Fumbling, he drew a letter from his breast and knelt.
“Three days ago . . . the king . . . God rest his soul . . . is dead.”
Thirteen
“No lusty comets at his highness’s passing. You would think we should have seen some portent,” mused Miles, a widower still, passing Harry the calendar, as the duke’s close councilors swiftly reassembled in Harry’s chamber. Rhys ap Thomas was with them (it would have been difficult to deny him) and Myfannwy, unwed and lips quivering, was being soothed by Cat and the woman they thought was Lady Haute. The marriage could wait.
“Ha! Why bother with a dead king when we may concern ourselves with the new one?” retorted the duke.
“Lord Hastings writes that the queen is sending two thousand men to fetch her son from Ludlow.” Miles read the letter through again. “We ought to swell the retinue.” It was difficult to stay calm. At last, his dream of high office might come true. Hastings was asking for Harry’s help against the queen.
“Should you not see which way the winds of power blow?” ap Thomas suggested. “I am told, see, that Gloucester has little liking for the queen and her kinsmen.”
“Exactly,” the duke chuckled, “there could be rich pickings.” Yes, thought Miles, and if the queen and Gloucester could be encouraged to destroy each other, the House of Lancaster might rise again and Harry claim the throne.
“Here, Miles.” With a scatter of sand across his broad scrawl, the duke folded and sealed his letter. “I am sending a pledge of support to my cousin Gloucester,” he informed the others, swiftly grinding his signet into the soft wax. “Pershall shall ride with you, Miles, in case of mishap, and take this too.” He tugged off a smaller ring. “Convince Gloucester of my loyalty. Convince him that he is in mortal danger if the Woodvilles seize the kingdom. Tell him to bring an army—where is that map again? Tell him I shall meet him at . . . at Northampton.”
CROSSING THE BAILEY WAS DANGEROUS WITH HORSES BEING led out and couriers mounting, and Miles, fastening his sword belt across his riding doublet, nearly collided with Heloise. She had Ned in her arms, watching the preparations but no doubt lying in wait for him. Well, he was not rid of her yet but . . .
“Is it so certain the king is dead?” she exclaimed, hastening after him. “What did the letter say?”
“Infection of the lungs. From fishing, I believe. And now we have a child for king!”
“Huzzah!” Ned flung his arms up.
“Exactly,” muttered Miles, with feeling. “Enjoy the reprieve, madam.” He caught the reins of the post-horse from his groom, sprang into the saddle, and slid his feet into the leather messenger guards. “I am for Yorkshire to my lord of Gloucester.” He could have said more but there was no privacy.
“Sir—” Heloise longed to beg him to bear her love to Dionysia and Lady Margery but there were greater matters for him to deal with. “Go safely,” she said, a wife’s concern tender in her voice.
“I pray so! We may well be on the verge of war. God keep you, my little lord, and you, too, my lady! Stand aside!” And he spurred the post-horse through the gate.
AT MIDDLEHAM IN WENSLEYDALE, MILES, WITH A THREE-DAY beard untidying his chin and his eyes gritty from weariness, knelt before the Duke of Gloucester. His grace, somber in mourning, his sorrow for his much-loved brother writ large upon his face, read Harry’s letter with stern concentration; perhaps the promise of alliance was unlooked-for; the two dukes had always been polite to one another but never close.
“My lord suggests you bring as many men as you can hastily array, your grace, and meet with him at Northampton to escort the Prince of Wales to London.”
The ivory complexion of Duke Richard creased, displeased. “Holy Paul! I trust my cousin of Buckingham is not suggesting I arrive with an army at my back to escort a twelve-year-old boy. That will seem a trifle aggressive!”
Miles was almost too tired to argue. “My lord, Lord Hastings wrote to his grace that the queen is sending two thousand Woodville retainers to escort the prince.”
“And so he wrote to me.” Golden-brown eyes, longer-lashed and warmer than Harry’s, examined him.
“My lord, his grace of Buckingham believes that the queen intends to crown the prince with all speed and make herself the power in this land. He fears for your future and his own if she prevails.” He held his breath as Gloucester arched an eyebrow at his henchmen.
“Most considerate of your duke, Sir Miles,” said Frances, Lord Lovell, folding his arms. “But how do we know this is not some enticement to lure his grace of Gloucester into danger? After all, Buckingham is brother-in-law to the queen.”
