The lids lifted, revealed that however fatigued was his body, Louis’ mind still pulsed with life. The eyes that met Philippe’s were bright, shone feverish with thought.
“It went well, did it not?” he murmured, and Philippe nodded.
Louis gestured toward a cushioned footstool, and Philippe sat beside his lord. He stretched his legs, scratched at the coarse grey wool—his was the dubious honor of dressing as Louis’ double for public ceremonies, in hopes of thus deflecting an assassin’s dagger—and prepared to dissect the day’s happenings.
“I did have a bad moment at supper, though,” Louis now confided wryly. “When Lord Howard did promise to urge his King to accept my invitation to come to Paris. Holy Mary forfend!”
Philippe grinned. It was a source of constant amusement and some wonder to him that a man as devious and intrigue-inclined as Louis could allow himself such indiscreet lapses. It was a standing joke of Louis’ that his tongue was a two-edged sword, and Philippe tended to agree with him. Such had surely been the case at Picquigny. So cordial had his meeting been with Edward that Louis had jested amiably that Edward ought to come to Paris. French women were surpassingly beautiful, he’d laughed, and, as proof of friendship, he was willing to offer Edward a confessor who’d lay light penances for pleasurable sins. Much to Louis’ chagrin, Edward had taken a dangerous degree of interest in his pleasantry, until Louis had begun to fear that an invitation offered in jest would be accepted in earnest.
Louis now shook his head, said, “He’s a very handsome King, that one, and he does like pretty women overly well. He might find himself a Parisian bedmate so seductive that he’d be eager to come back, and I’d much prefer to keep him where he does belong, on his own side of the Channel!”
He sipped his wine, said regretfully, “A pity I could not win him away from his alliance with Brittany. But Burgundy…ah, Burgundy be another matter. We need not fear a second alliance of England and Burgundy united against France. The Blessed Virgin has once more favored us against our enemies, set them in disarray.”
“God’s truth, Your Grace. What I wouldn’t have given to be there when Charles confronted Edward at St-Christ-sur-Somme!” The story of that embittered encounter had been repeated so often that Philippe could have recited it by heart, but he knew his King derived fresh pleasure from each telling, and so he indulged Louis now by saying, “I understand Charles didn’t even bother to dismount, that he reined in before Edward’s tent and demanded that Edward come out to him, shouting his insults and abuse all the while in English so Edward’s soldiers’d be sure to understand. Truly a sight to gladden French eyes, my liege. Charles stuttering with rage, red as a radish, cursing the English King in language vile enough to make a whore blush, calling him Judas and Hell-spawn and coward. And Edward shouting back at him, matching him insult for insult, and all before half the English army…a good many of whom, I suspect, think Charles had the right of it.”
Louis’ dark eyes had kindled. “Indeed, God is good,” he agreed, and Philippe smiled, watched him with admiration that was unfeigned; Louis the grey monk—stooped, ugly, and no longer young—Louis the Spider King, the victor.
Louis glanced obliquely now at Philippe, said in faint reproach, “You did lead me somewhat astray, Philippe, in what you did tell me of the English King. I found him to be verily as clever as you said, to be a man who sees what he wants, takes it and cares little for the risks. But I think, too, that he does greatly like his ease, that his pleasures do count for much with him. And that, my friend, you did not tell me.”
“My Liege, when I met him four years ago at Aire, I think the pleasures did count for less.”
Louis reflected upon that, and then nodded. “There be men,” he observed thoughtfully, “who do thrive upon adversities that would break a lesser spirit. And yet these same men can find prosperity more ruinous than ever they did hardship. It may be that our Yorkist friend be one such. I do most devoutly hope so, for I tell you no lie, Philippe, when I say that I’ve feared this man, feared him for more years than I do care to remember. He does know war all too well, has never been defeated on the field—”
“Until now, Your Grace,” Philippe interjected, and Louis laughed soundlessly.
“But I fear him no longer, my friend. I see now how powerful an ally I do have on my side: time. If he had not the stomach for a hard campaign at thirty-three, how much less will it be so at thirty-eight, at forty!
