My jaw dropped and I felt blood drain from my face. “What?”
Edward folded his arms over his huge, muscular chest. “Yes. He’s been telling any who will listen that by removing Anne from his wardship you abducted her, and that marriage by abduction is not valid.”
“He’s a fool…she gave her consent! It is not as if I carried her off screaming and raped her.”
“I know that, and so do you…but George cares nothing for the truth. I am not certain he knows what the truth is anymore. I do not know where it will all end.”
I shook my head. Short of hunting down George, what could we do? “He is such an ungrateful bastard. To show him I had no hard feelings over Anne, I even let him reside for as long as it pleased him, in my castle of Farleigh.”
Farleigh was in Somerset, a cozy little castle that had been wrest from the Lancastrian Hungerford family and given into my keeping by Edward when I was a mere ten years old. It had a lovely chapel with a wall painting of St George slaying the Dragon; I thought George might appreciate the depiction of his namesake. But George only appreciated George.
Edward nodded. “Yes, I heard. Isabel Neville is at Farleigh now. She is pregnant.”
“And yet still he carries on with his mad behaviour.”
“One day he will step too far.” Edward looked a little calmer; he gestured for a page to bring him a goblet of wine. He chucked it down in one swallow. “But for now, we have other things to attend to. I just thought you should know, Dickon, which way the wind is blowing.”
“Thank you, your Grace.” My heart felt heavy. Would anyone believe George? Was there a possibility that Anne and I would be forced to part, that George would bring a case against me of unlawful marriage? We had not yet received our final dispensation, and now this evil was brewing…
I bit my lip and stared out the narrow window into what now seemed an even darker and more cheerless day.
Once Parliament closed in April, I travelled back to Middleham, free of oppressive London at last. The roads were dry and empty of brigands, and blossom hung on the trees on the wayside. As I reached the last leg of my journey, riding down toward the castle’s stalwart walls, my heart rose up in me in a way I never thought it would. The sensation unnerved me, made my head light. I realised it was because this place was no longer just my castle, granted to me by Edward…it was truly my home.
And Anne was waiting for me.
Men and women of our rank seldom marry for ‘love’ as the troubadours sing of it; we marry to consolidate our positions, for land and for political alliance. If we find affection with the one chosen for us, we are very, very lucky. Many men end up with a cold shrew of a wife, like Francis, and many women, like Anne in the first instance, end up with a man who is cruel and speaks ill of them like Edward of Westminster. My parents were a rare exception in their marriage; they travelled everywhere together and my father the Duke had no other women, but even then, vile rumours of infidelity followed them…evil-minded men whispered that my mother, the proudest woman in England, lay with a common archer to beget Edward!
When I first thought of Anne as a potential bride, she was just…right for me, of the required lineage, with the needed inheritance that would support us both. That we had got on well as children and I deemed her fair and of sweet temper was an added attraction. But love? I would not say so. Protectiveness was there, from the start, a desire to do right by her…but that is not the same. Some of my initial eagerness to wed her came from the fact that she had been denied me; we of the Plantagenet blood do not like the word ‘no.’ Indeed, to be told ‘no’ makes us even more resolute in obtaining whatever was denied…
Now, in these months since I found Anne in that derelict tavern, my feelings had undergone significant change. My affection had deepened. I missed her when I was away from Middleham. I no longer thought of my former mistress Kate’s ripe body; realised that I had in fact been growing bored with Kate, despite her lusty beauty.
As I crossed the drawbridge and entered the bailey of Middleham castle, and saw Anne standing there, waiting patiently amidst her women, in her best damask gown and a belt of gold-and-sapphires, I suddenly realised:
Like my parents before me, I was lucky.
The next morning I woke up in my own bed (Jesu, how long it seemed since I had been in it!) with my wife beside me. I reached for Anne, hopeful of some comfort from her, needing her again, even though we had already spent hours in bed-sports once last night’s homecoming banquet was over and it was considered decent for us to retire to our chambers.
