The King wrote to His Holiness the Pope…and mentioned me in glowing terms. My heart gladdened when word of this reached me, for rumours had arisen that the King was vexed by the outcome in Scotland, that he thought not enough ground was gained and the battles a frivolous waste of expenditure. I had dared not complain to Edward about the lack of finances which had hindered my war efforts; and to put most of the blame on Albany’s vacillations would have made me look weak and churlish.
In any event, I need not have feared, for Ned’s gratitude toward me was great. He wrote to the Holy Father, ‘Thank God, the giver all good gifts, for the support received from our most loving brother, whose success is so proven that he alone would suffice to chastise the whole kingdom of Scotland. This year we appointed our very dear brother Richard Duke of Gloucester to command the same army, which we ourselves intended to have led last year, had not adverse turmoil hindered us. The noble band of victors, however, spared the supplicant and prostrate citizens, the churches, and not only the widows, orphans, and minors, but all persons found there unarmed.'
And that was not all. I learned that when news had reached London that Edinburgh was breached, Ned ordered the Lieutenant of Calais to fire the guns and light bonfires in celebration. Processions filled the streets and my name was spoken in awe as it had been when the troubadours named me ‘Young Hector’ after Barnet.
“It worries me though, Anne,” I said to my wife a month or more after my return from Scotland. “Although Ned is happy enough with the Scottish outcome, I feel sore in my own heart that I did not accomplish my ultimate task. I did not get Albany on the throne. I should have kept him close and forced him to it…with the point of a sword in his cowardly arse!”
Anne was embroidering in the solar, surrounded by her women. “The King is pleased, why shouldn’t you be, husband? You are always worrying. Rest yourself, here where you are loved. You captured Berwick. You got Cecily’s dowry back, did you not? That should be enough for Edward. As far as I can see, it is enough.”
Leaning on the hard, cold windowsill, I stared out over the towers with their fluttering pennants. Light and darkness co-mingled, cloud-shadows played over the green fields beyond the castle walls. “It never seems enough, Anne, Never.”
“Oh you are so gloomy, Richard. You are as thorny some peevish greybeard and you only just turned thirty.”
I sighed, continuing to stare out the window. The wind was high; leaves eddied on its flow, a stream of gold, red, and somber brown. “I am gloomy, Anne. Soon I will have to leave Middleham again. Edward will be sending writs to attend Parliament. I hate London. I hate leaving so soon. I am tired. My back hurts; sometimes it feels as if a million daggers are being stuck in me. I want to teach little Ned more about riding and hunting and hawking. But I must go.”
Anne sighed again and her needle fell into her lap. “Do you wish for me to come with you? We could bring little Ned in a litter or a chariot.”
I shook my head. “I would rather you were well away from that nest of vipers. Edward’s court grows worse each time I visit. As it stands, I would be happy for you and Ned to stay well away.”
“Our son will have to go there someday, though,” Anne said ruefully, “when he is a man grown and takes his place amidst the lords of the land, with his cousin Edward as King of England. But God willing, such a day will not come for many years yet. Many, many years.”
“I pray you are right, Anne,” I sighed, whispering the words, for I had no desire to have gossiping ladies (though Anne always picked close-mouthed maids who seldom tittle-tattled) claim I ill-wished my brother or predicted his demise, which was a treasonable act.
But none of them, including my wife, had seen Edward in recent times. They had watched him grow fat, indolent, but they had not witnessed his sharp decline, the breaking of his strength and his body. I had. It gave me night terrors that woke me in my bed, struggling against the circle of Anne’s arms. I could never remember what exactly occurred in my dreams save that Ned lay cold and dead on a slab, naked save for a black cloth across his middle, and a great heavy weight rested on my head, pressing me down into the grave with my brother, and I could neither see what this heaviness was, this item of torture, nor remove it, and when I grasped its edge with my hands, it grew all the tighter and then blood ran from my fingers, and I cried out and held forth my trembling hands and they dripped pools of blood unto the floor…
Another gust of wind brought more leaves from the nearby trees, eddying and tossing in the turbulent air. They were shrivelled, dying, dead. The air off the moor was cold as the grave.
I slammed the shutters and made them fast.