“But the other, the young brother…. That one, Philippe, is very much an enemy of France, and we must ever keep that in mind.”
Philippe nodded. That had been his King’s only failure. He’d had no luck whatsoever in conciliating the Duke of Gloucester. And he’d tried, had gone to considerable lengths to do so.
Louis had dismissed the Duke of Clarence as a malcontent not worth bothering with. Edward, he said, liked Clarence little and trusted him less. But Gloucester…Gloucester was different, and he’d told Edward that nothing could please him more than for Gloucester to sup with him in Amiens that evening.
Gloucester had come, but it soon became all too apparent that this was to be the only concession they’d get from him. Louis had done his best to charm, and Louis’ charm could be formidable when he did put his mind to it. Remembering, Philippe shook his head ruefully. His King had been dipping his bucket in a dry well this time. Gloucester was there because he’d been summoned by a King, and he was polite because courtesy did demand as much, but beyond that, he’d not go. He’d shrugged off the French King’s flattery, responded to Louis’ avowals of friendship with the most noncommittal of amenities, and when Louis insisted that he accept several finely bred stallions as proof of French goodwill, all Louis had gotten for his generosity was a chill, “As Your Grace does insist, I do thank you.” No, Louis was right; Gloucester was a dangerous man, was no friend to France. They’d do well to remember that.
“More wine, my liege?” he queried, and Louis nodded, began to laugh.
“It does occur to me,” he said, “that I have chased the English out of France more easily that ever my father did; for my father had to resort to force of arms and I had to resort to nothing more lethal than venison pies and good wines!”
7
Middleham
July 1476
Anne was writing to Véronique. It had been nearly two months since Véronique had departed Middleham for London, and Anne was growing impatient for her return. She was willing to admit to herself that she’d not much liked this London visit of Véronique’s. She knew all too well that Véronique had gone to London for one reason and one reason only, to be with Francis.
Anne did not approve of Véronique’s liaison with Francis. She worried that her friend was imperiling her soul by the sin of adultery and fretted that she might pay the earthly penance of pregnancy. Not being able to accept the relationship, Anne chose to ignore it. Now she was careful to make no mention of what she suspected, that Francis had leased a house in London for Véronique. She wrote, instead, of a disturbing rumor recently come to her ears, that there’d been an outbreak of smallpox in London, and expressed concern both for Véronique’s health and for the risks she might therefore be incurring by a prolonged stay.
Richard did depart for Pontefract this Monday last. There the bodies of his lord father and his brother Edmund are to be disinterred and Richard to escort the funeral cortege south to Fotheringhay. Upon arrival at Fotheringhay, their bodies are to be laid to rest within the Church of the Blessed Virgin and All Saints.
I’m sure it does not surprise you in the least that I did not accompany Richard. Now that I am breeding again at last, I intend to take no chances with this babe I carry.
Nor will my sister Isabel be present at Fotheringhay, and for the same reason as mine. I wish I could take more pleasure in her news that she is again with child, but she’s far from well, Véronique, has been afflicted by a lingering cough and intermittent fevers for months.
I do have news now of a doleful natur
e to impart. I’ve had word that my uncle, the Archbishop of York, did go to God on June 8th. I can speak freely with you, dearest, and say without fear of censure that I bore him little love. But he was my blood-kin, and I be thankful that Richard was able to secure his release from prison. The Chaplain of his household did write me that he repented much, and made a pious Christian end. Holy Jesus, may it be so.
Anne’s pen faltered, traced hesitant patterns across the page. Twice death had touched their family in this year of grace, for Richard’s sister Anne, Duchess of Exeter, had died suddenly that past January. But she was not thinking now of the sister-in-law she’d not known or the uncle she’d not loved. She was thinking of the death that December past of Nell Percy, Rob’s young wife. Nell had labored for two days in great pain before giving birth to a stillborn daughter. The dreaded milk fever had followed, and Nell herself was dead before the week was out.