Suddenly Anne rolled over, made a choking noise and sat bolt upright. Her face floated in the gloom; she looked ill, her complexion greenish.
“What is it, Anne?” I asked in alarm, but without answering she leapt from the bed, yanking off the top coverlet to cover her nakedness, and ran for the nearby chamber pot, where she was sick.
“Anne, Anne, did you eat something the disagreed with you at table?” I strove to remember what had been eaten at last night’s feast—was it the chicken, the fish, the tarts…?
“No…no…” Shivering, she returned to me, slipped into bed again. “I have been so afflicted since not long after you left for London.”
My eyes widened in concern and a hint of annoyance. “You never wrote to tell me! Why did you keep it to yourself? I would have sent the best physicians to attend you, I would have petitioned Edward to let me come home.”
“There was no need to worry you, Richard,” said Anne, slowly. She fiddled nervously with a hank of her unbound hair. “I have taken advice about my condition ….”
“Advice? What advice? And from whom?” I demanded. “It had better not be some aged village crone crooning heathenish spells and advocating dangerous potions.”
“It was a woman…” she began.
“I knew it! Some warty, superstitious old crone when you should have had someone with the expertise of Dr Hobbes…”
“No, Richard, a woman is precisely the person best to care for me. My love, my lord…I am several months gone with child.”
I halted in the middle of an admonishment, breath rushing out between my teeth. “Anne! You are…Jesu, I can’t believe it! This is happy news indeed! Are…are you well? You should have told me sooner. Last night, I may have been too rough… What if we…we hurt him?”
“Him? What makes you think the baby will be a boy?” she laughed; a hint of colour was returning to her cheeks.
“Of course it will be a boy!” I slid my hand under the cover to caress her belly. Just a little swelling, I had noticed it earlier but thought it was just from the inactivity of the winter and all the Christmas banquets. “But is he is a she, then she will be the most beautiful daughter ever born to the House of York.”
“God willing, the baby will be born in October or November. Not so very far from your own nativity, Richard.”
“What should I get for you, Anne?” I sat up, the covers falling around my waist. “Name it and I will have it sent for: salted fish, pheasants, sweetmeats, even oranges from Spain if you wish it. Good local cheese….oh no, no soft cheese!”
“Why ever not?” She gazed at me in amusement.
I picked at a loose thread in the embroidery on the cover. “I’ve heard it said that if a breeding woman eats soft cheese it will make a boy-child have an…an unnaturally short member.”
“Richard!” She feigned horror and then began to laugh.
It was a happy time, for us both, there at Middleham that spring.
By May, though, I received news that the King was going to be at Nottingham castle and desired my presence. I hated leaving Middleham so soon after my return and with Anne in her condition, but men’s business took precedence. I was gradually establishing myself as a great magnate in the north, but there was a certain uneasiness that gnawed at my very bones. The Percy family.
The Percys had been supreme lords in northern England for many years, dwelling in the mighty fortress of Alnwick above the winding
river Aln, with the stone Percy lions roaring on the bridge. I’d had few dealings with them, due to my youth, and I knew not how much they resented my presence at Middleham, though I was certain resent it they would. They had once been staunch Lancastrians, and the current Earl’s father had died fighting against Edward at Towton. Although officially they had submitted to Edward’s rule, I needed to meet Henry Percy and get the measure of the man.
There were, of course, other more personal consideration as well, that needed to be discussed with the King. Ones closer to home.
“Anne…” I entered the solar, where Anne was embroidering. She looked a little rounder each day, I thought, and she looked well. “I have some news that you will not like.”
She did not glance up, but her needle stabbed the cloth. “You are going away again, aren’t you?”
“Yes. It is necessary.”
“It’s only been a month since you came home. What is it this time?”
“Percy of Alnwick. I need to meet him. He will need assurance, I think, and so will I.”
