by Amy Licence
Warwick was in the doorway, helping Edmund out into the daylight. ‘Where the devil did you go? I almost left you behind. Your father has sent an escort, let’s get down to the river.’
Later, Edward did not remember the exact building, the dark deserted inn, or the little room, where he had seen the woman. Back at court, safely ensconced behind Westminster walls, the actual building faded into dust but he revisited the moment time and time again. Sometimes, in his imagination, she pitied him, embraced him like a mother. At other times, when he lay wakeful at night, listening to Edmund’s gentle breath, he pictured her opening up her white body in the darkness and drawing him towards her.
EIGHT: Love and Duty
The rooks were circling over Westminster Palace. Its great sprawling complex crouched on the riverbank, a maze of red brick, arches, roofs and chimneys, of blazing fires and scurrying feet, of clerks writing letters and seals imprinted in wax. In the kitchens, cooks sliced the flesh of roast meat and kneaded pastry with their fingertips; inside the royal wardrobe, white linen was scrubbed with lye and scented with lavender. Wood was chopped, water poured and, somewhere, a lackey sat on a step, polishing the Duke of York’s boots.
Edward threw open the window. Cool air raced inside, sharp with the tang of grass and water. The royal apartments looked out across the gardens and down to the river, grey and unpredictable, lapping against the palace steps. Below, he could see boatmen on the wooden jetty, winding in long coils of ropes and the keeper of the hounds exercising the dogs in the orchard.
He had left the others in the bedchamber, where the walls were hung with scarlet cloth and tapestries of saints and knights, locked in prayer and battle forever by the warp and weft of woven thread. Edmund still needed a few more days’ rest before his ankle was strong enough to walk on and he had been amusing himself with ancient stories of romance and chivalry. The book lay on the seat in the alcove. Edward took it up and paused. From outside, he heard the first, faint patter of rain drops striking the glass. As he pulled the window shut, a pair of riders made their way through the gates and into the courtyard below.
He was crossing the floor when he heard voices approaching. Some instinct made him pause and draw back behind the heavy curtain, as his mother and father entered the chamber. The door closed behind them before they started to speak.
‘So the rioters have been caught and punished?’ His mother asked softly.
York’s voice was strained. ‘The ringleaders. It should show the rest that we mean business.’
‘So why are there still whisperings about it?’
‘It is an easy weapon against me. No doubt there will be those who wish to read something into it and say that I am unable to keep the peace.’
Cecily sighed. ‘But you did, you restored order the same night.’
‘That fact is less important to some than the outbreak of violence itself.’
‘Beaufort?’
‘Perhaps,’ York mused. ‘He has little reason to love me. Or the Tudor brothers, I don’t know for sure.’
‘But the tensions in the city have been there for months; it is always the way when foreigners meet with success. Someone will resent their hard work and use it as a chance to settle scores. It was the same under the king, if not worse.’
York paused. ‘The truth never hinders those with malice in their hearts.’
‘My poor love,’ The duchess’s voice was low and soothing. Edward imagined her laying her hand gently on the back of York’s neck, which was her habitual gesture of comfort. ‘Is there anything else to be done?’
‘I will make a statement in the council but, beyond that, we know what these Lancastrians are capable of. It is probably their intention to poison the queen and young Beaufort against me, if it was possible that they could dislike me further.’
‘Would it help if I write to the queen again? I could enquire after the king’s health and send some comfits for the prince.’
‘It cannot hurt. Perhaps she will take more notice of you.’
Edward dared to peep out between the curtains but his parents stood by the roaring hearth, intent on their troubles and did not notice the movement.
York was pouring wine from a jug on the table. ‘And then there is the star. People in the city are buzzing with the news of a great gleaming star which appeared in the sky the other night.’
Cecily raised her arched eyebrows, prone to belief in the superstitious and unexplained. ‘A star?’