Resolutely, she put Nell from her thoughts with a whispered, “May God assoil her.” Putting her pen to paper again, she wrote:
I am very pleased to be able to tell you that Richard did successfully intercede with the King on behalf of the city of York. I needn’t remind you how wroth Ned was at the time of that rising here in Yorkshire this spring. It was, after all, serious enough to warrant sending Richard and the Earl of Northumberland into York with a force of five thousand men. I wasn’t surprised when Ned then threatened to strip the city of its charter; he’s never had much liking for York. The Mayor and aldermen pleaded with Richard to speak for their city, and he was able to persuade Ned not to carry out his threat.
There have been no further disturbances, nor do I expect any. However much the people do hate the French treaty, they’ve no choice but to accept it. I confess to you, Véronique, that what mattered most to me was that they should come home safe and well. But I am proud, too, that Richard has won for himself such acclaim for his refusal to treat with the French. Loving these northern moors as he does, it means much to Richard that he has been accepted so wholeheartedly by our Yorkshiremen as their liege lord, that they do look to Richard now where once they did look to the Earl of Northumberland.
Since you departed for London, Richard’s little daughter Kathryn has come to stay—for several weeks, mayhap the entire summer. Now that she’s wed, Kathryn’s mother seems more willing to entrust Kathryn to us for longer periods of time. As you’d expect, Richard is delighted to have her. Nor do I mind. She’s a high-spirited pretty child, if a trifle spoiled. I will confess, however, that my heart does warm to Kathryn more easily now that her mother has given to another the love she once did give to Richard!
She hesitated, before concluding with the truth.
Don’t tarry overlong in London, Véronique. I am not as easy in my mind about this baby as I would wish. I did suffer some bleeding a fortnight ago, and while it hasn’t recurred, I cannot forget that I did lose my last two.
It had rained that morning and the air was heavy with humid August heat, the ground oozing mud that no child could long resist. Jerking Lucy, one of John Neville’s daughters, away from a particularly tempting puddle, Mistress Burgh did not at once notice what her other charges were up to, turned around just in time to see Johnny and Kathryn lift their little brother Ned up onto the back of a huge greying wolfhound. Mistress Burgh was annoyed but not alarmed; Gareth had long ago proved that with small children, his patience did verge upon the saintly.
At that moment, though, the stable dogs began to bark and men up on the walls to shout.
“Papa’s coming!” Releasing his hold upon Gareth’s collar, Johnny sprinted for the gateway.
By now, Gareth had scented his master among the riders galloping through the village. The big dog lurched forward eagerly, sent Ned sprawling into the mud. The little boy gasped, but so urgent was his need to see his father that he deferred protest until a more convenient time, picked himself up without complaint, and ran after Johnny.
At sight of his children, Richard reined in abruptly. By the time he swung down from the saddle, all three were clamoring for his attention. Kathryn and Johnny gave him the usual quick hugs and wet kisses, but Ned clung like a cocklebur, buried his face in Richard’s neck, sought handholds in Richard’s hair.
Richard made no attempt to disentangle himself, shifted his grip and rose to his feet with the child securely within his arms. Some of Ned’s urgency seemed to have eased. Silky brown hair tumbled untidily across his forehead; there was a muddy smear across one cheek, another on his nose. He seemed all eyes to Richard, eyes that were soft and round and bewildered.
“Mama’s sick,” he said solemnly.
Richard’s bedchamber was shuttered, admitted neither light nor cheer. He signaled, and behind him, a torch flared into life. Anne didn’t stir as he approached the bed. Long, loose hair trailed limply over a bared shoulder, uncombed, dulled to a lifeless brittle brown. Her face was pinched and bloodless, as white as the sheets upon which she lay; her eyes were closed, but the lids looked bruised, inflamed. One hand held a crumpled handkerchief, the other clutched the sheet, clenched into a small fist. She looked lost in the vastness of their bed, huddled and still under the weight of silken summer coverlets.
Richard sat down carefully on the edge of the bed. As he did, her lashes lifted.
“Beloved, I’m sorry,” he said softly. He leaned over to touch his lips to her forehead and was taken aback when she turned her face away.
