I, Richard Plantagenet: Book One: Tante le Desiree

by J. P. Reedman

  I was horrified; my cheeks flamed. “No! Of course not!” I did not know if I was so mortified because she thought I might have cavorted with diseased harlots or because at that time I had very little experience with women at all.

  She smiled at me, comfortingly. “Thank you for your honesty, my Lord. I needed to know; certain ill-got diseases may cause similar irritation. It is my belief that you have bruised the organ that produces water. In most cases such bruising will heal with time, but you must lie abed, and you must be watched for any worsening of your condition.”

  She rummaged in the basket she had brought. “I have salves which contain the bark of the willow in them. They will help ease the pain.”

  Opening one tub of such stuff, she began to rub it onto my bare skin. At first, I sat taut as a bowstring, hating every minute of her ministrations, feeling embarrassed and humiliated. Then I began to enjoy the sensations, the softness of her hands, the stroking of her fingertips, her warm breath on the back of my neck as she leaned over me.

  I liked it a bit too much, and to my horror it quickly became rather obvious that I did.

  I wanted the floor to burst open and Satan’s devils to leap up and claim me (as they most surely were waiting to do, having seen evidence of my adolescent lust!)

  Alice Burgh must have noticed too, but she acted as if nothing was amiss. She finished what she was doing, packed her things, and left.

  She returned the next day, though. And then the next. To check on me. And as I grew better my other…problem…grew worse. Frustratingly worse. Then one day sweet Alice did not rub her salves into my injury but slid her caressing hand forward of my hip to find what was really bothering me. We spent the rest of the day rolling in my large, well-furnished bed in the castle. It was the best medicine I could have had.

  Every time I went north from then onwards, I tried to steal a visit with Alice in Pontefract town. Our days—and nights—together were infrequent but they were certainly memorable. Of course, in time she became with child, though, unlike Kate, she did not inform me at once—not until the baby had made its safe arrival into the world. Alice was always clear from the start that she expected nothing from me. My natural son, John, was born at Pontefract a mere six months before my dearest Katherine was born in Norfolk…

  Alice was bustling about the chamber, setting down her things. She had grown heavier than when I saw her last, but the weight looked well on her. “Ah, your Grace, it is good to see you once more…but alas that you are confined to bed as when we first met.”

  “I was wounded. At Barnet.”

  “I know. I have heard the stories of your valour.” She came over to the bed and smiled down at me. “Let me take off your shirt and see what damage has been done.”

  She removed my upper garments and inspected the half-healed wound on my side with her gentle, probing, knowledgeable fingers. She sighed a few times, shook her head. “You have been riding too much, my lord. You need rest.”

  “I had hoped I might have another few hours hard ride.” I tried for ribald mirth as pain flicked through my torn side.

  Brows furrowed, she looked at me rather sternly. “With respect to my Lord of Gloucester, as of last winter, I am now a respectable married woman. I still nurse the afflicted however, rather than taking on mere housewifely duties; my skills are needed in Pontefract and beyond.”

  “Ah, Alice, I did not know. Congratulations to you and…and...” I stammered.

  “Master Geoffrey Burke. An apothecary.”

  I could not hide my slight surprise and disappointment, although, in pain and burning up, I was hardly in any condition to be much of a lover. I hope I am not turning into Edward where women are concerned, I thought. God help us all.

  Alice was applying some foul-smelling unguent to my wound. “Vervain and yarrow, that should help. The scrape needs to be cleansed and dressed more often than it has been. And you need to rest.”

  “You do not….” I was serious now and not dwelling on any improprieties, past or present, “think my fever of great note? That I might have the flesh-rot that makes wounds go bad? That can…”

  “Kill a man?” she said in her calm, faintly teasing voice. “No, I do not, my Lord Duke. You have a sore cut on your side. And the beginnings of a nasty cold.”

  She had brought my son from Pontefract as I had asked; some of the elderly women of the castle, Anne’s old nursemaids, had taken him to the nursery and were fussing and cooing over him there.

