by Amy Licence
‘It is unlike you to be so outspoken,’ ventured Edward. ‘What has become of your usual diplomacy?’
York shook his grey head. ‘It is buried, along with Tudor’s wit and Beaufort’s diplomacy. I am tired of this constant game, of always watching our backs. The king is calling a parliament imminently and yet he will not name the place or the day. What am I to think of it? God’s blood, I am sick of it all.’
‘Hush,’ said Edward quickly, as he spotted Bouchier coming up behind them.
The archbishop clapped the duke on the shoulder. ‘Are you dining in hall tonight, my friend?’
‘I think not. You are most kind, but we must return home.’
‘Then God be with you. Good Even.’
They watched the archbishop disappear.
York turned to his sons. ‘I am resolved, I am for the country. The king knows where he can find me. We depart tomorrow for Fotheringhay.’
*
As Edward opened his eyes, he sensed the sun would soon be rising. The simple room, with its draped bed and tall cupboards, was bathed in a sort of grey light; enough to see by, but not sufficient to make the world’s soft edges sharpen yet. He knew the creak of the wood at night, the glow of the fireplace while the embers died, the contours of the mattress beneath his shoulders. He knew the number of steps up from the hallway downstairs and he could find his way into this chamber in the dark, by running his hand along the panelled wall. He knew the warmth of the welcome that awaited him between the sheets of Italian silk, the softness of an encircling arm, the press of limb upon limb and the urgency of the mouth awaiting his. Alasia’s home had come to feel like his own in the past year.
He pulled the covers up and turned onto his side. She lay with her back to him, still deeply asleep, and he buried his face in the fan of dark hair spread across the pillow. It was such fine hair, thin and silky, smelling of musk. She stirred slightly and he slipped a hand across her waist to draw her body close to his. She nestled her warmth against him, lacing her fingers into his. He had arrived late last night, after York had talked about his plans at length and given instructions for the house to be closed up. It was almost midnight when Edward finally slipped out to the stables, followed by his brother’s rueful gaze. Lately Edmund had taken to asking him where he crept away to through the city streets after dark but Alasia was his secret and he would not share it. Only Hastings knew of their liaison, in case of emergency, otherwise his lips were sealed. Alasia had already been in bed when Edward turned his key in the back door last night, where the lantern burned on a low gable, and slipped up the stairs. They had made love with an intensity and urgency, before falling asleep in each other’s arms.
Slowly, she rolled over to face him. He kissed her lips once or twice, then buried his head in the heat of her full breasts.
‘Hello,’ she whispered into his sandy curls.
‘Mmm, hello,’ he replied, in appreciation.
He ran his fingers lightly down her spine, feeling her back arch in response. Their lips met and she swung herself up to sit astride him. Her long dark hair fell down on either side, tickling his face as she leant forward. She pressed herself teasingly against him, as her mouth sought his chest, feeling the texture of his skin, of the wiry hair, the swell of his muscles. He was so familiar to her, and yet she could never be sated of him. Edward groaned in anticipation as her hand slid down to his groin and began to coax him with her fingers. Her grip was gentle but firm, and she knew the amount of pressure he enjoyed, verging on the threshold of pain, until he felt himself growing hard. Then she rocked her hips backwards and eased him inside her. They moved together, gently at first, enjoying the slow build of passion. He saw her face soften in passion and thought he had never seen a woman so beautiful.
Afterwards she was pulling on her shift, silhouetted by the morning light.
‘Antonio is expected back next week.’
Edward nodded, still lying supine on the bed. ‘I remember.’
She shook out her hair. ‘I have something to tell you.’
‘So do I.’
‘Oh,’ she looked surprised. ‘Then you go first.’
‘No, you must.’
‘I insist. I want to know what it is.’
He propped himself up on one elbow to study her face. Every time he saw her she seemed to grow more beautiful, with her dark cat-like eyes and the winsome little smile in the corner of her mouth, which he had come to love. And yet, he had never told her that he loved her, not in all this time. He did not fully understand the reason for his silence: she was in his mind’s eye, his first waking thought, his last image at night, the throb in his veins, the feeling deep down in the pit of his stomach, his best friend and lover. Surely she knew; surely she could feel his love, and that words were not necessary.
‘I have to go away,’ he said simply. ‘Father requires me to go to Fotheringhay with him and we leave at once.’
‘So soon? Without warning?’
‘The decision was only made yesterday after council, I must follow his ruling.’
She nodded but he could feel her folding inwards, like a flower when clouds pass before the sun.
‘I hope we will not be long, a month perhaps, three at most, but I don’t know what is going to happen. Something is brewing between him and the queen and he has not shared it with me fully.’
She nodded.
‘But I will write to you, I will return as soon as I can. It might be that I will be able to ride back to London for a few days at the end of the month, to collect the rents.’
‘That would be good.’
‘But at any rate, the king’s next parliament is due to meet in September, and we must attend.’
‘September,’ she sighed.
‘But it is probably good timing, with Antonio’s return. We would not have been able to be together again properly until his next absence.’