Christmas season in London was as wretched as expected. The weather stayed mild, but this warmth brought torrents of rain in place of snow, and the Thames broke its banks and spilled forth into nearby streets like vomit as it always did.
Edward was glad to see me, though, and showered me with gifts and praises. Although his weight was greater than ever, and he belched in distress after meals, and walked with a faint limp where his ulcer had still not healed, he seemed resigned to that fact of his dissolution, and was attempting to make the best of it.
The Queen was not much at court that winter; court gossips whispered that she seldom shared a bed with the King, ever since their final child, Bridget, named for the Swedish saint and destined for the nunnery, was born two years ago. She went about her own affairs with her numerous Woodville kin and appeared only on state business. Edward had not spoken to me of such personal matters, but those knowledgeable tapped their noses and said things had grown so frosty between them, that Ned had even removed Elizabeth as the executor of his will.
Jane Shore was still his lover, however, sitting upon his knee at the Christmas feast, kissing him and ruffling his hair, as brazen as you like. She wore jewels he had given her, draped in gaudy splendour over a bosom bursting from a dress of immodest cut. I wondered if she would give the gems to the poor afterwards. She was said to be kind. I had not witnessed her being so. Kind perhaps in the bestowal of her favours…
As she fawned over the King, Jane was laughing, to my ears the shrill sound of a donkey braying. “Come on, Edward; eat up my lord-king!” Her big fulsome lips, painted harlot-red, flapped open as she cried out some further inanities, as if to a child, and pushed a sweetmeat into Edward’s mouth.
“You’re a fine, good girl, my Jane.” Edward patted her bottom. “Looking after me the way you do.”
Disgusted, I turned away. Sensing eyes upon me, I glanced over my shoulder and saw Jane, off Edward’s lap and wandering about the Great Hall. It was not just Edward who seemed entranced by the trollop…Dorset and the ever-lecherous Hastings were both still quite clearly enamoured of the wench, God only knew why. Dorset placed an arm around her briefly, squeezing; next, Hastings was engaging her in over-animated conversation, his drink-bright gaze stripping the scanty gown from her body.
Suddenly she left both her suitors, and sidled up next to me, reeking of expensive scent no doubt given her by Edward. “I love your brother,” she said.
“Madam, we should not be having this conversation,” I replied in the iciest tone I could muster.
“I do not understand you, my lord of Gloucester. Is a bit of joy, a bit of laughter, too much to bear? Life can be so cold, so cruel; why not share a bit of happiness while we can?”
“Happiness? Is that what you share with Thomas Grey and Will Hastings as well as with the King?” I snapped. This conversation made me hideously uncomfortable; sweat began to dampen my collar.
Jane’s painted lips sagged in shock, as if she was so used to the praises of her paramours that she could scarce believe her charms had no effect on me. “You are nothing like him, are you?”
She was truly insolent, speaking so to a Royal Duke, though I supposed she was well-used to behaving above her station. If she had been a man, she would have never spoken so again. I yearned to strike out at her…with words.
“No, I
am not. I would not presume to tell the King what he should do, but I am glad that I do not share my woman with my friends, nor allow her to expose those…” my eyes flicked down to her tightly bound-up breasts, “to my brother and half of London. You seem rather fond of showing them to all and sundry, Mistress Jane. To the King this might seem but foolish merriment, to most men of decency it makes you a simple slut.”
Jane looked upset now, as if she might cry. I willed her to restrain herself, for tears might raise Edward’s wrath and I had no wish to fall afoul of him over this strumpet. Though knowing Edward, he would probably laugh and try to get us to kiss and forgive, and call for more feasting, dancing and minstrels.
The day was saved for me, surprisingly, by the Marquis of Dorset. Like a hound sniffing out a bitch, up he sidled, torchlight shining on his helmet of silver-fair hair. Taking Jane’s hand, he raised it to his lips. “It ever gladdens the heart to see your face, Mistress Jane. But you look doleful tonight. Does Gloucester make you feel sad this winter’s eve? Such a dour fellow!”
I glared at him, wondering how he dared speak so. How proud and over-mighty these Woodvilles had become! Along with the harlots and other hangers-on of Ned’s court.