  Having been assured by Alice that I was not in need of much more than a good sleep, I dragged myself out of bed and went to see him. John was crawling on the floor, playing with an old tin rattle that someone has dug up for him. Slight pangs of guilt gripped me, for I had no sumptuous gift for him as I had for Katherine, but I had not expected to see my son quite so soon after my arrival in Middleham.

  I swore to myself I would make up the lack as soon as I was decently established in the north; in fact, when John was older, I planned to take him into my household to make sure he was educated according to his status. Like my daughter, John would bear the name of Plantagenet, and being a bastard did not mean one could not hold great estates or positions.

  Looking at my son, pride swelled within me. He was a sturdy, handsome boy with a shock of almost white curls; more like his mother than me in that regard, though I, too, had been blond till about my seventh year, when my hair gradually deepened to the brown shade it is now. John’s eyes were blue, dark and greyish-flecked like my own, and in his child’s face, I could see the strong Plantagenet chin and nose. I marvelled at his seeming rude health; I had been prone to many ailments as a small boy; it is wondrous how the children born of unions with common stock often seem to thrive better than those we of high blood make with our wives.

  “I will see that you are treated according to your status,” I murmured, half to the infant, half to myself. “Once my household is firmly established here in Yorkshire.”

  “It will be soon, I am sure, my Lord.” Alice leaned over and picked up the baby, who continued to chew on the rattle. I noted he had a good strong set of teeth, which left marks on the tin. “And as part of building a stable household, you must soon marry. A Duke must have a goodly Duchess to assist him and to bear him children.”

  “You are forward to speak to me of such things, Alice,” I said, but I smiled wryly.

  Alice was twining her finger through one of John’s curls. He made a noise of annoyance. “Is not the daughter of the Earl of Warwick free once more?”

  My smile died instantly. “Why do you speak to me of Anne Neville?”

  “My Lord,” she said, and there was a hint of ruefulness in her voice, “many things I may be but a fool is not one of them. Many in the north knew or guessed how you might have felt about that Lady from the time you were both children.”

  “Idle gossip,” I snapped, folding my arms defensively over my chest. I could feel heat rise to my face.

  “I have also heard the Lady Anne is at the house of your brother, his Grace of Clarence. I would not wait too long, my lord. I would go to London and find her before he drives her into the confines of a convent.”

  “Forward… and presumptuous!” I rolled my eyes. “Bah, you women! All poison, whether born high or low!”

  Alice curtseyed. Her eyes were twinkling. “With your permission, your Grace, I will return to Pontefract forthwith if you have no more use for my skills. It has been good to see you again, Richard. Even if you now think me poison.”

  “I will send money…to you and to John.” I ruffled the baby’s head one last time. “And a marriage gift to you…and to this Geoffrey.”

  Alice left the room, holding John in her arms, and I was left thinking.

  Once I was fully healed, I would see about a visit to London. To speak with Edward about my future.

  It was time.

  Time for me to claim what was mine.

  I did not leave Middleham as quickly as I had thought I might. Much needed to
be taken care of in the town and castle, and as a good lord these things took priority over personal wants. Several weeks of frenetic activity flew by, like leaves blown upon a gale. Out with the old, in with the new.

  Amongst many other renovations to the castle, I had the Great Hall stripped and the painted shields of Warwick’s Bear and Ragged Staff replaced with my White Boar and the Falcon and Fetterlock. Glass with white roses and golden sunnes filled all the windows. A private chamber was constructed to contain my desk, and the books I had collected over the years—among them Geoffrey of Monmouth’s History of the Kings of Britain, Chrétien de Troyes’ Arthurian romances, and Ipomedon the Perfect Knight, which had been a gift from my sister Margaret. In its frontispiece, I had been trying out mottoes and had written Tant Le Desiree…’I desire it so much’.

  So I had, and now what I desired was coming true. Most of it.