‘I know. In the north, apparently. The timing is not good, I cannot think what it means but there are already whispers that it will mark some sort of change.’
‘Then let it be a good one,’ Cecily placed her hand on his arm. ‘Why would it not be a bringer of good news for us, a sign of our success? I will offer my prayers again and ask for guidance.’
York nodded and drained his glass.
There was a knock at the door. Edward stepped back again into the shadow and heard his father’s reply, followed by a scraping as the handle turned.
‘My Lord, there is a merchant downstairs who would speak with you; he has letters of introduction from my Lord of Warwick.’
‘Then show him in. His arrival is timely as we were just speaking of the recent rioting.’
Edward shifted his position slightly and parted the heavy curtains an inch, to allow him a glimpse of the new arrival. A man shuffled humbly into the room, warm in his rich furs although his brows were knit with concern. Edward recognised him at once as the Italian merchant Boratti he had seen dining in the great hall a few weeks before, with his daughters. That graceful pale face and slanting eyes flashed inside his mind again.
The merchant bowed low.
‘Please, rise, you are welcome. You have letters of introduction?’
The man handed over a paper which York took and scrutinised.
‘But of course, I remember you. When you came here last we discussed the damage to your property. Will you sit, take some wine?’
‘Thank you my Lord, I have no need.’
‘Then tell me how I may be of assistance. How did you fare in the recent rioting?’
‘Not too badly, in comparison with others. Our horses were turned loose but we recovered them and shut the gates before the worst of it.’
‘Were your family at home?’ asked Cecily gently.
‘Yes. We were unfortunate in that respect, my Lady, thank you for your concern. My wife and daughters were alarmed but they suffered no other injury, thanks be to God.’
‘Indeed, He is merciful.’
Boratti turned again to York. ‘I have come to ask, my Lord, for your blessing regarding my daughter Alasia’s marriage. I would have asked her godfather, but he passed away in the riots and the rest of our family is in Milan still.’
Edward’s attention was caught. He watched the merchant tugging at his grey beard as he spoke. ‘She has been betrothed to a neighbour since she was a child but now we have the chance of a far better match, a leading guildsman, a cousin of the mayor, recently widowed. We do not wish for any trouble if we break the original terms of the betrothal.’
‘Have promises been exchanged?’
‘Only when she was seven years of age and now she is fourteen.’
‘And there has been no consummation?’
Edward tensed.
‘Indeed there has not! I have guarded her most zealously.’
‘Then rest assured, you have my backing. I will answer that you are acting legally and justly. The first contract is easy to dissolve; your daughter may wed without any concern.’
Boratti bowed low. ‘Thank you for your kindness, thank you, my good Lord.’
With characteristic generosity, the duchess added, ‘Why not bring her to court and she can pass a few days with my ladies and acquire a little courtly polish?’
The merchant was visibly moved. ‘Your goodness overwhelms me, I cannot thank you enough. In fact, my child awaits me downstairs.’
‘Then I shall come dow
n and meet her,’ smiled the duchess.
As they left the room, Edward breathed out deeply. He could scarcely conceal the smile from his face as he hurried through into the adjoining bedchamber, his fingers wrapped tightly around the book of romances.
Edmund was sitting in the chair where he had left him, his ankle stretched out on a cushion. He did not mind the enforced stillness, in fact it almost suited him, as a period of contemplation, of observation and deep thought. At his feet, his younger brothers were being taught their letters. Margaret’s dark head was bent over her primer, her finger reverently tracing the line of the words. Behind them, Elizabeth was sitting on their mother’s bed, unpicking a knot in a pair of gold laces.
It was a peaceful scene, a safe, comfortable place, but Edward’s heart rebelled against it. In Elizabeth’s dutiful fingers and in Margaret’s low tones; in the unfinished game of chess on the table and the half-drunk cups of watered wine; in the small boys’ bent heads and in the wooden toy soldiers in their painted box, Edward was reminded of everything to do with his childhood.