Miles turned his dusty face again to the duke and stood up at his bidding. “I think you know my lord’s mind where the queen is concerned, your grace. He has no love for her or any of her kin. He is willing to support you as Lord Protector of England in whatever path you take.”
“Harry’s message is timely, thanks to you, for we were about to leave early tomorrow.” Gloucester’s coppery red-brown head bent consideringly over the letter again before he looked up at Miles. “However, Sir Miles, it seems to me that making good speed is better than delaying to gather a larger force, and I trust we go to welcome a king, not to make war. But, given these uncertain times, your master’s warning is accepted right gladly. I shall send a fresh messenger posthaste to tell him so. Ride with us south tomorrow, Sir Miles, if it pleases you.”
Like a chance to spend eternity in Hell! Miles bowed his willingness, but all he wanted was anywhere horizontal where he might sleep and sleep.
“SIR MILES RUSHDEN?” A NOBLE LADY INTERCEPTED HIM AS HE followed the steward across the great hall. Maybe she thought him befuddled, for he was scarcely able to confront the wide blue gaze, and he disliked the sense that he was being weighed in her balance.
“I am Margery, Lady Huddleston, sir, half-sister to the duchess. Her grace craves forgiveness for her curiosity but she believes she may be acquainted with your wife and desires news of her.”
His tired mind was not up to careful phrases nor did his clouded sight focus on the female blur of yellow hair and gauzy veil hovering behind her. “Madam, I crave her grace’s pardon. I have no wife. I am . . . betrothed to a Welsh demoiselle.”
The lady frowned, drew breath to make some comment, then changed her mind. “There must be some mistake, then. Good night to you, sir,” she replied coldly and drew the younger girl with her.
For some reason he was too tired to fathom, his answer had not pleased Lady Huddleston. Nor, when it came to the truth, did it entirely please him.
NORTHAMPTON, WHICH STANK OF TANNED LEATHER ON A still day, boasted smithies, horse dealers, wheelwrights, and alehouses of sufficient standard to please the fussy traveler, as well as shoes for kings. For a Tuesday afternoon and such a modest town, decided Miles as he rode in through North Gate in Gloucester’s retinue, there was an excessive amount of horse dung being cleaned up from the road. Evidence of the new king’s arrival? If so, why were there only townsfolk to greet them?
Yes, gasped the mayor, panting as he headed the crowd of welcome on the steps of the Queen Eleanor Cross, the prince had passed through Northampton with Lord Rivers, and, yes, their retinue had filled the entire main street before departing for Stony Stratford, some fourteen miles ahead.
So the Woodvilles had not bothered to wait for Gloucester as promised. Fourteen miles! Miles groaned at the thought but Duke Richard, too, was weary. He sent a messenger to Stony Stratford to advise of his arrival and, to Miles, muttered that he hoped Buckingham was still of the same mind; then he dug himself in at the cleanest inn.
And where was Harry? worried Miles, downing a jack of ale outside Gloucester’s lodging. Surely Harry had not broken his word and gone on to Stony Stratford with the prince? The aldermen, hanging around Gloucester’s hostelry like dogs waiting for a she-dog in heat, were not much help. There had been so many pennons earlier, they told Miles apologetically.
His fellow travelers
, Gloucester’s men, had suddenly developed short leashes on their tempers. It had been three days’ hard riding since Nottingham and before that, the long, pressured journey down from York with the road constantly beneath their smarting eyes. And it was not just saddlesores that made them terse; two thousand men loyal to the queen lay but an hour’s hard riding south and Buckingham and his retinue were inexplicably missing. Godsakes, thought Miles, more of this and he might end up manacled in the prison by the gate by nightfall.
It was not until after the town bells chimed two that a horseman in the Stafford livery was sighted and Miles with relief led Ralph Bannastre in to kneel at Gloucester’s boots. At last! His grace of Buckingham would be in Northampton by sunset. If Gloucester huffed a sigh of relief, it was not audible. Oh, Christ, he does not trust us yet, thought Miles.