  Consumed by building frenzy, I also ordered workers to begin the renovation of the old nursery, anticipating the day when it would be filled with my children; I desired it enlarged and modernised, made more comfortable. On overcast days, I sometimes found the castle slightly gloomy and old-fashioned, as much as I loved its powerful strength, and I gave orders to remove many of the ancient narrow windows to admit more light. The largest of the new windows would be in the chamber I would share with my Lady Wife (when I had one.)

  Then suddenly, in September, Thomas Neville, The Bastard of Fauconberg, who had stood weaponless in Kent and swore to be faithful forever to the House of York, went missing. He had ridden away from the castle on a hunt and not returned. Some were worried for his safety. I was not. I was furious. I sent out search parties to locate him.

  It turned out he was trying to rouse the old Neville supporters. Against me. Against the King. Scrope and Fitzhugh, however, had learned a very hard lesson a few years ago…so they were having none of the Bastard’s attempts of fomenting rebellion. They told my agents of his whereabouts, and he was captured hiding in a hermit’s cell near Knaresborough. Arresting him, I had him put in chains and locked up in a tower at Middleham.

  That wiped that tiresome grin off his swarthy face. “Cousin!” he whined. “Can you not pity me? We are such close kin! It was a moment’s madness! You are, by blood, a Neville too!”

  “But I am not, cousin, a traitor!” I retorted, slamming the tower door shut behind me.

  Retiring to my study, I called John Kendall to attend me and wrote a hurried message to Edward. The pirate…What would you wish me to do with him, now that he has committed treason a second time?

  I guessed what Ned’s answer would be but would not act without his word, although I had the power to do so, as Constable of England. Edward could be hard and unforgiving…or he could be unduly merciful.

  In this instance, his patience had run out.

  The Bastard of Fauconberg was executed by the headsman in the privacy of the castle yard of Middleham.

  Edward had been white-hot angry in his reply to my letter; he had truly believed that Thomas Neville would not stray from the fold again. He asked me to have the traitor’s head delivered to him, so that he could impale it on the gates of London facing out towards Kent, that most troublesome of counties, as a warning to potential rebels and to the sea-pirates hanging about Calais and the Channel.

  I had my henchmen stick the bloody thing in a basket, wrapping it well and dumping in sachets of herbs so that it would not stink too much. As for taking it to Ned…well, it was as good excuse as any to return to London.

  To speak with Edward.

  To deal with George.

  To see Anne?

  CHAPTER SIX: SEEKING ANNE

  I stood outside George’s abode, l’Erber, like some gauche youth, hands curled into balls with nerves, the nails gouging my palms, the many rings I wore digging painfully into the flesh of my fingers. I had been hovering around Baynard’s castle for several weeks, preparing myself for this moment, and now I was going to go courting.

  I had not seen George since returning to London, thanks be to God, but I heard he was angry and buzzing like an enraged wasp; he had learned that Edward had given me Middleham, Sheriff Hutton and Penrith Castles, and many other lands and manors besides. These had been Warwick’s holdings in the north, and George seemed to think that Isabel, as Warwick’s eldest child, was entitled to every single one of them, leaving Anne without a penny to her name—let alone her mother, Anne Beauchamp, who was still holed up with the monks at Beaulieu (which must have vexed them sore, for their order usually refused any truck with women.)

  If he did not recognise Anne’s claim or Anne Beauchamp’s, he was certainly not going to agree with any of their lands being handed over to his little brother, especially when my only claim to them was through the King’s gratitude and generosity.

  Apprehension needled me at the thought of seeing George but I hoped he might have sickened of Anne’s presence in his home by now. She was another mouth to feed and George was tight with his money, unless spending it upon his own pleasures. Once he saw me, I also hoped it would remind him that I never relent once I have my heart set upon an enterprise. And it was now well and truly set upon marrying Anne Neville.

  Taking a deep breath, I rapped with my fist upon the door of George’s house. My men stood a few feet behind, silent, wary; they were armed but I told them to keep the peace unless I signalled otherwise. It seemed mad, holding weapons in readiness against my own brother, but my trust in George was long gone.

