B008257PJY EBOK

by Worth, Sandra

  Richard clapped a hand on Francis’ shoulder and gave Anne a smile. “See, what did I tell you, Anne? I was right from the first; he’s a troubadour at heart.”

  A troubadour who sang of love, and knew none in his own life, Anne thought, her gentle glance touching for an instant on Francis’ club foot. No children, no true wife. No one to embrace him when he came home. Anne released the rose she held. Its petals dropped away, baring its empty yellow heart. With an elusive, undefined regret, she entered Francis’ lovely manor home.

  They made themselves comfortable in their chamber, a spacious room adjoining the chapel, lit by traceried windows along one wall and a deep oriel that opened on the view of the river. Richard began sorting through the day’s business with Kendall. Anne settled into a chair with her embroidery, and young Edward came to sit by her skirts to play with his new puppy, Gawain. Servants moved quietly about the room bringing bowls of fruit and nuts and offering sweet wines to the lords who had divided themselves into groups. The hum of their manly conversation was punctuated with bursts of laughter, almost drowning out the soft notes of the lyre plucked by the minstrel in the corner.

  “—Brittany won’t give Tudor up,” said the newcomer to the royal circle, Richard Ratcliffe, a Neville kinsman by marriage whom Richard had made an intimate. Not only had Ratcliffe proved his loyalty during the difficult early days in London when the Woodville queen had tried to seize power, but he had turned out to be a man of rare intellect as well as honour. Richard was drawn to him both for advice and friendship.

  “Brittany’s had Tudor since the Battle of Tewkesbury and wouldn’t let King Edward have him, so what’s changed?” Ratcliffe continued with a guarded glance at Stanley, conversing with one of his own henchmen across the room. Mindful that Stanley’s wife was Henry Tudor’s mother, he lowered his voice. “Tudor’s a valuable pawn. France wants him, England wants him, and Brittany has him. I wager Brittany will keep him.”

  Richard’s twenty-year-old nephew Jack grinned. “How much?” he demanded, startling Ratcliffe, who had no idea what he meant.

  “How much will you wager, Dick? I’m good for a gold noble—” He took one from his purse and slapped it on the table. The royal nephew Jack, Earl of Lincoln, had grown from a merry child into an apple-cheeked lad with dark curls too unruly for his own liking, and a quick smile that had endeared him to all the household. A descendant of Geoffrey Chaucer, he was no man of letters; his zest was for the wager.

  Ratcliffe laughed. “That’s too rich for my blood, Jack. How about something more modest—a few groats, maybe? I fear the harvest won’t be so good this year. Anyway, Tudor’s not worth a full noble.”

  Hoofs sounded on the gravel path below. Jack jumped up to look out the window. “A messenger from Westminster! Good news, or bad; anyone willing to bet?” This elicited only laughter from the others.

  Anne put down her embroidery and watched as the messenger entered and delivered the letter to Richard.

  “It’s from King Louis…” Richard cut the seal with his dagger, bent his head to read, and looked up with fury. “The devil take him!” he cursed.

  “What is it, my lord?” demanded Anne.

  “How dare he insult me!”

  The messenger paled. He had not been privy to its contents, and he hesitated a moment, debating whether to respond. “Sire,” he finally offered, “‘King Louis is dying. He is sinking fast and may already be dead. He may not have been in his right mind when he wrote the missive.”

  “If he’s dead, he’s no loss to anyone but his dogs!”

  Under different circumstances, Anne would have smiled. Louis’ affection for his retinue of dogs, who were said to be closer to him than his courtiers, had made him the butt of many a jest. She went to Richard’s side and read over his shoulder. Louis’ letter was offensively brief and veered from custom in addressing Richard merely as “Cousin” instead of “Brother England” or “Most High and Mighty Prince,” the language of kings. Clearly he had never forgiven him for refusing his bribe in Amiens years earlier when Edward had invaded France and, against Richard’s objections, was paid off by Louis to leave without a fight.

  Richard crumpled the letter and hurled it against the wall. It landed at Francis’ feet. Francis picked it up and smoothed the parchment. Everyone except Stanley gathered around to read.

  “How dare he—the damnable black Spider!” Richard spat, using the French king’s grotesque nickname.