He dropped the book into Edmund’s lap. The hazel eyes warmed in a brief smile, then into comprehension.
‘You’re not staying to read?’
‘I will be back shortly, I promise, but there is something I must… I have to… I’ll be back.’
He darted from the room, leaving childhood behind, and headed down the corridor in the wake of his parents.
*
Edward reached the bottom of the staircase in time to see his parents enter one of the council rooms and the heavy carved doors closing behind. He stopped in the corridor to catch his breath, hesitating whether or not to knock against the solid wood. Inside, there would be Warwick, Salisbury and his Bourchier uncles, gathered to discuss the war with France with the likes of the Tudors and Buckingham, drawing a silent line between the life of the court and the world of men, of business and statutes and acts of law. Yet, if his mother had gone in there, if the merchant was with them, it meant that the formal meeting had not yet got underway. A faint ray of sunshine spilled down at his feet from a high, unseen window. It seemed to be a sign of encouragement. He stepped up to the door and listened. One hand rose gently and he grazed the wood with his fingertips.
Then, as if he had knocked, the door pulled back, enough to allow a single figure to leave. Instinct drew Edward towards the shadows but it was too late, he had been seen. And yet, this slight figure, dressed in grey cloth edged with dyed fur, seemed as hesitant as him. She closed the door softly and stepped into the light. The sun caught her modest headdress, with its graceful folds of white linen, the pale curve of her cheek and throat. Slanting bright eyes lifted to meet his.
She dropped into a curtsey at once.
‘I was, I was just about to…’ he stammered.
She inclined her head and stepped aside to let him pass.
‘I mean, no, I won’t go in now. What are you doing here?’
The girl looked up, surprised, as if she had broken some rule.
‘No, I don’t mean that.’ He coloured at his clumsiness, he must pull himself together and act according to his rank. He stiffened his shoulders. ‘What brings you here, my Lady?’
The formality made her feel safer. ‘I came here with my father; he is attending upon the Duke of York.’ She dropped her eyes again and added, more softly, ‘your father.’
‘So you know who I am then?’
‘Of course, my Lord. They sent me to wait outside while they arrange my future.’ He could not help but notice the sting in her voice as she spoke those words.
And that might have been it: he could have nodded, given her his blessing, passed on by, entered the chamber and seen her no more, this delightful girl who was expected to better her family’s fortunes. Instead, in spite of himself, a little voice in his head urged him to stay.
‘What is your name?’
He knew the answer, but it seemed the easiest way to get her to speak.
‘Alasia Boratti, my Lord. My father is Giotto Boratti, a merchant of Gold Lane. Off Thames Street.’
‘I know it. What does he deal in, your father?’
‘Spices, my Lord.’
‘And is that his business here today, selling spices?’
He watched the blush spread through her cheeks, the discomfort that seemed to crumple her paleness. It ignited something like pleasure in him.
‘No, my Lord.’
He waited, slowly taking her in, detail by detail. Her mouth was wide and generous, covering small, well-shaped teeth. The dress she wore was modest enough for her station, with a few tasteful adornments at the neck and hem. It fitted her closely at the waist and he could not help his eyes from noting the swell where the material strained across her young chest. He swiftly darted his eyes away, embarrassed by his interest.
‘My father seeks to give my hand in marriage. They asked me to wait outside while…’
‘Ah. You are of age to wed, then?’
‘I will be fifteen this winter.’
‘You are fortunate to have a father who makes good provision for your future.’
‘I am fortunate indeed.’ Her lower lip quivered a little. She looked away.
‘Here,’ he led her towards an alcove.
‘My Lord, I…’
‘Don’t worry, you will come to no harm, you are under my father’s protection. We can talk here.’
‘But I…’
‘You can fear nothing from me, nor in such a place like this, which is so open and busy. I mean only to aid your advancement.’
‘Forgive me, my Lord, I meant nothing by it.’
