The Rose of York: Crown of Destiny Read online

  Anne remembered how Edward had laughed when he’d learned the French king’s response to his proposed invasion: “I declare,” Edward had said, wiping a tear of laughter from his eyes, “Louis’s discomfort is such consolation, I am ready give up my bed for a soldier’s pallet!”

  No, Edward didn’t care for war. The “Battle of the Boudoir” remained his passion of choice. His lance always stands firm there, she thought with a rare tightening of the mouth. Meanwhile, Richard toiled. It irked her that he didn’t seem to mind Edward’s failings. She still remembered how he had chuckled at Edward’s missive. To raise money for the war, Edward had written that he’d been obliged to travel the realm and cajole his subjects for contributions. “What’s so funny, my Lord?” she’d asked Richard as she’d made a game of dangling coloured baubles in front of Ned and snatching them away before he could grab them. She loved the sound of his giggles.

  “A London dame offered Edward twenty pounds, and Edward thanked her with a kiss, whereupon she doubled her gift,” Richard chuckled.

  “Before, or after, the boudoir?” she had asked.

  Engrossed in the letter, Richard had failed to rise to her bait. His brothers were the only subject they fought about and usually she tried to avoid giving offence, but sometimes things slipped out. She hated his adulation of Edward, whom she deemed unworthy of admiration.

  “…All who went into their audience with frowns came out with smiles, wishing they could have given more to their king,” Richard had continued, reading from the letter. “I vow Edward can pluck the feathers of his magpies without making them cry out. He jests with the people, embraces them, treats them as equals no matter how low-born, and wins their hearts. The soul is not born who can resist his charm! Edward expects to have the money by Easter.”

  “I shall take Ned for a stroll in the garden,” Anne had said, rising abruptly, angry Richard could be so happy about the prospect of war. Did he care so little that she would be left behind to wait and worry? He gave no thought to her, only to Edward!

  She bundled Ned tightly in his velvet blanket and gathered him up from the cot. Richard didn’t notice her departure. At the door, she had paused, looked back. Damn Edward.

  “Anne…”

  Her mother’s voice pierced her reverie. She blinked, startled.

  “My dear, why so cross? What were you thinking about? Come away from the window; you’ll catch cold. Let us go to the solar and read the missive Richard has sent. Nurse Idley will bring Ned.”

  In the solar, warmed by the flicker of numerous candles, wine, and the music of minstrels, Anne took a window seat with her mother while Percival stretched out to sleep on the Saracen carpet. Richard’s news was not as good as she’d hoped. England’s allies, who had promised Edward help against Louis XI, had so far failed to join them. Even Charles the Rash of Burgundy, who was wed to Richard’s sister, Meg, had not come as he’d promised. They were still waiting for him, and increasingly fearful that they would have to fight the French alone.

  She remembered the high promise of that day in May when Richard’s battle cry had sounded across the dales of the North…

  Horses neighed restlessly, plumes fluttered in the wind, and armour shone in the sun as Anne offered her husband the stirrup cup by the drawbridge of Middleham Castle. Clad in the white Milan armour he had worn into battle at Barnet, his dark hair stirring in the wind, Richard sat astride the magnificent white Syrian that Anne had chosen with King Arthur’s white horse in mind to mark Richard’s twenty-second birthday. He looks his best on horseback, Anne thought; a princely figure on a princely horse, though it required a firm hand to curb the restive stallion that whinnied with excitement, anxious to be off. Richard had become so devoted to the charger, White Surrey, that he rarely rode another. The spirited beast reciprocated the affection that had been won with gentle handling and many an apple and slice of marchpane.

  Anne’s proud gaze swept Richard’s army. Men had answered his call to arms so willingly that he had found himself with three hundred more than he had promised Edward, and now the entire hillside blazed with silk-fringed banners of the White Boar.

  “My Lord, I am not the only one who loves you. It seems all Yorkshire holds you in its heart,” she said as he drank. Percival, standing by her sable-trimmed skirt, barked as if he, too, heartily supported the statement. Richard’s gaze had followed hers to the ranks of plumes and bows waiting below the drawbridge.