When Harry finally blessed Northampton with his coming, Miles had reason to be proud. It was not just the silken knots and collared swans aflutter on the sarsynett banners and the company of some three hundred men in scarlet and black. It was because, astoundingly, and with a surge of ingenuity, Harry had Ned across his saddle before him. He presented the epitome of a friendly lord bringing his little son to meet the young king—certainly not with any treacherous thought of raising a sword against anyone, no, not at all! It was as good as rolling belly up.
With a flourish of sleeves and manly hugs, the two dukes greeted one another. The White Boar men whistled with relief. Miles was the one who tensed, pleasure and displeasure curdling, as the child’s governess located him like a foraging bee.
Heloise, her saddle calluses hidden beneath a dusty riding kirtle, accosted her astonished, haggard husband at the rear of the crowded outer chamber with a blend of sparkle and caution. “I give you good day, sir.” Her curtsy was knee-deep; his armored bow was less than deferential. “The duke has brought Traveller for you and Myfannwy is all forgiveness and sends her greetings.”
“Good God, madam,” he answered honestly, “I thought I had seen the last of you.”
“I can see you missed me.” Her dry answer reached out to nettle him. “It was Ned’s insistence. Your duke thought it seemed like a good idea.”
“I cannot think why.” Rushden’s mouth held firm but his strained gaze was reasonably forgiving as he allowed her to isolate him. “Or maybe I can,” he murmured, the steel in his eyes turning molten as he examined her for fingermarks and creasing. “Do reassure me that Harry has been too preoccupied”—his gaze lingered on her breasts—“to press you into other duties.” A double-layered concern, no doubt.
“Oh, you still hold the key,” she retorted, and caught her breath, the hot blood flushing her skin, “but—but I quit Brecknock by the skin of my teeth. After you left, I sent Martin to Hay so he might alert me when the real Lady Haute arrived there, you see. She had and he did, so it was fortunate that Ned threw a splendid tantrum.”
“I see,” lied Rushden, glancing round to make sure that they were still out of earshot. “Well, this is no place for you, believe me.”
“Why, what are you up to, sir?” she asked. “Improving Buckingham’s fortunes?” The wicked serpents on his breast glinted at her murderously.
“It is not a woman’s matter.” He rubbed a hand across his weary forehead.
“Is it not the queen’s?” she retorted; and risked adding, “Half of England is made up of women. Why should we not be interested in who rules us?” A loud jingle of harness outside distracted him. She would have asked for news of Middleham but the buzz around them had changed its timbre.
“Godsakes, changeling, not now,” he muttered as the White Boar men’s hands hovered at their sword hilts. Jesu!
“Sir!” She was scared now, seeing the alert soldier in Rushden take control. His mouth thinned and he scanned the Stafford men, making swift contact with each.
“For your own safety, Lady Haute,” he said grimly, as de la Bere brought Ned to her, “just play at nursemaids and keep the boy from harm. The Woodvilles have double the men and the situation is delicate.” Then he tensed like a drawn bow as a tall lord, fair and handsome despite his harvest years, clad in a brocade doublet worthy of an emperor, entered, looking utterly incongruous—an iridescent beetle surrounded by armored ants—and proud of it.
“Who on earth is that?” she whispered, tiptoeing behind him to see better.
“Lord Rivers! He must have come back from Stony Stratford to kiss hands or else . . . Bring Ned and be wary!” Urgently taking her by the forearm, Rushden pushed through the throng to Buckingham’s side.
A Woodville! The queen and Duchess Catherine’s brother! Heloise sensed Buckingham’s hackles rising beneath his broad collar as the newcomer with an urbane laugh stretched out his arms to the two dukes, just like a clever tumbler who had just landed on his feet. They did not applaud. An emerald of roseleaf proportion flashed on the cool hand that clasped Buckingham’s fingers and sea green eyes smiled cleverly into Gloucester’s with a hard brilliance. For an instant Heloise glimpsed misapprehension brush like a bat’s wings swiftly across the latter’s face. Was he wondering if Rivers and his brother-in-law, Buckingham, were dissembling allies out to disarm him with a main course of words and a dessert of daggers? Were they? But Buckingham set his heel upon any fuses by summoning Ned. The child made a bow to his maternal uncle, clearly disliking the scrutiny he was receiving.