  This time there was no doubt in the messenger’s mind that no answer was to be made. Richard strode to the writing desk, seized the pen, dipped it into the ink pot, and scribbled furiously. “If France doesn’t care about Anglo-French relations, neither does England. And if Louis doesn’t stop seizing English ships on the high seas in violation of our truce, I shall send a fleet against the French privateers. Two can play this game.”

  “And farewell to you, Monsieur mon cousin,” he added at the end, affixing his signature with a grand flourish. “Send this to Louis by a groom of my stable!” The messenger paled, retreated with a bow. Richard gave a grim laugh. “That should show Louis how he ranks with me, if he’s not in hell yet.”

  His lords smiled, but nervously, without mirth. Anne sank back in her chair, remembering Louis. She didn’t think that was wise of Richard, but he was direct and forthright by nature, unable to employ honied words with those he disliked, and what did she know about statecraft? Besides, Louis had no right to insult him. She picked up her embroidery and pushed the needle through.

  ~*~

  They rode to Gloucester through the peaceful hillsides dotted with woolly sheep. On their arrival at the Abbot’s lodging in St. Peter’s Abbey, Richard found another messenger waiting with a saddlebag of letters and state business from Westminster. He began wading through them with Kendall.

  The news was not as good as he might have wished. Already one plot to free King Edward’s bastard son, young Edward, from the Tower had been narrowly averted. Old Jack Howard, the friend he had come to love like an adopted father since John Neville’s death and whom he had left behind to help the council rule in his absence, had written of unrest and conspiracies in the southern counties aimed at abducting young Edward from the Tower. He believed the threat to be serious since there were many diehard Lancastrians about, along with malcontents in the pay of Henry Tudor and the French who would be only too happy to see Richard dethroned. There were also those who believed Richard had lied about the princes’ bastardy. Clearly, the Woodvilles were not without friends. The queen’s despicable son, the Marquess of Dorset, was still at large; her brother, Bishop Lionel, had escaped from Sanctuary; and her brother Edward Woodville had found safe harbour in Brittany.

  “Make a note to strengthen the guard around young Edward, Kendall,” said Richard. He picked up another letter from the pile. “Welladay, I’ll be damned,” he whistled through his teeth.

  Anne looked up from her casket where she had been sorting through her jewels, and Edward stopped rolling the ball to his new puppy, blue eyes wide. Stanley, standing apart in a corner of the room, put down his own mail. “What is it, Uncle?” demanded Jack abandoning the window seat where he’d lounged with Rob, Ratcliffe, and Scrope of Bolton.

  Richard slapped the letter in his hand. “I can scarce believe it. My royal Solicitor, Thomas Lynom, requests permission to wed Jane Shore!”

  Anne was too dumbfounded for words. Like everyone there, she stared in disbelief. Jane Shore had been King Edward’s whore and had taken up with the queen’s son, Dorset, immediately after Edward’s death. After aiding Dorset’s escape, she had wasted no time bedding another great lord and enlisting him in the treasonous plot hatched by the Woodville queen against Richard. That lord, William Hastings, King Edward’s bosom companion of many years, had invoked Richard’s fury and paid with his head for his treason.

  Scrope of Bolton was the first to speak. “How can a man in his position entertain such a ridiculous notion? The woman’s nothing but a harlot.”
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  “They say she’s very beautiful, and very kind,” Anne offered.

  “But a bawd, nevertheless,” said Richard with disgust. “I can’t understand it.”

  Ratcliffe said softly, “Love spares no one, not the aged, the infirm, nor even the dour. Tom Lynom is a lucky man to have found it, though I would wish, for his sake, that it hadn’t been with Dorset’s leavings.”

  From behind a pillar came a sudden whimpering. Huddling behind a chair, little Edward rubbed his eyes tearfully. Anne went to him, knelt down. She put her arms around him and laid her cheek against his fair curls. “What is it, my sweet? What ails you?”

  He clutched her neck. “D-do I h-have to go? P-p-please, Auntie, d-don’t m-m-make me… me go—”

  “Go where, my sweet? Where should you go?” His little arms clung to her so tightly they hurt, but she had not the heart to disengage them. The child’s stutter was never this pronounced. She knew it meant he was terribly distressed. “I p-promise to be g-g-good. D-don’t make me g-go…”

  “Tell me where that is,” coaxed Anne gently.