He saw my expression, laughed again. Jane’s brimming tears had mysteriously vanished and she clung to Dorset’s arm just as she was inclined to cling to Ned’s. “Come now, Richard, why the frown? I only jested! What think you of the most recent news from Scotland? After only just gaining back his appointments, the Duke of Albany has already fallen afoul of the Scottish nobles. They have rejected him as Lieutenant General and he has fled to Dunbar in terror for his life! James’ faithful have at last rallied to his side; he is once again the undisputed King. A pity you could not have put Duke Alexander on the Scottish throne as Edward wished, and done away with James.”
“I beg your pardon for my laxity in the matter,” I muttered with searing sarcasm. “I am certain you, my Lord Dorset, with all your charm and wittiness, could have accomplished such a feat in an eye’s blink, were you there…Ah, I forgot, you were there.”
Dorset’s mouth, with its small, pearly, Woodville teeth, dropped open in shock. Before he had time to think of a response, I stalked away from him and the bawd, and soon the contemptible pair were mercifully lost in the thick torch-smoke and the press of dancers, musicians and acrobats.
I found myself squashed into a corner with, of all people, Will Hastings. He was clearly drunk and looking rather miserable, probably because the younger, comelier Dorset was courting flighty Jane Shore, while he was left fondling only the stem of his goblet. “Richard…Richard, here, have a drink!” he cried out, slurring.
A servant poured a glass of malmsey for me and I sat next to the older man. I had known Will Hastings for years; he had joined Ned and me as an exile in Burgundy, and had stood by my side at Olney, when Ned surrendered to George Neville and was taken north to Middleham, where Warwick placed him under house arrest. (Edward later escaped while out hunting, outriding his gaolers and fleeing over the moors to freedom like the hero of some ancient folk tale.)
Despite his loyalty to York, Will was not my favourite person. Hastings and I had no real reason for animosity, but perhaps, as a youth, a little envy tainted my feelings towards him...he had a large part of my brother’s love and I could not understand why. Now he merely irked me with his dissolute ways and his encouragement of Edward in his vices of gluttony and sensuality…
“Richard, it hatthh been long since we spoke,” he slurred. “I am worried for the King, I truly am. I’ll wager you are likewise.”
I grunted, glancing at him from under my lashes. He continued on, words tumbling from his mouth in a spray of wine. “Too many Woodvilles here, Richard. Too many. Even though the Queen and King have grown cold, they are here, sisters, brothers, nieces, nephews, cousins…like spiders spinning multiple webs, tangling all of us in them, then greedily sucking us dry. I hate Rivers, Richard, do you know that? Not so long ago the bastard accused me of some misdemeanor, and Edward took Rivers’ side against me! I was sidelined for months and in fear of my livelode and even my freedom. Fortunately, Edward saw sense in the end and remembered my long years of loyalty and friendship.”
Hastings’ fingers drummed nervously on the table; his eyes were bloodshot as he stuck his face near to mine. “Rivers hates me in equal measure, of course. The greedy bastard was incensed because the position of Captain of Calais was wrest from his groping hands and given to me. He wanted his revenge and he took it. Never cross that Woodville lot if you can avoid it, Gloucester…but I am sure you know that already.”
Balefully, he glared out across the hall to where Jane Shore was wrapped around Thomas Grey. “And Dorset, God rot him, acting well beyond his station. Thinks himself of especial importance because he is half-brother to the Prince of Wales. Look at him there, prating to Jane, fair, fickle Jane.”
Cheap, unchaste Jane, I mused, but kept my thoughts to myself.
On and on went Hastings, spilling out his woes with the Woodvilles…and then, at last, his grizzled head sank onto his folded arms and a snoring noise emanated from his mouth.
I slipped away from the wreckage of the banquet, rode with my henchmen through the dark streets to Crosby Place. The house was my haven against the vices of London and Ned’s court; silent, peaceful, if lonely without Anne, and cold this eve because a servant had forgotten to light the main fire. I went straight to my chamber and slept until dawn’s light.