He thought of the snatched moments they managed to share when her husband was home, in the dark little room with the hard bed that Hastings had rented in an inn on London Bridge. Once or twice they had managed to spend an afternoon together there, before she had to return home to sit at the head of Salucci’s table.
Her pale face seemed to tremble. He sat up and took her hand.
‘What is it? What’s the matter? You know that I won’t forget you, there will be no others. I shall live chastely until I return to you.’
‘It’s not that.’
‘I know it is a long time. I will write to you, I give you my word.’
‘I’m going to have a child.’
He had not been expecting this, but at once it struck him as surprising that it had not happened before.
‘You are sure?’
‘Not completely, it is still early, but I believe so.’
Edward paused, taking the enormity of this in.
‘It doesn’t please you?’
‘But of course.’ He stood up and took her in his arms, where they were both bathed in the morning sunlight. ‘It’s wonderful. I am sorry that I am going away, but there is nothing to worry about at the moment, is there? I mean, you are quite well?’
‘Yes, quite well.’
‘And your belly will not start to grow for months.’
‘No. Antonio will assume…’
‘Quite.’
He kissed the top of her head. ‘A child, our child!’
‘Yes,’ she laughed. ‘Our child.’
‘I will write to you from Fotheringhay and you must write to tell me how you fare. You shall want for nothing; clothing or medicines, or if certain foods take your fancy, you must write and let me know. I will take care of it all.’
‘And you will be back soon.’
‘Indeed, sooner than you think.’
She lifted her chin, to look into his hazel eyes. ‘I love you.’
Edward kissed the tip of her nose. ‘I know.’
THIRTEEN: Fotheringhay, June, 1459
They galloped across country, through
woodland and fields bright with the promise of crops. The air rushed past them, clean and crisp. Overhead, blue skies stretched to the horizon and seemed to go on forever. London was far behind, with its smoking chimneys and stinking ditches, so far behind that it seemed to belong to another world. Ahead, the whole of England lay before them, rising and falling in gentle squares of green and yellow, cut across by the pulsing routes of rivers and the rutted tracks of roads.
Presently, the road mounted a ridge. At the summit, York reined in his horse and gazed down across the landscape beyond. There, in a bend of the winding River Nene, sat a magnificent castle. Ringed by a deep moat, its grey turrets rose strong and boxy against the bright sky. Fotheringhay had been the main family home for decades, Cecily’s favourite castle among all the family possessions, more picturesque even than Ludlow. Somehow, the sky behind the towers seemed bluer here than anywhere else.
‘They’re not expecting us,’ York grinned. ‘Let’s surprise them.’
Edward flashed his smile. He was two months past his seventeenth birthday but still appeared to be growing, now considerably taller than his father. Edmund, just sixteen, was rapidly catching up. When he looked upon these tall, handsome young man, York could not help but swell with pride.
‘Let’s go and greet your mother.’
They thundered down the bank, through a sunlit patch of wild flowers. Red, white and yellow petals dotted the rippling grasses. As they drew closer, the familiar lines of the outhouses could be seen, with their uneven tile roofs, the gable end of the kitchens and stable block. Smoke pumped out of the castle’s many chimneys. Beyond was the little walled garden with its sun-blown roses and fragrant herbs and further, through the gate, the apple trees were unfolding into bud, scattering their pink blossoms to the wind.
*
Richard lay on his back in the tall grass. The long stems grew right up past him, almost covering him completely. He watched their tips waving gently. The earth was dry and hard beneath his shoulder blades and the sun was warm on his skin. Somewhere behind him in the orchard, his brother George had swarmed up into the apple tree, clasping its gnarly trunk as he ventured higher and higher to the thin branches. He was nine and fearless, convinced of his own perfect right to conquer the tree and impose his will on nature. Richard was no less brave, but he could somehow see the dangers that George overlooked; the sharp sticks, the distance to the ground.
An insect buzzed close to Richard’s head and he waved it away. They had escaped their lessons by hiding behind the curtain in the alcove. Peter, their white-haired tutor, had called for them, but his voice had echoed wanly through the room and, shaking his head in despair, he had gone off to seek his rebellious young charges elsewhere. Giggling, with the scent of freedom in their nostrils, they had tumbled down the back stairs and out into the orchard, tasting the sharp green air of early summer. No doubt their delicious stolen moment in the sunshine would soon come to an end: mother knew all their best hiding places. She was supervising the dairy but it would not take long before Peter, panting from his efforts, would find her.
Richard watched a cloud pass slowly behind the tree. Its shape was fluid, changing, like a spot of blood in water, making one shape then another. The wind must be strong up there. It caught birds travelling across land and blew them off course. And he was such a small part of it all, lying awash with grass while his brother scraped his shins on the branches overhead.
‘Wheee!’ George let out a triumphant cry.
He was perched right at the top, scanning the horizon, with his hand as a shield against the sun. Richard propped himself up on one elbow.
‘Can you see inside the nest?’
George inched a little further along the branch. ‘Looks empty to me.’
‘It’s too early then. What can you see?’
‘Everything. I can see London from here.’
‘No you can’t!’
‘Can too! How do you know?’
Richard shredded grass casually, secure in his knowledge. ‘We’re too far away.’