  “To D-d-dorset… M-marquess of D-d-dorset…”

  Anne looked up, met Richard’s eyes. They were stormy and a muscle twitched in his jaw. Ratcliffe’s innocent reference to Bess’ son had stirred the child’s deepest fears. “Damn him,” Richard muttered under his breath. “Damn him to hell!”

  But it was not Dorset Anne blamed. No one expected better from a Woodville. It was Richard’s brother King Edward. He had handed his own nephew to Dorset as his ward, so Dorset could profit from the boy’s rich holdings, plunder the boy’s lands, and fill his coffers. Such things happened when a child was left orphaned and heir to great estates with no one to protect him.

  No one to protect him, dear God, when his own uncle was King! The child had been delivered by his own royal uncle into the Woodville’s greedy hands to be milked, with no consideration of his welfare, only of their profit.

  “My sweet little one,” said Anne, stroking the child’s curls, “you must never think of the Marquess of Dorset again. He is gone now and those days are over. You are safe with us, and we who love you will never give you up.” She put her hand under his chin and made him meet her eyes. “Never, sweet nephew. Do you understand?” She drew her silk handkerchief from her sleeve and gently, very gently, dried his tears. Gathering him to her, she rocked him in her arms.

  ~*~

  The Benedictine monastery of St. Peter’s Abbey where Richard and Anne lodged in Gloucester was a quiet place, sheltered from the noise and bustle of the outside world by high, encircling walls. “If it were not for Ned, I should be sorry to leave tomorrow,” said Anne, reaching for Richard’s hand as they sat with Edward on the settle in the Abbot’s private gallery after reading a letter from Ned.

  A bustle at the door gave Richard no chance to answer.

  “Harry!” exclaimed Richard, rising. He embraced Buckingham. “Good to see you, cousin! Did you conclude your private business in London?”

  “Aye,” replied Buckingham, avoiding Richard’s eyes. “That went well—”

  Anne watched, the old feeling of dread stealing over her again. Buckingham seemed preoccupied and was flushed, as if he’d been drinking. He answered Richard’s questions and he bantered with him, but something was clearly wrong. His gaze kept shifting and he looked like a man living on the edge of highly strung nerves. “What’s the matter, Harry? You’re as jumpy as a gnat about to be swatted,” Richard said at last.

  “Nothing, Dickon, nothing—” Buckingham cleared his throat. “No. That’s not true. There is something.” He glanced at Anne and little Edward uncomfortably. Anne folded the letter from Ned that she had been delighting over and slipped it into her bosom. She rose from the settle. “By your leave, my lords, Edward and I shall take Gawain for a stroll in the garden.” Richard inclined his head. Buckingham gave a bow and watched as they left. Anne heard the door shut firmly behind her. As she came out of the residence, she heard the thud of the window as that, too, was firmly closed to eavesdroppers. She had been right, then. Something was amiss.

  With little Edward’s hand in hers, she made her way to a stone bench by the freshwater pond. The scent of herbs and flowers hung heavy in the small garden and a songbird warbled in a mulberry tree. She sat quietly, listening. Edward soon tired of sitting and ran off with Gawain to explore behind the hedges. The sweetness of the garden lulled her into a mood of drowsy peace. She closed her eyes.

  All at once came shouts and the shrillness of angry voices. She turned in time to see Buckingham stride out of the residence, his face dark as thunder. Richard followed. Even from the distance, she saw that he trembled with rage. Buckingham took swiftly to horse and galloped off, his entourage in pursuit. Richard stood and watched darkly. Neither raised a hand in farewell.

  She came to her feet, her hand clenched to her breast. What in God’s name could have made Richard so angry, their argument so fierce? It was not like him to lose control! Only once before had it happened, and then it had cost a man’s life.

  Gathering her skirts, she hurried to him.

  ~*~

  Anne never learned what had taken place between Richard and Buckingham. Richard refused to speak of it and his eyes darkened dangerously whenever she neared the subject. All along the way, as they followed the Severn to Tewkesbury, he rode silently. When they approached Tewkesbury, it was Anne who fell silent. For at Tewkesbury, the site of that fateful battle, her sister Bella, and Bella’s husband, George, were buried behind the altar.

