Richard stretched out his aching back, dismayed by the increasing discomfort. “’Tis true that she was in Rouen as Louis’s guest, but I could not say if Warwick actually spoke to her,” he hedged. Edward had made it clear that no one outside the privy chamber must know that the two had met and talked. Richard had been so honored to have been included in the private conversation with Hastings and Bishop Stillington, the new lord chancellor, that he would never divulge this information, not even to his closest friend. Richard was learning not to trust anyone in this world of politics and power. Later in his life, breaking this rule would have disastrous consequences.
He frowned now when he thought of Edward’s parting words: “I would that you return to my lord of Warwick, say nothing of why I summoned you, and report to me anything that even hints at disloyalty. Will you uphold me in this, brother?” Richard had nodded and placed a hand on his heavy heart. “I will.”
Richard shook off the memory as his eye was drawn to something metallic in the hedgerow. “Look yonder,” he said pointing. “What is it?” He signaled to one of the escorts to fetch the object, and they all recognized a half-rusted sallet. The man also found a broken sword and, buried in the grass and earth, a halberd, its wooden pole so rotten, it fell apart in the soldier’s hand.
“Good Christ,” Richard exclaimed, watching Traveller disappear through the hedge. “What is this place?”
“Towton,” Rob shouted from farther down the road, where a crude sign pointed the way to the village. “We are at Towton field.”
They all crossed themselves, and Richard dismounted and walked to a gap in the wall and stared down the long, steep field to the beck at the bottom, where more than five and twenty thousand Englishmen had given their lives six years before. He whistled to Traveller, not wanting the dog to disturb the dead.
It seemed to Richard that the earth might suddenly erupt and disgorge the uncomfortable, telltale mounds of buried bones and armor, the newly sprouting grass on top like whiskers on a young man’s chin. He shaded his eyes and imagined his golden warrior brother on the other hill across the little stream shouting orders to his army as the flying snow blinded them all. He fancied he could hear the whirring sounds of arrows shot from lovingly crafted longbows, the mainstay of the English foot soldier, and remembered now that the strong blizzard had cut short the Lancastrian arrows’ flight, allowing the Yorkists to collect and redirect them back, slaying the bowmen on Henry’s side of the hill with their own shafts. He thought he could hear the agonized cries of men dying, see the blood-red beck filled with bodies that their comrades used to ford the flooded stream and flee the field. Like other soldiers from time immemorial, something in his blood stirred, and he found the handle of his shortsword and gripped it instinctively. When would he see battle? Part of him longed for it, longed to show what he had learned in three years under Master Lacey, longed to right a wrong, fight on the side of God, Edward and England, and taste the thrill of victory. But part of him did not blame those poor yeomen on Towton Field who had turned and fled instead of standing only to be cut down by the enemy. Which way would he turn? Was he old enough to fight like a man, he wondered? How old must one be?
“Sweet Jesu,” he said out loud to the now silent, empty field. “I am fifteen today!”
“Are you, by God!” Rob’s voice startled him. “And you still have never felt the joy to be had between a woman’s legs. We must do something about that, my friend.”
Richard grinned, slapping Rob with his glove. “You, Sir Robert, are naught but a libertine!”
The bigger of the two, Rob laughingly wrestled his friend easily to the ground. “Bite your tongue, my lord,” he mocked, and balling up his wool liripipe, he covered Richard’s mouth with it. At once, Richard was transported back to the most frightening scene of his boyhood, and a surprised Rob was thrown several feet to his left with tremendous force. Richard now knelt astride him and, with his grim face two inches from Rob’s, he snapped, “Never do that again, do you understand. Never!” Puzzled, Rob nodded.
Standing, Richard suddenly winced in pain and fell to his knees. His squire quickly helped him up again, while Rob brushed himself off, looking askance at his friend.
“Too many days in the saddle,” Richard muttered by way of explanation. “Let us not waste time in this unhappy place.”
