“So be it, your Grace.” Rising jerkily, I donned my cloak, bowed and kissed his ring with cold, dry lips.
I walked out into the wintry, windy street, shaking but not from the cold. I was coming to realise that although Edward spoke me fair, calling me his strength, his right arm, there were still things I could not influence, things he would not grant me.
But I would not give up. Would not. I was a Plantagenet and my will was iron.
During the weeks that followed, I tried my best to live normally, enjoying the entertainments of London. I endeavored not to think of George locked behind the Tower’s adamant walls. He was out of mischief at any rate, and it was not as if he lay in chains or was being stretched on the rack. He had a fine apartment and plenty of liquor, even if there were guards positioned at the door.
I went to the Red Pale with Edward and his family to see Master Caxton and the remarkable printing press he had set up. Edward and I passed Anthony Rivers’ newly printed tome back and forth, marvelling at the printer’s art, while the Queen sat on a chair in a high-steepled headdress, her painted face beautiful but impassive. The little royal princesses, pert and golden-haired, were running around shrieking like hoydens and tormenting their youngest brother, Richard, the soon-to-be bridegroom, who began to howl and tantrum. Newly home from Ludlow, the heir, Edward Prince of Wales, drifted in and out of the room as bored as his mother.
“I foresee a day when England will be full of books!” said Ned excitedly, flipping the pages of the book. “Can you imagine, Richard?”
“Aye, and that means greater learning for every man in the land. Why…” I laughed, “Mayhap one day even peasants will know how to read!”
Edward burst into laughter. “Could you imagine? Extraordinary! But it could well come true, who knows?”
“We…I mean you, your Grace, must encourage this art,” I continued, my gaze fixed on the beauty of the tome the King held in his gloved hands. I had always loved books, owned a sizeable collection since I was a very young man: religious texts of course, like the Life of St Katherine, and military texts such as that by Vegetius, but also histories and romances: Geoffrey of Monmouth, The Prophecy of the Eagle, Ipomedon, The Seige of Thebes, Chaucer’s Knight’s Tale and Clerk’s Tale, Tristan and Iseult. Unlike many books owned by noblemen, my books were not merely for display as symbols of my wealth —I read them, inscribed my name inside them, left the sweat of my fingers smudging the pages.
“I shall,” said Edward, nodding. “Hm, I wonder what became of that book Master Caxton printed in Burgundy at the behest of our sister and dedicated to George? It was about chess?”
“George and chess? What a poor choice that was! He’s a terrible player; he cheats and if he loses, he throws the pieces about the room…”
I stopped in mid-sentence, biting on my lip, the pleasure draining from the day. I had not wanted to bring up the subject of George, summoning up the spectre of dissension that hung, with a twisted George-like face, between Edward and me.
The King merely grunted and shrugged, turning away to congratulate Anthony Woodville, who along with William Caxton, stood beaming within the centre of a crowd of admirers. The screeching and shrieking of Ned’s unruly brood became almost overwhelming, and it looked like Anthony was getting ready to read some of his own work.
My head was pounding. I made polite excuses and hurried out into the wintry eve.
Christmas came with King Edward holding many a banquet full of revelry and licentiousness. Mummers, maskers, jesters, and tumblers arrived daily in droves, some talented, some incompetent. There was even a dwarf like Martin, the ribald one who had sung such rude ditties at my wedding feast. Jousts were held; Anthony Woodville entered the tourney dressed as a monk, complete with a makeshift hermitage—a box draped with grey velvet that was strapped across the back of his steed. He sparred with his nephew Dorset, but another Woodville cousin, Richard Haute, won the most of the honours, which must have pained Anthony no end. I partook of the feasts but not the jousting; not being in the Woodville’s circles, I was not invited. My exclusion from their games bothered me not one jot, for I always felt jousting was a frivolous sport, and had never partaken of it.
Edward knew how to spend at the best of times, and this Yule season was no exception. The Woodvilles and Will Hastings encouraged all his excesses. I had never seen such lavish garb, the latest fashions from Europe, the best leather, the best silver, the best cloth.