  And somewhere beneath the stones of the choir lay the body of her own first husband, the Lancastrian Edouard of Lancaster.

  Richard reached for Anne’s hand as she rode beside him. She clenched her fingers around his. Twelve years melted away and she was back in the tortured past… the flight to Calais and Bella’s dead baby thrown into the sea… Louis of France watching her like a deadly spider as she was presented to Marguerite d’Anjou and Edouard… Her father, Warwick the Kingmaker, and her beloved uncle, John Neville, Marquess of Montagu, fighting valiantly to their deaths at Barnet… the journey in the cart as she was borne along by Marguerite’s fleeing army, ailing in body and spirit… And Tewkesbury, the site of the final battle. Here, Edouard, unarmed, had been brutally cut down by Richard’s brother George. And here, in an ironic twist of fate, George was buried with her sister, poor Bella. She closed her eyes and dug her nails into her palms until it hurt. The ghosts receded.

  Louis had indeed been near death when he’d written that note. Early that morning they had received word that the old man-eating Spider had died in terror after desperately trying to bribe the Virgin, the Pope, and the Saints into extending his life. How ironic that King Louis of France and King Edward of England should ascend the throne together, and die together. Louis, too, had left a minor as his heir. Life was full of seemingly meaningless coincidences, like a map drawn in duplicate and superimposed, blurring the lines and rendering the map unreadable.

  “My dear lady, we have arrived,” said Richard.

  She looked up. Before her rose the abbey church. Doves cooed, the sun shone. All was serene and tranquil. Richard helped her dismount. She took his hand and walked slowly up to the great Norman door. She hesitated, looked at Richard for strength. He pressed a kiss to her hand. Her gaze went to her silver laurel-leaf ring which he had given her in childhood. Aye, she told herself; the chain of sorrows is finally broken. As Richard kept reminding her, the dark past was dead and buried, and the future beckoned bright with promise. She braced herself and stepped through the door.

  ~ * ~

  Chapter 4

  “For were I dead who is it would weep for me?”

  Galloping along the main road from Gloucester to Hereford, Harry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, lashed his horse in anger. Richard had turned insolent, ungrateful, no longer thankful for his guidance. The tamed boar, so mild at first, had proven vicious after all, goring him and throwing him aside, as if he, Buckin
gham, the premier duke of the land, were no more than a dog. After all he’d done, to be treated thus!

  Thus.

  Richard was a fool. He refused to see reason, to do what needed to be done. He wasn’t fit to rule, would never survive as king. Soft as woman’s breast, he lacked the iron it took for kingship. He dug in his spurs. The lathered animal spurted forward, frothing at the mouth. He gave it another lash for good measure. What an arse he’d been, to have put his destiny in Richard’s hands! What a damned arse. He’d not only delivered Richard a throne, but secured it for him, and what were his thanks? Richard had flown into a hideous rage at the mere suggestion. Had he known that it was already a fait accompli—

  Buckingham shuddered. He’d have ended up like Hastings. His head on a log. He had no doubt of that. The wind felt good in his face; exhilarating, invigorating. He gave a bounce in his saddle and almost shouted for joy, so relieved was he to be alive.

  ~*~

  In his castle of Brecon, Buckingham sought out his prisoner, Richard’s enemy, Bishop Morton.

  “Ah, my Lord Duke, what a great honour,” smiled the cleric, placing his plump palms together in greeting and inclining his head. Buckingham threw his gauntlets across the table and sat down. A servant lad brought him a goblet of Madeira and, at his command, one for Morton. “I thought we might dine together tonight. Would you like that, Morton?” He eyed the black-clad bishop.

  Morton’s small mouth stretched into a smile. “Your Grace, you flatter me—I am overcome.”

  Buckingham called to the servants milling around lighting tapers and torches. “I’ll take dinner here. And be quick about it. I’m so famished, I could eat a boar!”

  Morton met his eyes, gave a laugh. The Boar was Richard’s badge. “That is too clever, my Lord Duke. Too clever by far. You’ve had a disagreement with our noble sovereign, I gather?”