The specter of the Towton battlefield clung to Richard as they approached York, the massive Minster dedicated to St. Peter dominating the skyline behind the gleaming city walls that, for two miles, encircled the castle, town, and its many churches. He had often passed under the Micklegate during his time in the north, but today, he could not help but look up at the barbican and imagine his father’s bloody head, mockingly crowned with paper, atop a spike. He crossed himself and offered up a prayer for his namesake, whose face had all but faded from his memory. He only remembered the voice, the kindness with which he would speak to his youngest son, and his loud, neighing laugh. “Loyalty above all else should be your watchword,” Richard could hear his father say now. “Most of all to family, king, and God.” Aye, Father, but at what cost?
“We have time to make confession at St. Peter’s,” Richard suddenly decided. Rob, sensible to his friend’s mood since leaving the battlefield site, had refrained from speaking along the way. Now he bowed his head respectfully. “As you wish, my lord.” It was time he atoned for the maid he had enjoyed during their brief stay in London anyway, Rob admitted to himself.
“Father forgive me for I have sinned,” Richard began the rote prayer to the shadowy figure on the other side of the grille. The detour had been a spontaneous decision brought on by a jumble of guilty thoughts of the thousands of deaths his father’s fight for the crown had wrought; his disloyal censure of his brother’s failure to bring about peace and justice to the kingdom since winning that crown; and the knowledge that he was about to spy on the man who had treated him like a son for the past three years. So many problems to worry about, none of which was in his control to change. At these moments, only God could alleviate his anxiety.
“Bless you, my son. Confess, and your sins shall be forgiven.”
But when Richard opened his mouth, the previous thoughts were pushed aside as he surprised even himself with his guilty admission.
“I have lusted after another man’s wife.” Surely that was not his feeble voice? “I covet my neighbor’s wife.”
The priest allowed himself an indulgent smile. He had seen the serious young man on his knees in front of an alabaster figure of the Virgin Mary, and Richard’s very youth led the cleric to believe the lad had not yet seen enough of life to have sinned too greatly. He wanted to simply tell his supplicant that all boys of his age lusted—usually after an older woman who was inaccessible—and it was perfectly natural. But his faith and responsibility as confessor instead gave the stock pronouncement: “You must resist temptation, my child, and turn towards the Lord our God for temperance. He will guide you from the path of sin and one day He will bless your marriage bed. Fornication is a mortal sin, as I am sure you know.”
“I do, Father. How can I atone for my transgression?”
“Remember the scriptures: He that hideth his sins shall not prosper, but he that shall confess and forsake them shall obtain mercy. If you are truly penitent, by the power invested in me, I can forgive you.”
“O God, be merciful to me the sinner,” Richard muttered, and after receiving his penance, he thanked the good father and returned to kneel in front of the Virgin. Being in God’s presence never failed to move Richard and restore order. Thus, he resolved to put Katherine Haute from his mind.
It would prove an impossible task.
During the hour Richard and Rob had tarried at the Minster, a small group of armed men in the king’s livery must have overtaken them, as Richard’s meinie soon caught them up on the road to Sheriff Hutton. Observing that one soldier was leading a horse on which a sorry-looking fellow sat with wrists bound and tied to his pommel, Richard
slowed his group and rode forward.
“Good day, captain,” he addressed the lead rider. “I am Richard of Gloucester, the king’s brother. May I know your destination and the prisoner’s crime?”
The captain thumped his chest with his fist. “God’s greeting, my lord duke. I am taking this measle to my lord of Warwick on command of our gracious sovereign lord, the king. As for his crime, I regret I am ignorant.” He slapped his saddlebag. “I have letters from his grace to the earl.”
Richard rode closer to the scruffy, terrified prisoner. Judging from the broken nose, black eye and split lip, Edward had had the man roughed over for information.
“I’ve been wrongly accused, my lord,” the man objected. “I was just a messenger.”
“No doubt,” Richard said, skeptically. “But I will know your business shortly and judge for myself. If you are innocent, you will find Lord Warwick a fair-minded man.”