Not wishing to seem a drab northern bumpkin, and having great love of fine clothes myself, I commissioned a deep, blue-green overgown with marten trim and a new chaperon in the same colour, and found a great emerald set in gold to compliment my ensemble—much like the one that belonged to Sir John Pilkington, which I so admired that I offered him good money for it. Liking it as much as I did, Pilkington declined, but promised he would leave it to me in his will when he died.
Of course, I could not just think of my own wardrobe. Anne could not go to the revelries dressed in a simple country manner, while the Woodvilles strutted like peacocks. I ordered her the best silks and furs, paid for through the revenues of my eastern estates, and gowns with black velvet sleeves and green brocade patterned with the artichoke…a symbol, ‘twas said that brought joy in the bedchamber. I thought this apt for it told Anne, without need for awkward words, how glad I was that she was with me this difficult Christmas.
On the 15th day of January, a day that dawned cold and sunny, with a sharp wind off the river, the members of the Royal House of York and all the peers of the realm passed through the King’s Chamber and the White Hall at Westminster to reach St Stephen’s chapel and celebrate the marriage of Prince Richard to Lady Anne Mowbray.
A happy event for most of the attendees, but I went with a heart as heavy as a stone, for by some cruel quirk Edward had decided that on the following day George Plantagenet, his own flesh and blood, would be tried for high treason.
St Stephen’s was richly decorated with azure tappets broidered with gold fleur de lys; candles glimmered and banners hung all round. A canopy of cloth of gold sheltered the waiting King and Queen and their gathered children, well-behaved now and dressed like little adults at this formal occasion. The groom, Prince Richard, closest in age to my Ned, stood solemn and still in his finery beside the stately figure of my mother, Duchess Cecily, who had come from her retirement for the occasion.
Earl Rivers held the hand of the bride, Anne Mowbray, and gently coaxed her forward. Although a year or two older than her groom, the Mowbray maiden was a frail creature with pale red curls plastered to a bony face. Her skin was marbled, the big, haunted eyes sunken; I had an unhappy suspicion she would not make old bones, nor maybe even live long enough to be wedded to my nephew in more than name.
With a slight sense of guilt and something…something I could not put a name to, didn’t want to put a name to, I wondered if Edward had also sensed the child’s fragility, and acted upon it for his own interests and that of his family. Left a powerful heiress by the demise of her father, Anne Mowbray should legally have had Viscount Berkeley and Lord John Howard as her heirs, should she die without issue. However, Edward had played with the laws of inheritance and passed an act so that her lands might pass to his son Richard, should she have the misfortune to die young.
Perhaps it was hypocritical of me to think this wrong, since Edward had declared Anne Beauchamp as one deceased in order to split her lands between George and me…but the Countess of Warwick had been, when all was said and done, a traitor’s wife, and Ned believed she was supportive of Warwick’s plans, though I had argued she had little choice. On the other hand, here loyal John Howard, ever supportive of York, was cast aside for no reason other than to give the young Duke of York more lands.
In the church nave, there was much talk from Bishops, outlining that the necessary dispensations of marriage had been obtained for Richard of York and Anne Mowbray, who were related in the prohibited degree. Once these sureties were given, Doctor Gunthorpe
showed to the bull of authority to the congregation, and the Bishop of Norwich, Doctor Goldwell, then proceeded to the marriage rites asking in a ringing voice, “Who shall give the bride to the church?”
“I will,” declared Ned, and he rose in all his finery, his cloth of gold, his leather shoes, looking once again the handsome, carefree brother I knew of old, even if greater in girth. Robed in a loose-fitting gown that covered much of his expanding waistline, he almost looked young again. Smiling in the winning way I could never emulate, he leaned over, took the little bride’s frail hand and led her with much gentleness toward the high altar.
And so the mass was spoken and the children united in holy matrimony.