The eldest Woodville sprawled himself across the chair they offered him, his grin lazy and apologetic. “Yes, yes, I know I arranged that we were to meet you both in Northampton, my lords, but there simply would not have been room for all our retinues, so we are just up the road at Stony Stratford. The prince and my other nephew, Grey, send you their greetings and are looking forward to meeting with you both tomorrow et cetera.” That done, Rivers flashed a shiny smile at Buckingham. “I hope Northampton does not hold too many ghosts for you, Harry?”
Buckingham for an instant missed the ball. Heloise did too, until she remembered Sir William explaining that Ned’s great-grandfather had been slain in a battle at Hardingstone Fields outside the town, fighting against the Yorkists. Was Rivers being tactless? The unexpected verbal scratch after the handshake of courtesy drew its own ambiguous response:
“No ghost that will bother me, Rivers. Loyalty to one’s king is nothing to be ashamed of, as you know well.”
Interesting, thought Heloise. Parry and thrust! She knew that Lord Rivers had supported the House of Lancaster until his sister became the Yorkist queen.
“Shall we dine?” said Gloucester diplomatically and there were uncertain glances and tactful hesitations among the retinues. Who would be dining with these great lords? Rushden, summoned by Buckingham’s nod, gave Heloise a reassuring glance.
“You are better out of this.” He tweaked Ned’s nose. It surprised all three of them. “Remember what I said,” he admonished her.
“Oh, I keep a commonplace book of your utterances, Sir Miles. Come, Lord Stafford, let us leave these grown men to their games.”
AFTER SUPPER, LISTENING TO THE SPARKLING CONFIDENCE OF Rivers, which put the less learned Buckingham and his quieter cousin in the shade, Miles wondered how without the numbers they could seize the initiative from this smooth courtier. He read the answer in Harry’s face, the hate nailed down like a coffin lid. Gloucester, in contrast, still mourned, his chin resting on his hand, watching the swirling depths of his wine as he moved the cup back and forth, making wet circles on the wood. Fatigue hovered in the dusky shadows about his eyes and his chestnut hair looked lank in the candlelight.
“I heard a good story the other day,” Rivers was saying. “There was a man who heard that his wife had drowned in the nearby river. He set out to search for her body. ‘Why are you walking upstream?’ asked his neighbors. ‘Surely you know that the body will be carried downstream by the current?’ The man answered, ‘Of course I know that, but when my wife was alive, she always acted contrary to my wishes. That is why I am looking upstream. Even though she’s dead, she
probably is doing the opposite of what she should.’ ”
“What are the arrangements for the morning?” asked Harry, letting the laughter lapse, and instantly every man present held his breath for Rivers’s answer.
“I suggest the three of us shall ride together to Stony Stratford. I have told them to expect us around noon if that suits you, my lords?”
“And how is the prince?”
“The king,” corrected Rivers loftily as if he were issuing an official proclamation, “has a nagging tooth and is not accustomed to so much traveling, but is looking forward to seeing his mother and the rest of his family again. One does wish the weather was better. I do not like the look of the sky tonight.”
“Poor little prince,” Harry laughed. “Three uncles bearing down on him.”
“There must be a word for it. I really ought to be able to think of something.” Rivers snapped his fingers. “Ah, I have it, a triangle of uncles.” With that he rose and bowed to Gloucester. “Would you be offended if I leave you now? I simply must go to bed. What with traveling and the king’s grace so full of questions—only to be expected, I daresay, but one feels one must answer them—and it does wear one out.”
Gloucester pushed back his chair to escort him out; Miles’s duke did not rise.
“Good night, Harry,” Rivers said pointedly before he ducked beneath the lintel. Buckingham raised his winecup in valediction.
“What o’clock is it?” asked Gloucester, returning to the room.
“Almost nine,” replied Sir Richard Ratcliffe, rising unbidden to refill his master’s cup, but the duke spread a hand over the rim.
“Rivers has left me with a gift. Let us see what it is.”
Lord Lovell slid a leather-wrapped parcel from its traveling box out onto the board. Miles stood up with the others and went to look over his lord’s shoulder. A printed book—still a rarity—manufactured by Caxton under the Red Pale in the precincts of Westminster Palace. Lovell undid the fastenings and opened the embossed leather cover. Rivers’s personal translation of The Dictes and Sayings of Philosophers.
Moonlight And Shadow Page 22
