I, Richard Plantagenet: Book One: Tante le Desiree

by J. P. Reedman

  Francis pursed his lips. I had seen that expression before…when he was embarrassed. “Fine,” he said, with false lightness. “Even more so now that I am not home, I suppose.”

  I knew it was not good between them, he had told me so long ago, but I had hoped for my friend’s sake that with age they could find some common ground. They had both been members of the Corpus Christi Guild in York, long before Anne and I joined, but I had never seen them there together. Apparently, Anna did not approve of what she saw as frivolity in the religious plays, nor did she approve of York itself.

  He laughed bitterly, opening up. “We cannot abide each other; it gets worse by the year. I said it before, Anna should have taken vows. Unless I divorce, I will have no heir.”

  “Would you make that move…to divorce? It would be difficult.” The falcon was pulling at his jesses; his eyes looked red and mean. His curved beak snapped open; a harsh cry rang out over the moor.

  “We have been married since we were both six summer old.” He shrugged. “She manages the household well enough. As for no heirs…it is sad, but I have sisters and other kin.”

  I thought of my sister Margaret and her marriage to Charles the Rash; no passion (some even claimed he had preferred carnal pleasures with men) but she had been a consummate administrator for him while he lived. “I see. Then such an arrangement can suit you both.”

  “Dickon, would you think less of me if I told you I have sinned.”

  “We are all sinners, Frank. Maybe you should be telling a priest though, not me.”

  “I have a mistress. Her name is Eloise.”

  “I am not one to judge you, Frank. You know that.”

  “I know.” He looked relieved; he had unburdened himself. “I just wanted to let you know how things stood with me. I know you are a moral man.”

  I laughed. “Even I am not made of stone. It is not always easy.”

  I gazed down across the moor, to where my castle’s walls glowed warmly in the sun, pennants snapping above the turrets, bright against the clouds that puffed up on all horizons. “But I am lucky.”

  I coloured; these were not things men talked of, not even to their closest friends.

  Francis stared into the distance. “Anna prefers the south; she will stay at Minster Lovell. From now onwards, I will spend much of my time on my northern properties.”

  “Your leman…she is here in the north?”

  He nodded. “It will be good to live near you too, Dickon. I have heard rumours that war is brewing with the Scots.” His eyes, which had looked sad, suddenly brightened. “I pray that if battle does come, you will take me with you to fight our ancient enemies. I have not yet properly blooded my sword, being too young to fight for the King at Barnet and Tewkesbury.”

  “The King and I believe the Scots will attack England some time this year.” I was glad he had changed the subject to one more fitting for men’s conversation; hoping to cheer him, I spoke with enthusiasm. “Henry Percy concurs. Edward has made me Lieutenant General here in the north, so that I may call up men in the Marches and elsewhere, if needed. I would gladly have you at my side when and if the time comes.”

  Francis smiled. “It would be great honour for me to join you, Dickon. And I have not inconsiderable forces of my own who would march with us.”

  Impatient, the falcon on my wrist screeched again and beats its wings. Its claws dug into my thick glove. “Go then, you vicious beast!” I laughed, and set it free. It dived over the moor and descended like a fury upon some unseen beast rushing through the grasses in a futile attempt at escape.

  “That, my friend,” I said to Francis, “is how we shall treat the Scot if he dares to cross into England. We shall descend upon him…with no mercy.”

  Francis followed the flight and decent of the falcon, shading his eyes with his gloved hand. He was back to his old self again. “I look forward to it. Nothing shall give me more pleasure.”

  The falcon shrieked again and rose into the air, with a dripping carcass (a coney? a hare?) gripped in it claws, and suddenly the world, high on the moor I loved, was dappled with sun and shadow and blood.

  It was like an omen. I shuddered…though with unease or with a strange, dark thrill I could not say.

  The summer passed. Francis was back and forth from Middleham to his northern manors…and to his mysterious leman Eloise. I never met her, nor did he openly speak of her again.

