cookshop close by the Augustine friary where Richard was lodged, gagged at the sour-tasting wine they bought to wash down the fish, and wandered into first one and then another of the shabby alehouses that stood riverside, only to encounter recognition for Richard in even the seediest such tavern.
Much to Francis’s amusement, the only ones who failed to recognize Richard that night were the Watch, who promptly halted them for hostile questioning, it being an hour when all decent men were settled by their own hearths. But before they could respond to their interrogators, a third man was hurrying toward them, shoving his irked colleagues aside for a whispered conference in which Francis clearly caught one word, repeated and then echoed with growing dismay, the name Gloucester, and suddenly they were free to continue on their way, with apologies profusely scattered about the street in their path.
At that, Richard conceded defeat and less than half an hour after St Michael’s rang curfew, they turned down Conyng Street and back toward the friary that stretched from Ald-Conyng Street to the river. Their progress was slow, for York had no ordinance requiring street lighting as did London, and the only light came from a silvered crescent moon and the lamp that hung in the octagonal lantern tower of All Hallows Church. But Francis suspected that Richard’s leisurely pace was due to more than the dark, that his friend was reluctant to take up the adult responsibilities awaiting him upon his return to the friary.
As late as it was, there were people still waiting at the Prior’s lodging, hoping for an audience, however brief, with Richard. Richard had been compelled to spare some minutes for Robert Anmas, a city sheriff who was bearing a message from Lord Mayor Holbeck, but the others, he said firmly, would have to return on the morrow.
Francis, hovering in the background, had soon grown bored and slipped away to await Richard in the chamber that had been set aside for the latter’s use while in York.
The room was orderly, austere even, bearing few traces of the personality of the current occupant. Francis had expected as much, knowing that Richard, of necessity, had long ago learned to travel light. A long trestle table was littered with books, papers, quill pens, a silver inkwell, candles, and a large map of the Scots border region, which was splattered with wax and covered with cryptic scrawls that meant nothing to Francis. A stack of papers was piled neatly in one corner, awaiting R
ichard’s signature; others, already signed, were ready for dispatch. Francis glanced briefly at the slanting “R. Gloucestre” on the top letter, noting with interest that it was addressed to John Neville, Marquess of Montagu.
Restlessly, he scanned the titles of the books strategically positioned to anchor the map: Treatise on War, a Book of Hours, The Art of Falconry. As he leaned over the table, he felt a sudden pressure against the back of his knee, and he reached down to acknowledge the presence of an enormous black wolfhound. The big dog accepted his caress gravely, to Francis’s amusement, much as one equal to another, and lay down at his feet as he sat on the bed.
A coffer-chest had been positioned, for convenience, by the bed, and served as a resting place for a large wax candle and a book bound in Moroccan leather. Curious, Francis picked it up. Glancing at the title, he was not surprised to see it was a historical treatise, Froissart’s Chronicles, for Richard had a disciplined, practical turn of mind, but he was surprised to see it appeared to be well read. He wondered where Dickon ever found the time.
He began to flip idly through the pages, paused at the inscription on the frontispiece and saw then that the book had been borrowed from John Neville. He was not surprised at this proof of intimacy, knew how deeply Richard cared for the Neville brother who’d stayed loyal to Edward. He found himself wondering when Dickon had seen Johnny last. He wondered, too, and with much pity, what it would be like to be awaiting an invasion of French troops, an army led by one’s own brother. He closed the book, thinking he’d not have changed places with Johnny Neville for half the gold in Christendom. Or with Dickon, either. There were times when he almost forgot that Dickon, too, had a brother in French exile.
As he replaced the book on the coffer, a creased paper fell from the pages, fluttered to the floor at his feet. Retrieving it, he saw that it was a letter, unfinished and apparently forgotten, for it was dated, in Richard’s own hand, more than a fortnight ago. Francis needed to look no further than the salutation, “My sweet Kate,” to understand why Richard had chosen not to dictate this particular letter to his scribe.
Francis liked to think he was Richard’s most intimate friend, yet he knew little or nothing of Richard’s liaisons. Unlike Edward, who troubled not at all to conceal his numerous infidelities, denying neither his paramours nor the bastard-born issue of his philanderings, Richard was discreet in the extreme, displaying a reticence unexpected in a Plantagenet Prince.
Francis was aware there had been a prolonged involvement with a girl whose name he knew only as Kathryn, an attachment that had been formed shortly after Richard’s sixteenth birthday and endured into the present. But he knew no more than that, and that only because she had borne Richard a child this past spring, a daughter he’d openly acknowledged, named Kathryn after her mysterious mother.
Francis had no doubts that she was the “sweet Kate” of Richard’s letter, and he was sorely tempted to read further. He wavered, but Richard’s formidable wolfhound was regarding him trustingly, and he reluctantly replaced the letter in the book—thus sparing himself considerable embarrassment, for Richard returned within moments of his triumph of conscience over curiosity.
Watching as his friend thumbed rapidly through the waiting correspondence, Francis thought, Little wonder Dickon looks wary now even when he laughs. Lord High Constable of England, Chief Justice of North Wales, Chief Steward, Approver and Surveyor of all Wales, Chief Justice and Chamberlain of South Wales…and now the wardenship of the West Marches toward Scotland, too, and not one an empty title, but offices heavy with authority and obligations. I’d not want to answer for the lives of other men; not at seventeen, by God’s Grace.
“This one letter cannot wait, Francis. I want it to be in the hands of my cousin, Johnny Neville, with no undue delay.”