‘You do not wish to be married?’
She let out a deep sigh. ‘It is not that. Please don’t think me ungrateful.’
‘Then what is it? You dislike the man they have chosen?’
‘That would be simple.’ She replied softly. ‘He is honourable, and a good man. But…’
‘But what?’
‘I do not feel ready. He is old, almost as old as my father.’
Edward winced.
They stood, side by side, as servants carried trays of spices and jugs of wine past them towards the Council Hall. As the door opened to admit them, Edward heard the sound of raised voices within and frowned.
Alasia had heard them too. ‘Is there trouble?’
‘Not for you to worry about. My father debates the peace with Normandy, but it comes at a cost.’
‘Then my father will be leaving soon, to take me home.’
Edward recalled his mother’s words. ‘Perhaps you might stay at court for a while; how would you like that?’
The dark eyes were curious. ‘Me? At court?’
‘Why not? I would like that.’
She shifted her position and Edward caught the faint scent of her clothes, of the musky fragrance caught in the folds of the linen. He found he could not take his eyes from her lips, wondering if he dared lean forward and brush them with his own. Something in her trusting manner made him bolder.
‘Come, let me show you around. They will not come out yet.’
She did not refuse.
He led her to the little chapel. It was the only quiet place. She followed him with slight reluctance and gazed up at the panelled walls and painted faces of the saints. The eyes of the saints looked back blankly from on high, picked out in gold or blue.
‘It’s beautiful!’
He wanted to repay her comment with a compliment but inexperience made him awkward. Instead, he lay his hand lightly upon her small white one, as it rested on the back of a pew. Her skin was cool and smooth; he felt the contact for only a second before she withdrew it. Her face clouded in confusion.
Suddenly his courage returned. ‘I saw you once, at dinner in the great hall, before Christmas. I’ve been hoping to see you again since then.’
She inclined her head slightly. ‘I saw you too.’
‘Did you, really?’ He felt the warm spread of confirmation through his stom
ach.
‘Yes, I saw you at the high table, but I didn’t think I might speak with you.’
He smiled. ‘I wish you had.’
‘We had to leave, and you looked so…’
‘What? I looked so what?’
She blushed and shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don’t know, so, perhaps so grand?’
It was all the invitation he needed. Leaning forward, he planted a kiss on her soft lips; the brief, fleeting brush of one mouth against another, which left him trembling. She shook her head a little and breathed a word of protest but she did not move away. He kissed her again, this time more slowly and deliberately, and felt her relaxing under the pressure, her lithe body bending towards his. Wrapping an arm about her waist, he pulled her close to him, as she began to respond. Her head tipped back, her eyes closed. She was small and slender; he could easily have picked her up in his arms and carried her away. He could hardly conceal the mounting excitement in the pit of his stomach; the blurring of his senses, the feeling of melting together as they stood in the gloom of the painted chapel.
Suddenly, she drew back, one hand raised to her mouth.
‘What? Sorry, did I hurt you?’
‘No, no, but I shouldn’t.’
‘But no one will know. I won’t tell.’
‘My father?’
‘He won’t know.’
‘And I am to be married.’
‘You will have my protection, my word, my silence. I promise. It’s only a kiss.’
She allowed him to enfold her in his arms again, trembling with his new-found passion, and rain kisses down on her pale, upturned face.
The crash of the chapel door broke them apart. The Earl of Warwick looked impatiently at Edward, his brows darkening.
‘Yes,’ he called to someone outside, his tone scathing. ‘I have found the Boratti girl. God’s blood Edward, get yourself into the council chamber; a message has come from the queen.’
Alasia scuttled out ahead of him, head bowed. Burning with desire and shame, Edward followed, caught in Warwick’s disapproving gaze.
York was standing in the council doorway, hands on hips. Edward glimpsed the forms of his mother and Boratti close behind, waiting to spirit the girl away.