Afterwards, I took up a gilt basin brimming with gold and silver coins, went out on the chapel steps and threw the coins to the Londoners waiting impatiently outside, hoping to catch a glimpse of the marriage party. Faces red and raw from the freezing wind, the cityfolk shrieked with delight and scrambled in the gutters as the money clattered to the ground. When every coin was snatched up, I threw more so that no one would go away empty-handed.
Returning to the interior of the Chapel, I took my allotted place upon Anne Mowbray’s right, while the left was taken by my cousin, Harry Stafford, the Duke of Buckingham. I gazed at Harry out of the corner of my eye; we had met only once before, when Edward and I returned to London in triumph after Tewkesbury. As in that first instance, Buckingham reminded me of George, only thicker of body, fuller-faced and less inclined to sullen expressions. He had only been a boy back in 1471, but now he radiated power and wealth, his hands dripping with garnet rings, the Stafford knot gleaming upon his breast, his neck heavy with a gold chain decorated with enamelled swans, a device of his family.
Suddenly aware of my surreptitious stare, Harry turned his head and smiled at me. His gaze was very direct, but unreadable. It was most odd, but the hair suddenly rose on the back of my neck under that gaze. Somehow, I knew Stafford would be of significance to me. It was as if we were destined to meet at that hour, on that day, as the bells sounded around us, and we stood guarding our small charge Anne and her new husband, young Richard of York, who was nephew to us both.
The wedding banquet for the Duke of York and Lady Anne Mowbray was lavish indeed. Minstrels of the highest caliber played while claret flowed and we dined on coney in wine-currant sauce, roast duck with brawn, and capons stuffed with onions and grapes. Sweet things abounded too: Pandemayne and butter, sugared almonds, cherry heart tarts. To amuse the children, there was a conjuror, and a saltatrix named Ivette who could twist her body into all sorts of acrobatic positions. I noticed the King and Hastings eyeing her with great interest.
My Anne was indisposed, for a cough had come upon her as it often did, and the physicians insisted she must not inhale night air, so she had retired to Crosby Place, and I found myself adrift in a sea of Woodvilles and others I did not best like.
I spotted Thomas Grey, Marquis of Dorset, at the first table, laughing uproariously and bragging away to some fool, while at the other end sat the almost nun-like figure of Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond. Mother of the exiled Lancastrian pretender, Henry Tydder, Margaret was watching the festivities like a hawk from beneath a hood. Ever eager to bring her son home, she tried to curry favour with Edward, but he had no trust in Tydder or his mother. Lady Margaret was married to Lord Stanley; indeed, she had been married three times, bearing her son at just thirteen—rumour had it that the birthing damaged her so that she could bear no more children. It was difficult imagining how any man would wish to marry such a dry husk, who had never seemed to be young or light hearted or merry, and had never possessed anything like beauty or even sweetness of nature, but her Beaufort lineage was desirable, her lands tempting and her mind dagger-sharp, which must have superseded her faults.
She caught me looking at her and inclined her head before I could whisk my gaze away. Her thin lips curled up, a surprising expression on such a stern white face, but it was not a friendly expression, but rather a calculating one. We had never had anything to do with each other, but she seemed quite aware of who I was and had evidently formed some kind of opinion of me, good or ill. Perhaps that was not so surprising, however —although Thomas Stanley spoke me fair enough, in his stolid, shuttered manner, I knew he still stewed about my support of the Harringtons against him.
I forgot the chilly-eyed Margaret Beaufort as a scent of musk and cloves washed over me. Glancing up, I saw the Duke of Buckingham in his blazing silver Stafford knots looming over me. The light of the cressets, flaring behind his head, made a halo of his curling, gold-frosted locks.
“Greetings, my cousin,” he said. His voice was very pleasant, smooth and deep but not gruff; a voice that a bard or storyteller could well have put to use. “I have long wished to speak with you. This wedding feast…a tedious thing, is it not?” He waved his hand airily; garnets winked like bloodied eyes. “I can tell you think so, too; it is written all over your face.”
For some reason I felt compelled to admit the truth, though I made sure it was out of the hearing of others. “Yes, for I have more serious matters on my mind than the nuptials of tiny children, of royal blood though they may be.”