I did not tell her of my other business with Edward…that I wanted to discuss her mother Anne Beauchamp, who was still in sanctuary in Beaulieu. That situation could not continue. The monks would not tolerate a woman living with them forever, and then there was the question of her lands. Like Warwick’s manors, George was desirous of them all. Indeed, as it stood, he held them. Well, he would have them permanently only if he put a sword through me first. So I thought it politic to approach Edward regarding the Countess’s status before George got the chance to interfere.
Not that Edward was likely to show any great magnanimity to our errant brother, knowing what mischief he was pursuing—but one never knew. Sometimes I considered him too lenient with George, just in an attempt to keep him in check. I had not told Anne about George’s lies about our marriage, either, and wanted to discuss the situation with Edward once more, and take counsel on what might best be done to protect both our union and Anne’s rightful inheritance.
“If you must go, you must go,” Anne sighed, looking up at me, mournful but dry-eyed. “I realise it would be well to make good terms with Percy.”
I was glad there were no tears. “It will all be dealt with soon,” I promised running my fingers down the side of her cheek. “I will bring you back something nice…Nottingham is noted for its fine woollens and its goldsmiths.”
The area of the country I would be passing through held places infamous for outlawry and lawlessness, so I took no chances—I raised a doughty company, well-armed and heavily armoured, before leaving the safety of Middleham. Rob Percy had come down from Scotton to ride with me; glad company on the long road into the south.
As I departed over the castle bridge, I glanced back over my shoulder and saw Anne wildly waving her kerchief in farewell from the highest tower. It pained me to watch, and as it would be undignified for a Duke to wave back like some lovestruck lad, I averted my gaze and settled it firmly on the road.
The cavalcade soon joined the King’s Highway, which led from the north into Nottinghamshire. The King’s justice ruled the roads, and we passed unmolested and for the most part ignored. Hamlets and villages rose up and faded away, church towers tall and steep or squat and battlemented loomed in the fore then retreated back into the landscape. Working the fields, the peasants stared, eager for some small excitement to break the tediousness of their toil.
Eventually we spotted a vast green haze on the horizon. It stretched right to left as far as the eye could see. A fine haze hung above it, making a weird shimmer; a faerie glamour. It almost seemed a mirage, ready to vanish.
“You know where that is?” Rob asked, riding at my side on his destrier. “That’s Sherwood forest, where they say old Robin Hood held sway.”
I nodded. “So I guessed. Let us hope no outlaws are lurking today, ready to pounce upon us.”
The Great North Road pierced Sherwood on its eastern flank. With some trepidation, we followed it into dense stands of oak, ash and birch that swallowed the sunlight. The air smelt woody, and a carpet of leaves and moss muffled the horse’s hooves. Branches crackled, and deer shot off in all directions, dappled beneath the heavy boughs.
Briefly, we halted at the Hutt, a traveller’s respite lying beside the Abbey of St Mary’s of Newstead, where we ate, drank, and watered our horses courtesy of the monks. Here wanderers formed bands before setting off through ill-starred Thieves’ Wood on the final leg of the journey to Nottingham. Thieves’ Wood had a bad reputation—the home of lurking brigands who hunted the King’s deer and robbed and murdered the unwary.
None came to bother us, however. Not even one stray outlaw arrow flew in our direction, and Rob looked vaguely disappointed. “I want to see a wolfshead,” he said. “Ha, what a life the old ones of Robin Hood’s day must have led, stealing rich men’s purses, feasting on venison…”
Bemused, I glanced over at him. “Stealing rich men’s purses, Rob? Haha, Robin Hood would have deemed us to be the rich! And hunting the King’s deer is a crime!”
Rob sighed. “What? Are you saying you wouldn’t like the freedom to do what you liked within the forest? To be King of the woods?”
“No! Too bloody cold and damp; I like my castle, my clothes and my comforts! If I were ever to be any kind of King, it wouldn’t be of a sodden old forest!”
Eventually the trees started to thin, though they did not die away entirely—the oaks vanished, leaving instead stands of pale, swaying birches and rowans with red berries. Between gaps in the foliage, I could see the distant outskirts of Nottingham Town and the towered entrance gate known as Cow Bar, where archers lounged upon the stout parapet. The great forest almost ran to the very edge of the wall, as if trying to regain the ground that had been wrest from it centuries ago.