  Rob Percy frequently came to visit, riding in from Scotton, and there was much drinking and ribald merriment as there always was when Rob, with his wicked sense of mirth, appeared on the scene. The Scropes dropped by, while passing back and forth from their stern fortress at Bolton, while Miles Metcalfe, recorder of York, son of Sir James of Nappa Hall, stopped to give me news and greetings whenever he was on his way to Nappa. We all went hawking and hunting and in the evenings played chess and cards…and after downing good wine, downed some more. I do not think Anne was over-pleased with so many exuberant young men constantly about the castle, but as a good wife, she said little and busied herself with her daily tasks, her embroidery, and the well-being of our son.

  A strange restiveness had come over me. So much for the joys of peace that I had only so recently imagined! Imagining is not the same as doing, not when lassitude and boredom sets in.

  Truth be told, I was longing to fight the Scots, growing weary of their incessant border raids, and of repulsing fleeing barbarians who never battled face to face but were often seen as mere flashes of heels in the heather as they nipped back over the border. A soldier since my youth, fighting since sixteen summers, I had been long in domestic quietude. No proper fighting since 1471!—it had nearly been ten years. In that time I had lost a brother and sometimes felt the other was slipping away too, caught up in his world of gluttony, venality and luxury. I did not wish to become like Ned; I wanted to prove myself again, to know I had not grown slothful, that my sword was still sharp, and I had not forgotten honour as Edward seemed to have done.

  Finally, the smoking tinderbox that lay between England and Scotland ignited. Led by the Earl of Angus, Archibald Douglas, the Scots in all boldness marched across the border and burnt the town of Bamburgh, with its mighty castle on its tall black cliff. Once thought to be impregnable, this castle was much weakened by Warwick in 1464, when he brought up his great bombards, Newcastle and London, and blasted it with cannonfire, hurling fragments of wall into the sea. Repairs had been scanty since then, so it was no surprise that the Scottish raid on fortress and town was a success.

  Eager for retaliation, I hastened toward the far coast of Northumberland with Francis at my side. Amongst others, the stout men of York rode with me, equally eager to do battle with the ancient enemy. After several days’ hard march we reached Bamburgh, found the village a mass of charred and smoking timbers and the castle barbican seared black and with the gates smashed inwards. Survivors of the attack clustered inside the invulnerable keep, a sorry, frightened-looking mass of men, women and children who slowly wandered out to greet our arrival, blinking in the misty daylight like sleepers newly woken.

  At least the Scots had departed after their raid and not dug themselves in, as I feared they might with a leader like Douglas — for that I was grateful. Few lives had been lost and no women carried off, though several claimed the raiders had defouled them. Cattle and goods had been stolen, including a silver chalice from the church, and the crops stomped into mud, meaning it would prove a hard year for the locals…but life was always hard upon that storm-tossed coast with its swelling dunes and lead-grey seas.

  Upon the curtain wall of Bamburgh I walked with Francis, gazing out across the sand dunes to the Farne Islands, beloved of holy men such as the revered Saint Cuthbert. Megstone, Goldstone, Glororum Shad, Blue Caps; their sharp tips darned the rough sea like needles; their strange names were like chants in a prayer. Men claimed Cuthbert fought demons and devils while dwelling in isolation on the Farnes…well, I would fight human demons here on land.

&n
bsp; “The Scots are long gone.” I folded my arms against the chill wind off the sea. “But we will go after them and teach them a lesson. An eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth. What say you, my friend?”

  Francis glanced uneasily around. The dunes drifted below, moon-silver; long grasses rustled, dry as bones. Far in the distance the cone of Liisfarne, rose into the steel-hued sky. “Henry Percy’s stronghold at Alnwick is not far hence. Where was he when these people suffered? Where is he now?”

  “Attending to other raids along the borders, or so I am informed,” I replied, but Francis’ words filled me with unease. Henry Percy should have been in Bamburgh to give succour, and to meet with my forces. I pushed the worry of his non-appearance to the back of my mind. “Tonight I will visit the castle chapel, where the uncorrupted arm of blessed St Oswald once lay upon the altar, and pray for his intercession in our endeavours. We ride on to Scotland on the morrow.”