  “And that heart which was once Lancastrian is now Yorkist,” he had smiled. Then, with a jerk of the bridle, he had turned his stallion and clattered over the drawbridge. Gloucester Herald had blown on his clarion, and the jewel-coloured cavalcade of plumes and banners had fallen in behind him and wound down the hill.

  Anne rested the letter in her hand and made a fuss of Percival to hide the tears that suddenly blurred her vision. The thought that had filled her mind then was the same one that tormented her now: the last time she had sent a husband to war, he had not returned.

  The Countess reached out and touched her sleeve gently. “My dear, it is our lot to wait and worry for our men,” she said softly. “’Tis what women do.”

  “Aye, Mother. I wish to be strong, but sometimes… sometimes…”

  The Countess squeezed her daughter’s hand. “I know,” she said.

  ~*^*~

  Chapter 3

  “—but see thou to it that thine own fineness,

  Lancelot, some fine day

  Undo thee not.”

  “The curse of God be on the fool!” Edward fumed, pacing to and fro in his tent on the banks of the River Somme near St. Quentin. “We came all this way, and Charles, instead of preparing his forces for our grand assault on Louis as he promised, marched east to besiege Neuss!” He turned flashing eyes on his council. “Neuss, for God’s sake. No one in his right mind cares about Neuss! He must be mad.”

  From his seat at the end of the plank table, Richard watched Edward, thinking how much he resembled a magnificent, fearsome, angry lion. At thirty-two he had put on weight, his hair had dulled, and his skin had loosened. But his blue eyes were as brilliant as ever and he exuded majesty in the set of his powerful shoulders, the stride of his long legs. If his hair was no longer the gold of youth, it was tawny as a lion’s pelt, and if his brow was etched with lines, it was so nobly carved that it demanded a crown.

  He looked around the royal tent. They were all watching Edward: their brother George; their sister’s husband, the Duke of Suffolk; the Queen’s brother, Anthony Woodville, Earl Rivers; Edward’s good friend William Hastings; and his lords, which included ever-faithful Jack Howard and the slimy bishop, John Morton. Most slumped around the table, but Hastings lounged against a tent pole with folded arms, while the fat cleric, Bishop Morton, chose to stand in the shadows, watching them all. His coal-black eyes seemed like bits of stone, absorbing what little light there was in the tent and returning none of the warmth.

  Richard had disliked Morton on sight years ago and time had not changed his opinion. The cleric had emerged as a friend to the Queen and her relatives, the reviled Woodvilles. If that wasn’t enough to condemn him, Morton treated those beneath him as if they were dirt between his toes, while to curry favour with Edward, he smiled his slippery smile and lowered his eyelids to hide the light of his ambition.

  Richard tried not to let his disgust show on his face. No doubt, like a serpent changing its skin, opportunistic Morton had chosen the path of the church not because he believed in God’s word, but because it led the way to power for a man with ability but no means. Probably the same applied to his accommodation with Edward after Tewkesbury. He had set aside his Lancastrian sympathies not because he had transferred his loyalties to York, but because reconciliation meant he did not suffer the deprivations of exile. He had wormed his way into Edward’s confidence with his considerable talents, but his greed and the devious bent of his mind condemned him.

  “Not only did Charles not join forces with us in Calais,” raged Ed
ward, “but he bid us come to him in Peronne, and then he wouldn’t let us within the walls! I swear he must be mad, for he knows not his own mind. And that turncoat St. Pol, who offered to deliver St. Quentin to us, instead fires on us when we approach! Now here we are, with Louis on the other side of the Somme.”

  Aye, here they were indeed, waiting for God knows what, using up precious reserves while Meg’s husband, Charles the Rash as he had so aptly had come to be called, attacked Neuss. They could not wait much longer. Louis had laid waste the countryside and soon they would run out of food.

  “We can win, Edward, even without Charles,” Richard offered.