“Here at last,” I said to Rob. “I pray your distant relative Percy has likewise shown.”
“We could always go drinking in the Angel-Gabriel-Salutes-the-Virgin-Mary tavern if he has not,” said Rob hopefully.
Riding under the raised portcullis of Cow Bar, I surveyed Nottingham, one of the most important towns in all England. Lingfield and Woodfield, two great common fields, stretched in either direction, their vast tracts of green and brown shimmering in the hazy daylight. At the top of the nearest hill, the town gallows loomed like a bare tree, with some criminal’s body swinging from it in an iron cage. Beyond that, Bastard Waste lay stubbled and grey, while in the farthest distance, past the stout stakes of the Pale, the walls of Beskwood Lodge shone gold against a backdrop of forest.
As my party forged deeper into Nottingham, the streets grew close, deep-shadowed and filled by pungent odours unpleasant to the passerby. The buildings were tall here, and exceedingly narrow; leaning against each other as if for support. A rag-tag press of people fared about their daily business—tanners and dyers, merchants, goldsmiths, hawkers, piemen, and professional beggars who haunted doorways, extending handless stumps in an attempt to gain sympathy.
Nottingham had two sections, split by its huge marketplace—the English side, clustering about the feet of St Mary’s church, and the newer French town, which encompassed the churches of St Peter and St Nicholas. The great royal castle towered over both parts of town, standing high on a stone eminence that erupted from the plain. The River Leen curled at the fortress’s foot, its banks festooned with wharves where goods were unloaded and carried into the castle by means of secret tunnels through the heart of the living rock.
Edward’s standard was flying from the highest turret of the four-square keep built of old by William Peveril. This vast donjon stood a hundred feet high or more; old-fashioned in construction, aye, with tiny window slits like squinted eyes, but a stern warning to any who might stand against the might of the King.
The main gate to the castle had rotund drum towers attached to walls forty feet high; it frowned down, its portcullis partly raised. Receiving clearance from the guards, my entourage proceeded through the gateway and crossed
a bridge spanning a shallow ravine that separated inner and outer wards. Lines of stone gargoyles leered from the railings of that bridge; pitiless guardians fashioned by the will of that unfortunate King, John, who had great affection for Nottingham.
As stableboys came running to collect the horses, I dismounted and the castle steward, emerging to give warm greetings, guided me inside the keep to await my brother’s pleasure. In a guest’s chamber festooned in deep blue and gold tapestries, I sat beside a fire brazier with servants attending upon me. Hippocras was served from a silver decanter, and wafers delivered on a carven dish, while pages brought water to lave my hands and my face after the dust of the road.
It seemed an eternity before Edward emerged from his chambers. I heard a door bang, Ned’s deep, rich laughter, and suddenly a giggling girl clad only in a shift ran by the open door of my chamber toward the nearest staircase. She eyed me speculatively, bold as you like, and flashed a smile as I sat in my chair. Startled, I tore my gaze away from her near-nakedness and stared into my goblet.
Edward appeared a few minutes later, dishevelled and slightly flushed. He had gained weight even in the brief time since we had last parted; it seemed every time I saw him, he had grown slightly fatter. Still, however, he was the most beautiful prince in England…no, in all Europe. He shone in the darkness, and I could only bask in his radiant glow.
He pulled me up, embraced and kissed me, almost overwhelming me with his great size. “Good to see you, Gloucester! How goes it in the cold north? How is that little Neville girl of yours?”
“Pregnant,” I grinned.
“God’s teeth, Dickon, you don’t waste much time, do you?” laughed Ned, slapping his thighs with be-ringed hands. “You shoot your bolts true, that is for certain!” He roared with mirth at his own ribald joke. “But that is good to hear…very good. I hope it is a boy. You will name him after his uncle the King, will you not?”
I, Richard Plantagenet: Book One: Tante le Desiree Page 16