  Before dawn we set off, riding hard across harsh terrain. Veering away from the coast, we pressed inland toward Kelso, lying just within Scotland’s borders. Settlements appeared, poor places consisting of rude huts and humble churches, and occasionally the timber hall of some petty lord or border reiver. Descending like Furies, the sacking of Bamburgh fresh in our minds, we burnt these sorry places to the ground, watching as flames licked timber and black smoke funnelled up into the ever-clouded sky.

  “Go, go to our enemies as a warning!” I murmured as I watched the plume of smoke drift northwards towards Edinburgh and Stirling, those two mighty strongholds of King James. “Let bloody James of Scotland know that if he does not keep his countrymen away from England, they will all suffer the consequences of his actions!”

  No Scottish warriors emerged to assail us in retaliation for our raid; the land lay still, empty, stretching before us in the glowing colours of late September. No actual fighting had taken place, no one attempted to stop our incursion…and this filled me with unease. Were the Scots lying low, hoping we would fare further into enemy land, becoming too cocksure the further we travelled? Then would a trap snap shut, cutting us off from England? I could not take the risk. The message, the warning, had been sent to the Scottish King as intended, and that would have to suffice for now.

  “We’ve come far enough,” I told my men. “We are not a large enough force to proceed further into Scotland. That day may yet come and soon…but this is not this day. We will return forthwith to England and let the King of Scotland mull on the message I have sent him, burnt with fire upon these debatable lands. May James have many a sleepless night thinking upon it!”

  We made our retreat, leaving ravens circling over burnt villages and filling those bleak places with their hungry cries.

  First halt when riding back to Yorkshire was my castle of Sheriff Hutton. Entering the courtyard with clarions blaring and banners flying, my arrival instigated great rejoicing; it was always a cause to celebrate when the Scots were trounced by Englishmen.

  Eager to see their father, John and Katherine abandoned their studies in the nursery and flew down the spiral stairs to the courtyard, despite the chastisements of their nurses, who pursued hotly with flapping aprons and stony faces.

  “Father, father, did you kill any Scots?” John cried, waving his arms in excitement. “Did you bring me the head of a Scot to look at?”

  “Master John Plantagenet, you will not speak of cut off heads, nor will you shriek at your good lord-father the Duke like some greedy peasant boy!” A nurse grabbed my son’s ear and hauled him, protesting, back to the children’s nursery

  “I shan’t ask about cut-off heads,” said my little Katherine sweetly, standing before me with hands clasped before her. “It’s horrible.”

  “I know you won’t, sweeting, but you must understand, your brother is a boy. His interest is only natural. One day he may well have to ride into battle and kill men, just as I do.”

  “I don’t like boys,” said Katherine, “I prefer my dog, Nosewise.” She called out to her brachet, who ignored her as he ferociously chewed on something next the staircase. It looked to be one of John’s toy knights; the head was ripped clean off; he would not be pleased.

  Standing at my shoulder, Francis gave a laugh. “So these are your two natural children. High-spirited and fair of face. You are rightfully proud.”

  “And you, Sir, are?” asked young Katherine of my friend, as high and mighty as you like.

  Francis laughed, and with all gallantry, kissed her small hand. ”My Lady, I am Francis Lovell. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “Francis is my oldest, dearest friend, “I explained. He has been in Scotland with me.”

  “Do you like my dog?” asked Katherine, suddenly the little girl again. Nosewise had ventured up to Frank and was pawing at one of his boots, testing to see if it were edible.

  “He is very comely,” answered Frank gravely,” if very bold. I would wager he is as fierce as my wolf if roused.” He pointed to his badge, which bore the image of a silver wolf with crown and chain about its neck.

  As if in agreement, Nosewise gave a ferocious growl.

  It was not at any of us, however. A great clattering sounded at the gates, and a shouting of voices. A rider burst through the throng in the courtyard and spurred straight towards us, pushing through the crush of men already in the courtyard. My hand went to my sword hilt until I saw that he wore the arms of the city of York. “I have an urgent message for Duke Richard!” he cried. “I heard he would be arriving at Sheriff Hutton today!”