  The door opened slowly, cautiously, and George himself stepped out; he must have had word of my coming. Armoured men clustered behind him in the long hallway; the flames of the torches bracketed to the walls shone on breastplate and helm and glinted on unsheathed swords and pikes. My eyes widened briefly, before darkening with fury…my kinsman had drawn blade against me when I had not offered a single threat. Yet.

  I strove to remain civil; George would feel justified in calling for his guards to attack if I were to react with impetuosity and call upon my own men.

  “I thought you would show up sometime, Dickon,” slurred George. He looked unkempt, as if he had not slept well or had only just crawled out of bed; dark lines underscored his red eyes, and in his fist he clutched a flagon of drink. He did not smell too sweet as he stood swaying in the doorway. “What took you so long?”

  “Important matters to attend to in the north,” I said pointedly. “But now greater matters press here in London. I have the King’s permission to seek the hand of the Lady Anne Neville, who has dwelt in your house as your ward since the field of Tewkesbury.”

  George’s lips worked; his clutched his blessed flagon of drink so hard I thought the neck of it might shatter. “Well, let me tell you this, Dickon. You will not have her! And you will not have any of the Neville lands. They are not for you…she is not for you. The lands are rightfully Isabel’s and hence mine. You desire her just to spite me, to make me seem small and inconsequential next to you…”

  I fought to keep my temper in check. “George, you know that is a lie. Anne and I were always close.”

  “Well, ask Edward to find you some other slattern to be ‘close’ to,” sneered George. “How about his reject, Bona of Savoy, or maybe one of his other cast offs.” He began to laugh madly, as if at some hilarious private joke

  My temper began to fray. “Come to your senses, George. Even though Anne may be your ward, she is not a child; she is the Dowager Princess of Wales. Let me see her. If she does not wish me to see her, I want to hear it from her own lips.”

  His face contorted, his fair looks growing ugly with spite, the mouth pouting and the eyes harsh and piggy. “Fuck off, Richard, or I’ll have my guards throw you and your cretinous followers into the street!” he snarled…and he staggered backwards and slammed the door in my face. I could hear him shouting and raving like a lunatic in the hall on the other side.

  Utterly frustrated, I walked stiffly away from l’Erber, surrounded by my escort. My fingers toyed with my dagger hi
lt; my heart was racing. By God, George would regret this outrage, the treacherous, jealous little toad…

  I would now appeal directly to the King.

  “You are determined to have this girl, aren’t you?” Edward lounged in a cushion-padded chair, gazing at me with inscrutable eyes. We were together in his private chambers at Westminster; Ned seemingly languorous and unruffled, while I was furious and pacing, a wine goblet clutched in my hand.

  “Yes, I am determined!” I spat.

  “You know, I forbade the match once, when Warwick first wanted you to wed his daughter.” Ned looked thoughtful, scratched his chin. “Maybe it’s not such a good match, Richard.”

  I halted, my face draining. Edward had denied Warwick the match because he realised that the Earl had grown over-mighty. But Edward had told me after Tewkesbury that I could press my suit. Surely, he would not withdraw his approval and deny me, now that Warwick was dead and his wife in sanctuary at Beaulieu, surrounded by Ned’s armed guards.

  Edward must have seen my stricken expression. He sighed. “Fear not, I have no wish to impede you if you have your heart set on her. In fact, you have my blessing. But Christ’s Blood, Richard, going up against George! You know what he is like. He will not make this easy for you, the girl…any of us, even his King. He truly believes, in his twisted little mind, that he deserves all of the Neville lands, and it will take some doing to prise it from his grasping hands, I fear.” He sighed again. “Couldn’t you have found some other heiress, Dickon? I am sure even a French or Spanish princess would be possible. No impediments, no squabbles.”

  My lips tightened. “No. I will have Anne Neville.”

  “And her lands.”

  “Of course her lands. Why not her lands? They are hers, not George’s. If she marries me, they become mine as well as hers. I am not a fool, Edward. I want her…but I cannot live on thin air, either.”