He turned his horse around and signaled to his group to pass the king’s men and take the last two miles at a canter. Richard wondered why Edward had sent a prisoner all that way to appear before Warwick, and he was determined to be at Warwick’s side when all was revealed. He grimaced. Something else to worry about, he mused.
“Me consorting with Margaret of Anjou?” Warwick bellowed, purple indignation matching his short houppelande. He was garbed to be as intimidating as possible, the baldric across his chest boasting his order of the garter and various precious jewels, and his enormous black felt chaperon and trailing liripipe framing his furious face. He glared at the kneeling messenger-prisoner, who, Richard learned, had been captured at Harlech castle purporting to have heard from French spies that Warwick was conspiring with the exiled Queen Margaret to incite rebellion against Edward.
The telltale marks of recent torture on the man’s bruised face did not move my lord of Warwick, the vibrations of fury emanating from the earl almost tangible. The anger felt genuine, Richard was bound to admit, for if Warwick were guilty, this playacting was brilliant. Although Richard pretended outrage at the accusation, and in truth he was inclined to think it was a lie, he knew this was not the first time Warwick’s name and the queen’s had been linked. Could there be any truth to this whey-face miscreant’s words? Or had Edward sent the messenger with false information to test Warwick? He had no time to answer his own questions, however, before Warwick raised his arm and struck the unfortunate messenger a blow to the head that toppled him sideways to the floor. Richard’s instinct was to help the man, but he resisted.
“How dare you accuse me, you odiferous, rumpfed villain! Who paid you to speak treason against me?” Warwick demanded of the trembling prisoner, now nursing an already bloodied nose.
“No one paid me,” he whimpered painfully, attempting to right himself. “’Twas but a rumor, my lord, whispered by sailors lately come from France, as I did tell the king.”
“Lies! All lies!” The earl swiveled, turning his fury on the king’s startled brother. “And what do you suppose my reward would be for treating with her, pray? Does Edward have some punishment in store for me? Is that what you have come to tell me, Gloucester?”
Richard could not restrain his own angry outburst. “How should I know, my Lord Warwick?” he lied, his fists clenched in the folds of his tunic. “As you know, I have been upon the road for the past sennight and have had no knowledge of this pitiful pumpion or his rumors until now.”
Both men stared each other down, but not wishing to give the king’s emissary fodder to take back to London, Warwick grunted an acknowledgement and then dismissed the captain and his prisoner. “You may tell his grace, the king, that I have not treated with Queen Margaret, nor would I have reason to. England’s interests—and thus mine—lie only with King Louis of France.”
When the two had gone, Warwick roamed around the hall in silence, leaving Richard to wonder if he, too, should leave. He longed to go straight to the chapel and ask God to forgive his lie, the first one he had spoken in his new role as spy. He did not care for the ease with which he had told it, and more unsettling was that it would likely be the first of many in the service of his brother.
But Warwick had not finished with him. “Were you privy to the summons the king sent me last week to attend him on this trumped-up charge of conspiring with the She-Wolf?” Seeing Richard shake his head, he continued: “I refused to take the accusation seriously and so made my excuses.” He jerked his head toward the door through which the prisoner had just exited. “Did Edward think that by sending me the man who had falsely denounced me I would change my story? How stupid does his grace think I am?”
“If your conscience is clear, my lord,” Richard replied, not fully understanding Edward’s motives either, “then you have nothing to fear.”
“Fear!” Warwick exploded again. “Fear! It is he who should fear me. I put him on the throne, but the young puppy ignores my experience and insults me with this feeble charade.”
“Edward is the king, my lord,” Richard said quietly. “He has not acted gracefully, but there is nothing any of us can do about that. He wears the crown and is our sovereign lord.”
Warwick stiffened, and Richard steeled himself for a roiling. Instead, the earl accepted the reasoned response with one of his own: “Certes, you are right.” His anger abating as quickly as it had arisen, Warwick appraised the young duke, liking his thoughtfulness and admiring his composure. “If I may say so, my dear Gloucester, you would make a far better king than your brother—as would the heir presumptive, Clarence. In fact, he and I spoke of Edward’s faults during our time together this summer hosting the French ambassadors. He, too, sees the wisdom of siding with France and eschewing the Lancaster-loving, self-interested Burgundy.”