“I can imagine that you do.” Harry Stafford looked at me with those direct, thoughtful eyes of his.
I knew then that he understood. He realised I spoke of George, who would be on trial tomorrow. A trial that would end his life if he were found guilty.
“My Lady wife is also indisposed and is in my thoughts,” I interjected, not wishing to discuss George lest anger and fear overcome me. “I would rather she was here at my side.”
“Ah, the Duchess Anne…” he nodded. “Ironic, is it not? You wish your wife were here beside you, while I wish mine were far away. But then, your good Lady is a Neville while mine…” A shadow flittered across his features. “She is a Woodville.”
All who attended court knew that Harry loathed his wife, the Queen’s sister Catherine, considering her beneath him, for he was of royal lineage while she was not. His dislike had not stopped him from begetting several children on her, however.
“That’s her over there…” he nodded towards a woman who sat with Anne Mowbray’s mother, the Duchess of Norfolk. Catherine Woodville was fair, like her sister Elizabeth, with a high white forehead and large, wide-set eyes, though she was less tall and her figure more rounded. “Talking womanish nonsense to Elizabeth Mowbray, no doubt.”
I thought Harry was being a bit ungallant and said stoutly, “She is a lady most lovely to behold, my lord Duke.”
“And a flap-mouth, idle-headed lump with it,” said Buckingham, almost cheerfully, as if he enjoying insulting his wife out of her earshot.
He pushed himself into a space next to me, dislodging some nobleman, I knew not who, and leaned over on his elbow, whispering almost conspiratorially, “I hope we can be good friends, Gloucester. We are cousins, both descended from Edward III, that king of great renown. I have always liked the look of you, and admired your prowess. In France too, when the King treated with the French…that was brave. You stood for what you thought was right.”
Briefly, I wondered where Buckingham had been when the deals and bribes with King Louis were made. He had joined the King’s army with the rest of us, bringing several knights and a party of archers, but I had no recollection of Ned inviting him into any war councils. I decided it was none of my business to ask. There could be many reasons why he had kept back from the fore, none of them sinister. It was odd, though, that despite Harry’s high-born status, he received no offices or advancements from the King.
Buckingham had turned away from me, was observing the feast with a bemused expression…and was back to speaking ill of the Woodvilles. “Look at them all, upstarts. That Dorset, foul and course, no true knight. And Anthony, my wife’s brother, full of pretend chivalry but as grasping as the rest, though marginally of greater intellect. But I don’t like that….it makes him too damn dangerous.”
Swiveling round, he locked gazes with me again, put his hand on my arm, companionable, cousinly. “I pray I have not given offense,” he said with earnestness. “The wine has made my tongue free.”
“Fear not, Cousin Harry, I am no great lover of the Woodvilles either. That said, we have no real quarrel with each other, either. I just cannot bear…” A loud guffaw came from the direction of Dorset. “I cannot bear the Queen’s son from her first marriage. Arrogant, jumped up, foul.”
“I do agree most heartily,” Buckingham nodded. “Yes, I think we could be good friends, Richard, you and I. Doubtless we have much in common.”
A moment later, a vexed look crossed his features. “Ah, the shrew is beckoning at me… As much as it pains me, I had best see what she wishes or she will turn into the worst scold imaginable and my night will be full of torments as vile as those of Hell. It has been a pleasure meeting you again, Cousin Richard.” He leaned forward, placing his hands on my shoulders, and kissed me on either cheek. “We are close kin and can help each other, of that I am certain. Remember that—should you have need of any assistance I will always be at your service.”
Harry strode away through the banqueting hall, the light from the torches still haloing him, and then he was lost in a press of feasters and fire-eaters and stilt-walkers.
Above the general din, I could still hear Dorset shouting crude remarks; Hastings was bawling some obscenities of his own, trying to outdo his Woodville rival. Glancing toward Edward, I saw he was hopelessly drunk, lolling in his high seat. Should he be drinking himself senseless the night before he must make the terrible decision about our brother?
I, Richard Plantagenet: Book One: Tante le Desiree Page 27