While Richard gave instructions to his chosen courier, Francis played with the dog, waiting till they were alone to satisfy his curiosity about a matter he’d been puzzling over since first hearing that Edward was going north to quell Fitz-Hugh’s rising.
“Dickon, why did His Grace the King feel the need to come himself into Yorkshire? Why was not the rebellion put down by the Earl of Northumberland?”
Richard shrugged. “Northumberland did send word that the rebel forces far surpassed his own,” he said, in the neutral tones he used whenever he was making a conscious effort to be fair, to pass no judgments. But the fact that he felt the need to make such an effort was, in itself, a judgment of sorts, and Francis knew him well enough to comprehend that.
“It wasn’t much of a rebellion as I see it,” he scoffed. “They fled from the King’s Grace like so many spooked horses! If Northumberland had only bestirred himself, he’d have seen what a puny threat was posed.”
“Northumberland tends to err on the side of caution, I think. He puts me in mind, Francis, of a treed cat that’s unwilling to leave its perch till it be sure what lies below.” Richard shrugged again, said without conviction, “But it’s been less than a twelvemonth since he was freed from the Tower. He may just need time…”
He didn’t bother completing the sentence; nor did Francis bother to prod him further. His real curiosity lay not with Northumberland, but with the man who’d once held that title, and now he said pensively, “What of Johnny Neville, Dickon? He, too, was in a position to move against Fitz-Hugh. Why did he not do so?”
Richard was silent for a time. “I don’t know,” he admitted at last. “My brother appointed Johnny to a commission of oyer and terminar for Lincolnshire in July and I did see him briefly then, while I was in Lincoln. He went north again after that, and we’ve had no word from him since.”
Francis, who was quite fond of John Neville, now cautiously ventured to probe what he saw to be a sensitive subject. “Dickon, how did he take it when the King gave the earldom of Northumberland back to Percy?”
Richard rose, moved to the table. With his back still to Francis, he said in a low voice, “In restoring the earldom of Northumberland to Percy, my brother sought to placate the North. He’s not forgotten the violence here in York last year…. What began as a protest against paying tithe for St Leonard’s Hospital ended with a mob stoning the city Watch while shouting for Percy.
“If that could happen in York, Francis, where they like the Nevilles well…No, I do understand my brother the King’s reasons. Moreover, I do trust Johnny Neville as much as any man in Christendom.” He hesitated, turning back to face Francis, and then concluded in a rush, “But I would to God he had not done it, Francis. I would to God he had not.”
Francis wished now that he hadn’t asked, decided a new topic of conversation was in order. “I want to purchase a mare while I’m here for my sister Joan. I did promise I’d bring her back a fine Yorkshire filly.”
“We could ride out to Jervaulx Abbey to see their stock. Since that’s a good day’s ride, I’d not be able to get away till Monday next, but if you’re willing to wait, Francis, you’ll not find a better horse anywhere than one of theirs. They breed the best in Wensleydale.”
The idea of such an outing appealed greatly to Francis. “And Middleham’s not four miles further up the road,” he said enthusiastically. “It’s been forfeit to the King, has it not? So we could spend the night there rather than with the monks.”
He saw at once that it’d been a mistake to mention Middleham, saw Richard’s eyes darken so that he could not be sure if they were blue or grey, could be sure only of sudden shadowed pain. And then it was gone, and Richard was smiling, said lightly, “Who knows, you might even find a filly at Jervaulx that you’d like to give to Anna!”
Francis had been about to bring up the name he’d not heard Richard speak since Warwick’s flight to France, the name of the fourteen-year-old girl who’d been dragged into exile with him. He was distracted now by Richard’s jibe, and the name that passed his lips was that of Anna Fitz-Hugh rather than Anne Neville.
“It’s been decided that Anna is to come to live with me at Minster Lovell next
year, once she’s past her fifteenth birthday. It’s a queer feeling, Dickon, to have a wife I hardly know…. We’ve nothing to say to each other, nothing at all.”
The door opened suddenly and they both turned, expecting to see Thomas Parr, Richard’s squire, or perhaps one of the black-clad Augustine friars. The man before them was unfamiliar, wore the blue and murrey of York.
“My lord of Gloucester…Begging Your Grace’s pardon, but the Hospitaller did bid me come direct to you when I told him I came from His Grace, the King. My lord, it is the wish of the King’s Grace that you do attend upon him at once. He awaits you now at the friary of the Franciscans.”
Richard said nothing, merely nodded. The man withdrew and Thomas came in, hard on his heels. He wasted no time, said tersely, “I’ve given orders to saddle your horse, my lord.”
“Dickon…I’ll wait for you. If that be all right?”
Richard turned toward Francis, nodded again, but Francis did not think he truly heard him. Richard had paled noticeably. His mouth was suddenly taut, as if bracing for news he already knew to be bad. Before Francis could repeat his question, Richard was gone and he was alone in the quiet chamber. He sat down on the narrow bed and tried to convince himself that the King might summon Richard at such an hour for mundane matters, for other than catastrophe.
“Come in, Dickon. I’ve news to share. It seems the most Christian country of France has been given to witness a miracle…. And I daresay we’ll soon be told the blind did see and the lame leapt like deer.”
“I can think of few places less likely to be so blessed than France,” Richard said uncertainly, for there was a bright hard glaze to his brother’s eyes and the mockery rang false. “What has happened, Ned?”
“The cat is among the pigeons for true, Little Brother. A message has arrived from Westminster, from Lisbet. Meg has sent word from Burgundy…Warwick has come to terms with the French harlot.”
The Sunne In Splendour: A Novel of Richard III Page 26