“Anne, be you angry with me? Because I wasn’t with you? Sweetheart, I did come as soon as Nan’s message reached me….”
She shook her head swiftly, vehemently. Her face was pressed into the pillow, and her voice so muffled, so indistinct that he had to strain to catch her words.
“Forgive? Forgive what, Anne? I don’t understand.”
“Forgive me….” The way her shoulders hunched forward told him that she wept. “I did fail you.”
“Anne, that’s not so!”
“It be a wife’s duty to give her husband children. You have the right to expect that of me. But I cannot, Richard…I cannot….”
Richard opened his mouth to reassure her that there’d be other babies, to remind her that she was only twenty and he not yet twenty-four, that many women did suffer miscarriages only later to bear healthy children. Instead he heard himself say, “There is something I would have you know, Anne. When you did tell me this spring that you were with child again, I found I could take little joy in it.”
She rolled over, regarded him with wide, uncertain eyes. “Richard, why? You do want more children; I know you do!”
“Yes, children be important to me. But there is something I do value far more. Your life, Anne. I could think only of Nell Percy, could think of nothing but Nell and how bad a time you did have when Ned was born.”
For the first time she truly looked at him, saw the evidence of several days’ hard riding. So hastily had he come from Fotheringhay that he’d not even taken time to shave; his face was rough with stubbly growth, exhaustion etched in the rigid muscles around his mouth, smudged in the hollows that formed deep, discolored crescents under his eyes.
She raised herself up on her elbows, and when he put an arm around her waist, drew her gently to him, she clung no less urgently than their little boy had done. He felt hot tears on her face, wiped them away with his fingers.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered and he kissed the wet lashes, the swollen eyelids.
“Hush,” he said. “Hush.”
8
York
January 1477
Anne and Richard customarily came to York for Christmas, Easter, and the spring festival of Corpus Christi. This year they passed through Micklegate Bar well past dark on the evening of January 2; despite the hour, Lord Mayor Wrangwysh and the city aldermen were gathered in the snow to give them welcome. From there, they’d been escorted down Micklegate Street, across Ouse Bridge and into Conyng Street, until they reached the Augustine friary where Richard liked to stay when in York. They were
expected; torches and fire pans lit the dark, and the Prior waited at the gateway so that he might himself be the one to usher them within.
Shortly after noon the next day, Anne had her grey mare brought from the stables. Under her supervision, packhorses were loaded with blankets, grain sacks, and other goods to be distributed among the city’s sixteen hospitals. She chose to ride herself to nearby St Leonard’s Hospital, where the poor congregated daily for bread and pottage. To feed the hungry was one of the Seven Acts of Mercy, was what was expected of her as a Christian and the lady of Middleham; but Anne, who’d learned at fourteen that the loss of hope was the cruelest loss of all, enjoyed taking a more active part in her almsgiving. She spent a pleasant hour at the hospital orphanage, where she delighted the children with jars of honey and apple butter and the monks with offerings of bread, eggs, and salted fish.
A light feathery snow was dusting Anne’s cloak and skirts by the time she returned to the friary. She wasn’t surprised to learn that Richard was still meeting with the Lord Mayor; as Thomas Wrangwysh was a friend, it was to be expected that his courtesy call would be a lengthy one. But she was disappointed, nonetheless, to find Richard not yet free, for she and Richard had quarreled the day before and, as yet, they’d had no time alone to dispel the tension that had so suddenly sprung up between them.
Anne hated to quarrel with Richard. Their infrequent arguments usually ended with her being the one to yield, in part because she’d been taught that a wife did owe obedience to her husband and in part because she was of a more placid temperament than Richard. Yesterday’s quarrel had ostensibly been about a small matter, whether Johnny should be allowed to ride his own pony on the journey to York or whether he should travel in a horse litter like Ned. Although Johnny begged to ride the pony, Anne thought him to be too young, and here it would have ended had Richard not overheard and given Johnny the permission she’d refused.
The Sunne In Splendour: A Novel of Richard III Page 74