  “What then? Without Burgundy we can’t secure our backs! We’re almost out of money and supplies, and we may not recover from such a victory.” He marched to and fro at a frenzied pace, then halted abruptly. He turned to Hastings, eyes alight. “Have we captured any French nobles, Will?”

  “Aye, Sire. One.”

  Edward strode over, hung an arm around Hastings’s neck. “Hint to him that we may want peace… and let him escape to Louis.”

  From the shadows came a gasp of awe. “Ingenious, my Liege,” smiled Morton.

  Richard leapt to his feet. “Peace! We’ve not come all this way for peace.” He threw Morton a look of contempt. Even the way the man spoke was devious. His lips didn’t move, yet one heard the words clearly. “Peace would be dishonourable.”

  Edward’s mouth twisted. “Brother, brilliant as you are, sometimes you confound me. You see about as far as a hooded falcon. Honour has no place here. We’re talking about survival.”

  “What’s survival without honour?” demanded Richard. “Once before you raised money for war with France and spent it elsewhere. The people have long muttered that you’ve deceived them! How will this sit with them?”

  “However my subjects feel, I am their King, and the King sees no profit in war with France at this time.”

  “I’ll have no part of such a peace.”

  Edward gave him a long measured look, his blue eyes cool, appraising. “’Tis the first time you’ve opposed me, Dickon.”

  “I won’t compromise my principles, even for you.”

  “Mark my words, Dickon, your principles will be the death of you! Life is not black and white, but a mixture of greys. The sooner you learn that, the better for you.” He strode back to the table, looking around at his councillors, who avoided his eyes. “How many are with Gloucester?”

  Lord Howard finally broke the silence. Howard was one of Edward’s most loyal and respected lords, whom Richard in childhood had affectionately nicknamed “The Friendly Lion.”

  “Sire, perhaps a dishonourable peace is worse than a useless victory…” Howard’s voice faded and lost conviction as Edward’s eyes narrowed.

  “Honour be damned! You’re out-voted, Howard. How to turn a bad situation to our favour, that’s the question. If Louis is amenable to peace, we shall demand many remunerative conditions, one of which will be seven years of free trade.”

  “The people of England didn’t give you their money for the chance to trade with France!” Richard shot back. “It was to recover the provinces of France which mad Henry lost.”

  “God’s curse, brother, but you can be naive!” Edward slammed his fist down on the table, his patience at an end. “Nay, worse. Reckless. A damned fool. Fortunate for you that you’re not king—you know naught of statecraft. Those territories cannot be won except with much money and even more blood. Is it not enough to humble France, enrich the royal purse so we never have to ask parliament for money again, return sons to their mother’s with limbs intact, and save England from the burdens of a partial conquest in France? Is that not enough, brother?”

  “It’s not what you promised the people!”

  “I promised them a victory over France. If I can get one without a fight, I shall take it, and gladly!”

  “How can you trust Louis—a man who imprisoned a cardinal in an iron cage?”

  “It would be good, for once, my brother, if you would see the facts without a moral squint.”

  “Louis can’t be trusted! His money’s a snare. If you take it, he’ll own you. He’ll trick you with his promises and destroy you, as he did Warwick!” Richard was shouting loudly. He knew all about Louis! Louis had wed Anne to Edouard. Louis’s stink was still in his nostrils.

  He fell silent, suddenly aware of the eyes on him; eyes that told him more about himself than he had ever suspected. Aye, he was against this peace because it was dishonourable, but that was only part of it. He hated Louis. He wanted to fight Louis because Louis had wed Anne to Edouard.

  “I’m not Warwick!” Edward roared, red in the face. “I am King. No one owns the King!” He drew himself up to his full height. “I have made my decision.”

  ~*^*~

  Chapter 4

  “Rain, rain, and sun! A rainbow in the sky!”