  “I am the Duke of Gloucester,” I shouted back at him, as the stranger strove to contain his skittish horse. “Why have you come here, bursting into my castle in this manner? I have only just this minute returned from Scotland. What ails you?”

  “My Lord Duke,” the man gasped, “it’s my Lord Percy.”

  “What of him?” Francis and I exchanged glances, remembering our conversation in Bamburgh.

  The man licked chapped, windburnt lips. “Percy’s affeared the Scots will retaliate. That your raids—pardon me, your Grace, for repeating this slander—might have stirred up a wasp’s nest over the border. He has sent a letter from Wressell to York demanding that all men of the required age raise an armed force at once. He asks that we be ready to attend upon him without tarrying or delay, and if we dare nay-say this order, we answer to him at our peril. My Lord Duke, the men of York are free men, not bound to the Earl, and like not being ordered thus. You are our especial good Lord, so your Grace…the Mayor thought to seek you out for advice upon your return from Scotland.”

  Standing in silence, I took in what the messenger had told me about my rival. Ordering the men of York thus was provocative in the extreme. To blame me for stirring up trouble with the Scots, even more so. “You may have been right about Percy,” I murmured to Francis out the corner of my mouth. “Too big for his very old-fashioned boots.”

  I glanced up at the Mayor’s messenger from under the brim of my hat. “Tell the people of York they have nothing to fear. Be ready for battle, for trouble is brewing in the north; aye, that much is true. But fear no anger and oppression from the Earl of Northumberland. I will deal with him.”

  “Thank you, your Grace.” The man inclined his head, relief washing over his features.

  “Come, let my grooms stable your horse, and enter my home that you may receive meat and drink after your journey,” I said, my courtesy not forgotten, thought I was annoyed by the news of Percy’s high-handedness.

  As the messenger was escorted into the castle, I turned to Francis with a pained expression. “Not a moment’s peace, Frank. Where will it end?”

  Frank shrugged, doffed his hat and ran a hand through his wind-snarled hair. “Who knows, Dickon? Who knows? All I know is that Percy is an ass but he is likely right—the Scots will not take our raiding as a warning for their own misdeeds, but look at it as provocation. There will, I think, be outright war.”

  “Let them come,” I said.

  Henry Percy wa
s easier to deal with than I thought he might be. With measured politeness, I wrote and expressed the concerns of the people of York, reminding him of our meeting years ago in Nottingham, and how York considered me their ‘especial good lord.’ Percy was a dullard and in some matters inclined to slow-wittedness; in his graceless, sprawling hand, he wrote back with something bordering on an apology for his presumption.

  I pondered his letter, trying to read into his words whether he truly saw his error, or if my intercession on behalf of York had kindled new resentment at the loss of his ancestral authority in the north. From the words, I truly could not tell. Eventually, I crushed the letter into a ball, threw it on the fire. Percy would be dealt with, if necessary.

  York needed to be informed of these developments, so assurances were sent to Mayor Wrangwysh. At the same time, I informed Edward of the situation with the Earl and asked for his counsel and assistance. The King promised he would personally involve himself and allay the fears of the city, telling them to trust in his ‘entirely beloved brother.’ That might not please Northumberland but it would please me, and remind Percy of how things stood in northern England in these times.

  Once the York situation and other essential business was dealt with at Sheriff Hutton, it was home to Middleham, though for just a short time: I had hardly greeted Anne and Little Ned, spending just a few nights with them, than hurried north again, to Carlisle, to check that the castle and it defenses were ready if the border should be compromised. Edward had bid me prepare for war throughout the oncoming winter months; by early summer, we would be ready to mount a great campaign into Scotland. I set myself on raising the necessary forces, including liaising with Henry Percy to see who would be available for the campaign. The Earl of Northumberland was surprisingly amenable, despite having been put back in his place over his highhandedness…but he was still dull as a wet winter and inscrutable as stone. I was glad to leave his stronghold at Alnwick and, at last, head for the Yorkshire Dales.