‘We’re not, I can see that far, all the way to London, the spire of St Paul’s and down to the Channel and over to Calais.’
Richard jumped up. ‘Liar!’
‘Am not! I can see Westminster and the windows of the royal apartments. They’ve changed the curtains.’
‘I don’t believe you, you’re making it up.’
‘I can see the king, he’s waving at me out of the window. Come up here and see for yourself then!’
‘No, I don’t need to. I know you’re lying.’
The thunder of horse hooves on cobbles beyond the garden wall made them both spin round.
‘It’s father!’ cried George, beginning to scramble down as quickly as he could. His hair was a tangle of sticks and leaves. ‘And Edward and Edmund, come on!’
*
Their approach had been spotted. As York clattered into the courtyard and swung himself down from the saddle, the household was already turning out in greeting. Margaret appeared from the south wing, dressed in a simple kirtle and from the garden door, George and Richard came scrambling and tumbling, panting with exertion, with leaves in their hair. Then from the dairy came Duchess Cecily, with a kerchief thrown over her fair hair and her sleeves rolled up to the elbow.
‘We did not expect you until next week,’ she laughed, coming forward to greet her husband and sons.
‘We were of a mind to leave early,’ York explained. ‘We thought we’d surprise you and here we are!’
‘Then come, take off your boots and have some wine, tell us how it goes at court.’
‘You are all well here? You and the children?’
‘We are indeed well and the estates have been running smoothly, there is nothing to worry about, come and take off your boots.’
The duke smiled. It was something of a personal tradition between them that, upon his return from court, his wife would remove his boots herself. Now she led him inside, where the hall was cool and scented of rushes. He sat on a bench in the sunlight of the oriel window while she knelt before him.
‘You don’t need to. I’m all dusty from the road.’
‘But I want to.’
Her face lit up as she unlaced first one boot then the other and drew them from his tired feet. Her beautiful smile had been one of the first things he had noticed about her, all those years ago, how it spread slowly from cheek to cheek and seemed to send a warmth up into her blue eyes. He knew there were men who envied him such a beautiful wife, yet they little knew the reserves of her character: her strength, resolve and loyalty. Had they known the full extent of her nature, they would have envied him more.
Then she moved to sit beside him. Through the glass they could see their children; Edward with Richard in his arms and Edmund placing George upon the back of one of the horses as Margaret looked on. The duke enfolded his wife in his arms, pressing kisses into the soft curve between her ear and shoulder.
‘I have missed you, it has been too long.’
She turned her face to his so their lips could meet.
‘Welcome home, I hope your stay will be a long one.’
She sensed the slight change in him at once.
‘What? What is it?’
‘Nothing, nothing at all, nothing to worry about.’
He moved back to kiss her again.
‘You can’t hide anything from me, not after all these years.’
York sighed.
‘Not more trouble at court?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t want to bring this back with us, into the peace and quiet here.’
Cecily took both his hands in hers. ‘Nonsense, we are in this together: what troubles you must be shared so I can take some of the burden of it.’
He kissed her forehead and sighed. ‘If only we had our fair share of troubles; they seem to go on and on. You recall last year, there were plots laid against us, attempts on our lives?’
She nodded, warily.
‘And
last autumn, when Warwick’s men were set upon at Westminster and he had to fight to defend himself.’
She recalled it well, particularly the moment she had been nursing Richard, who had lain ill in bed with a fever, when the messenger brought word to Baynard’s Castle.
‘And he had to flee to Calais that same night.’
York nodded, his grey eyes creasing with concern. ‘Where he remains. Now the queen has issued a warrant for his arrest; she will stop at nothing to remove the threat she believes we pose to the throne.’
‘But I thought this quarrel had been put away with the Loveday. Otherwise what was the point of it?’
‘That was a show. It has never gone away.’
‘But you have done nothing except support the king and rule his kingdom effectively in his absence.’
‘And that is the problem. There are those who say I would make a better ruler than Henry.’
‘Forgive me if I number myself among them.’
‘Ah, you are always my greatest supporter.’ He moved to kiss her again but she put a hand gently in the middle of his chest.
‘Tell me.’
‘The queen is planning a parliament at Coventry. The rumour goes that we will not be invited. She is gathering troops. It is happening again as it did four years ago. I fear another battle.’
‘To what end?’
‘To remove me, perhaps, as we removed Somerset,’ his eyes strayed to the scene outside the window. ‘I don’t trust her, I believe this parliament has been located away from London in order to exclude us.’
‘What will you do?’
‘It is early days but, if I have to, I will seek an audience with the king.’
Cecily was silent.
York signalled to a servant to bring wine and watched while two glasses were filled.
‘We are heading for a crisis. Warwick will return this summer with an army of French mercenaries.’
She nodded. ‘But you fought before and what did that achieve?’
Her husband looked grave. ‘At the time, we hoped to rid the king of his evil councillors but one Beaufort simply replaced another and the grudges and compensation have long outlasted the day. But if Margaret pushes us into a corner, she gives us no choice. I will always be a threat to Henry, simply because of my descent. I fear she will not rest until she defeats us.’