The King was in a rage, a towering rage. His face held such a ghastly hue I feared he would have a fit. “Calm yourself, your Grace,” I soothed, trying to catch his swinging arm, guide him towards his cushioned chair. “Let us discuss what has happened…”
“There is naught to discuss!” Edward bawled, spittle from his lips striking my cheek. He flipped my arm off; his strength was still enormous, even in his decline. “The fucking French! That bloody whoreson Louis! He has betrayed me! Shamed me and mine! ”
He grabbed a parchment on the table, tore it up and hurled the fragments on the floor. “Bloody hell, why is he still so damn acquisitive? By the Rood, he’ nigh-on dead; he’s suffered two apoplectic fits, and yet he’s still trying to snatch Burgundy. Ah, why did poor young Mary die instead of that unsavoury, meddling creature?”
I stared at the floor. Several months ago, our sister Margaret’s stepdaughter, Mary of Burgundy, died in a riding accident. While out hawking, her mount stumbled and fell upon her, trapping her beneath its weight and breaking her spine. She had scarcely been entombed in Bruges when Louis began an invasion into Burgundian territory. In desperation, Mary’s bereaved husband, Maximilian, made terms with Louis, offering his daughter Margaret as a bride for the Dauphin of France. Burgundy and Artois would come with Margaret’s hand. Louis had readily agreed to these terms.
England would no longer have an ally in the Spider King. Elizabeth, Ned’s eldest girl, who had been set to marry the Dauphin, was spurned. The handsome pension paid since ’75 would pour into Edward’s coffers no more.
“I wish...I want to destroy him!” Edward’s hands clenched and unclenched furiously. He glanced up at me, baleful-eyed, and then he shook that mighty head and his expression became one of ruefulness and woe. “You knew, didn’t you, Gloucester? You, my baby brother, knew all those years ago, while I walked into folly like one blind. Would that I had listened to you.”
Suddenly he threw his arms around me, a hard embrace. “Yes, I should have listened.”
“We could still invade France.” My voice was a harsh rasp against his gem-encrusted doublet. “Hit hard before Louis knows what he has awoken in England. He will find he has truly reaped the whirlwind. Let us do it, Edward. For York, for our ancestors who once held France.”
Ned’s arms fell away; a sigh broke from his lips. “No…no, Richard. I just do not think…it can be done. It is too late. We can only wait now…for the Spider to die.”
“Well, if not France, let us assail Scotland once a
gain! Albany has lost the position he sold out for, and is hiding in Dunbar. He might prove a little more loyal to us if he realises we are his best option. If we could get him upon the Scottish throne, we could break the old alliance of Scotland and France, and then Louis will have aught to fear.”
Edward nodded but he still looked bleak. “It is something to think on, Richard. Something to think on for the future.”
Ned gave me something to think on for my future. At the meeting of Parliament, the Wardenship of the West Marches was granted to me in perpetuity. Carlisle was mine, and all Edward’s lands and manors in Cumberland. Any lands I had seized on the Scots border were also legally mine, and I could make the inhabitants denizens of England under my seal, if I so chose. These vast lands were not just granted to me for my lifetime but would pass to all my heirs after me.
It was a great gift, showing the depths of Edward’s gratitude. Twisted with jealousy, some men whispered that no king had ever given his brother such an array of lands and powers, and that it would bring no good to the peace of the country. Listening to their envious rants, I thought of the words in Proverbs: A tranquil heart gives life to the flesh, but envy makes the bones rot.
With any luck, this would prove true.
Once Parliament closed, I readied to leave London. I saw the King one last time at Westminster. “I will think about taking on the Scots again,” he said, clasping my hand and kissing me in farewell. “I swear if it comes to pass, I will ride with you. No more excuses. I will temper my drink and my meat, as Hobbes always tells me I must, and train myself anew for battle.”
“Yes,” I said. “May the day come when we can fight in the field together again.”
But strangely, I could muster no enthusiasm, and prayed Ned could not hear the flatness in my voice. It would not happen. I knew. I wanted it to happen…but it would not. I would go on about my duties, serving my King, but it would just be me, on my own. The three Sons of York, the three Suns, had set forever: one lay cold and rotten in the crypt at Tewkesbury, while the greatest of the three waned in strength through his own unbridled vices, and the last and the least, imbued with great wealth and power, but alone, was but a small inconsequential spark left burning in the shadow of Edward’s dying sun.
I, Richard Plantagenet: Book One: Tante le Desiree Page 36