Richard felt cold fear grip him. What was the earl insinuating, that Edward’s brothers might conspire to unthrone him? He blinked once or twice, but, not wanting to reveal his discomfort, he attempted a stoic stare. He could not wait to be dismissed.
Warwick quickly regretted his words and sought to diffuse the awkward silence. “Don’t look so serious, Richard. You know I was speaking in jest,” he said, gently grasping the youth’s shoulder. “You must be tired from your journey. Why not change out of your riding garb and join the countess and me for supper?”
“I thank you, my lord.” Richard bowed away from the unwelcome hand. “Until then.”
With a mixture of sorrow and unease, the earl watched his protégé leave the room. George might be easily swayed with the right incentives, but Richard was far more complex. What was more, Richard had integrity. He had to admire that, even if he could no longer count on the lad.
Richard was even more disturbed by a piece of information idly given by Isabel soon after his return.
“How long does it take to get to Rome from here?” she asked the Italian dance master, who was teaching the young apprentices the newest haute danse, which required the Neville daughters to participate. Richard observed that Isabel was in high spirits, her cheeks glowing, and her chattering excited. Anne was but a pale, mouse-like shadow beside her, although those, like Richard who knew her well, could see Isabel’s exuberance was trying the younger girl’s patience.
“La bella Madonna Isabella va a Roma?” Maestro Bassano enquired, lifting her lithe body off the floor for a beat of the music. “Perché? Why?”
“The Pope is there,” Isabel replied, landing like a feather. Seeing Richard watching her, she covered her indiscretion by laughing it off with a flippant, “Why does anyone want to go to Rome?”
As Richard circled Anne’s waist to emulate the movement so deftly executed by their teacher, his partner whispered: “My uncle, the archbishop, has sent a messenger to the Pope, and Isabel is certain ’tis about her and George. She is simply guessing,” she scoffed. As both girls grew older, Anne knew the time would soon come when they would be separated, and, despite occasionally squabbling with her older sister, she dreaded that time. “If the king has forbidden the marriage, Father would not d
isobey, would he? Isabel is being silly.”
But Richard did not think Isabel was silly at all. Was Warwick seeking dispensation? He decided he should pass on this tidbit to Edward, for what it was worth.
Chapter Thirteen
Advent 1467
Celebrating the yuletide season with his family again was mostly on Richard’s mind as he rode at Edward’s command to Coventry with an armed escort. So bad was the crime now in England that even Edward had to travel with more than a hundred bodyguards wherever he went.
Richard thought back on those happy Christmas reunions of his youth at Baynard’s, Fotheringhay and Ludlow, where the temporal music, dancing, and mummery blended with the moving, sacred ceremonies of the holy season. Now watching Traveller lope beside his horse, he remembered December of 1460 when the dog had finally become his. It was probably the moment when he had loved his mother the most. Inevitably, that New Year brought back the painful feelings of emptiness and sorrow at the loss of his father and brother and of witnessing his mother’s terrible grief—grief that had perhaps allowed him his first glimpse of the special love between a man and a woman. He pondered whether he would ever know such love, and the thought predictably took him back to the lovely Kate Haute. Just thinking of her gave him pleasure. When would he ever see her again? He could not imagine it. But Rob had once said to him, “…until you are fully a man, you should practice on a wench beneath you.” All well and good, Richard thought now, but would Kate be willing. And where could they be private together?
Why not ask Sir John Howard if he could hunt at Tendring again? Had Kate not said something about her father-in-law being Howard’s retainer? Nay, you fool, that was her husband. God’s bones, the husband! He slumped down in his saddle and stared at the bleak landscape that was lacking a white mantle so far that winter. Why does there have to be a husband? The idea of consorting with another man’s wife had never crossed his mind. Indeed it was anathema to him, although he knew it happened. Control yourself, Richard thought. The whole notion is hopeless, and he reluctantly put Kate from his mind.
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