  At the end of September Richard returned to a hero’s welcome in England. All the way from the Cinq Ports north to Middleham, people lined the roads, flinging flowers in his path. They had heard how he had been the only one of Edward’s councillors to refuse the French king’s gold; how he had called it a bribe to his face. Richard rode along, nodding to the cheering crowds, his thoughts straying back to France. Louis’s eyes had narrowed like those of a fox during their private dinner at Amiens when Richard had refused his bribe and cut the evening short. From henceforth he knew he would be marked as an enemy of France. That sat well enough with him. He would not parley with the man who had wed Anne to Edouard of Lancaster. Nor would he compromise his honour. As Edward had.

  He compressed his mouth. Not only had Louis agreed to pay Edward an exorbitant annual sum, but he had betrothed his son and heir, the Dauphin, to Edward’s daughter, seven-year-old Elizabeth. Since Richard had resolutely opposed the treaty, he didn’t attend the signing, choosing instead to watch from his tent on the river bank as the two kings met. And a strange sight it made; one he would never forget.

  The ceremony had taken place near the village of Picquigny on a special bridge that had been hastily erected over the River Somme. Edward, majestic in a black velvet cap gleaming with a jewelled fleur-de-lis and a gown of cloth of gold lined with red satin, strode across to meet Louis midway. The King of France, who cared nothing for the trappings of power, wore a grey coat, a shabby black hat, brown hose, and old black boots. He was followed by a dog. Edward had called the French King a gnat, but Richard thought that Louis embodied his nickname: Spider. A menacing black spider clever enough to brighten his web with the gold that had lured in a splendid fly. From the distance Richard thought he saw Louis gazing at Edward with the rapture of a spider permitting a fly to buzz helplessly, knowing his doom lay close at hand.

  Edward’s voice had held an eerie note as it floated to Richard over the water. “Peace to this meeting and to our brother France!” Then came Louis’s voice, nasal, heavily accented, and somehow ominous. “Most worthy brother England!” They sat down on either side of a wooden barrier and conversed. A splinter of the True Cross was brought. Edward and Louis each knelt and kissed it, swearing to uphold the treaty. With a flourish of the plumed pen, they signed. Motioning their attendants away, they sat and conversed amiably with one another for several minutes. Richard had heard his brother roar with laughter and saw him embrace the French king in farewell. He remembered that a flock of geese swam past, quacking loudly, and at that moment a crane dove for a fish, caught its prey, and flew off. An omen?

  On the following day Charles of Burgundy stormed into Edward’s tent. A short, podgy, arrogant man with a bad temper, Charles had accused Edward of jealousy and double-dealing. “Jealousy?” Edward had inquired with raised eyebrows. “Aye, for I am descended from John of Gaunt and my claim to the English crown is better than yours!” declared Charles. “When I’ve finished with Neuss, I shall invade England and the people will rise up to place me on the throne, for they hate you and love me!” With that, he had stormed off. Edw
ard had thrown his head back and roared with laughter. “Warwick was right about one thing—Charles is mad.”

  Richard grinned, remembering. Then his grin faded. His poor sister Meg; this was her husband.

  No, the treaty did not bode well for England now that Louis owned Edward. Only one benefit had come of the miserable pact. Whether over guilt at the treaty he had made, or to pacify his angry brother, no one knew, but Edward finally granted Richard’s old request that he had long refused. He gave the last of the three Neville brothers, Archbishop Neville, his freedom.

  Richard had taken the good news to the Archbishop at Guisnes. He was shocked at his condition. More gaunt and frail than ever before, his tall frame bent by illness, George Neville was a broken man.

  “I would invite you to sit,” said Anne’s uncle, attempting a smile and indicating the torn, lumpy mound of straw on the floor that could scarcely be called a mattress, “but the pallet has lice.”

  A vision of a rosy-cheeked George Neville jauntily striding along the halls of Middleham Castle at Warwick’s banquet flashed into Richard’s mind. That was before Edward’s detested Queen had come between them. He, Richard, had been ten years old then, and the King and Kingmaker had been friends and allies.

  “I deplore the conditions under which you have been imprisoned, my good cousin. I tried to ameliorate them, but to no avail. The Woodville Queen…” Richard broke off. Such talk was dangerous and normally he didn’t make mistakes. The terrible shock of seeing John’s brother this way had made him forget his usual prudence.