The Rose of York: Crown of Destiny (6 page)

The Countess swooned. She was carried out of the hall, followed by a sobbing Anne and a sombre Richard. That very day a black pennant went up over the castle and the greenery that decorated the windows was covered with mourning cloth. As church bells tolled ceaselessly telling of death, Richard and his little family kept prayerful vigil at the chapel.

Soon another missive arrived. The babe, too, had died, passing from this world on Christmas day. Grief ushered in the New Year of 1477.

At Warwick Castle, fury exploded in George, Duke of Clarence, with the thunderous violence of a tempest at sea. His entire body trembling, he poured himself another goblet of malmsey and slammed down the emptied flask.
Damn you, Edward. The Fiend take your foul soul!
He downed a gulp of the strong, sweet wine and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. All his life his elder brother Edward had lorded it over him, telling him what to do, where to go, what to think! All his life his vile brother had pushed him around, laughed at him, and belittled his accomplishments. He wouldn’t take it anymore!

He grabbed the empty flask and flung it against the wall. His accursed, stinking brother had forgotten that he owed his throne to him! But for his defection from Warwick at Barnet, Edward would never have won the battle. Now, to return the favour, to secure him a crown, all the ungrateful knave had to do to was grant him permission to ask for Mary of Burgundy’s hand. And that he had refused.

Refused!

Reaching for a full flask, George knocked his goblet down, splashing red wine over the table. He put the flask to his mouth and gulped, spilling more than he swallowed. How dare Edward deny
him
—a prince of the blood royal—and put forward Anthony, that low-born churl, brother to the Woodville whore whom Edward called his Queen! He hurled the empty flask at a man-servant quivering in the corner of the chamber. “Wine!” he roared, rage boiling his blood. “Can’t you see it’s empty, you stupid bastard?”
Bastard
. That’s what Edward was! He called himself King but the truth remained: Edward was a bastard, the son of an archer. He had no damn right to the throne. He, George, was rightful King of England.

The man-servant scrambled back with the pain-killing Spanish wine George loved. He upended the new flask and drank greedily. That was why Edward hated him, why he had humiliated him before all the world, why he kept trying to poison him! The only reason he was still alive was because he was too clever for Edward. When he went to court, he took his own cook and brought his own food.

He slammed the flask on the table and dropped his head into his hands.
Poor Bella
. She hadn’t fared as well. If only she had listened to him! Instead, she’d trusted that midwife sent by the Woodville witch while he was away, a mistake that cost her life. A searing anguish tore his gut and he laid his face flat on the table in the cold wine. Sobs swelled in his throat and convulsed his body. Bella had died, and soon afterward, his infant son had joined her. Murdered by Edward and his sorceress Queen!

He sat up abruptly, eyes blazing.
God’s Blood, they weren’t going to get away with it
. He’d make them pay—the midwife who’d tended Bella and the doctor who’d poisoned his newborn son! He pushed himself to his feet. Swaying unsteadily, he crashed a fist down on the table. “Summon my captains!” he roared. “We’re going to hang those murderers Twynho and Thuresby! By God and all His saints in Heaven, those whoresons are going to pay!”

Once he’d dealt with them, he’d take care of Edward, the accursed lying bastard who called himself their father’s son.

About to enter the great hall at Barnard’s Castle, Richard stood unnoticed for a moment, watching Anne rock Ned in her arms as she sat framed by the oriel window that had been his wedding gift to her. Four deaths, all in the span of six short months. Archbishop Neville, George’s newborn babe, and the two Isobels—both dead within two months of one another. He had brought his little family here for the spring, hoping the change would do them good, and later, had taken them to York for the festival of Corpus Christ in June. At his suggestion, he and Anne became members of the Guild to honour Archbishop Neville’s memory. It had been a glorious summer’s day. The city of York had sparkled, for the streets had been hung with arras and the doorways strewn with rushes and flowers. In a dazzle of torches, tapers, crosses, and banners, they had walked in the procession from Holy Trinity Priory to Yorkminster, surrounded by smiling guild members, clerics, and officials of York who bore the gem-studded shrine of silver gilt that contained the sacred elements.

For a short while it had helped to be among laughter, but they had returned yesterday, and already Anne was listless, the Countess was weeping in her room, and young George Neville, so recently orphaned, was left alone without comfort to mourn his own loss.
If only George had not cut Bella off from her mother and Anne… If only George had permitted Bella to visit them, it might have gone easier on them all
, Richard thought. The Countess had not seen her daughter since their days of exile in France before the Battle of Barnet, and she’d never met Bella’s two children, one-year-old Edward and three-year-old Margaret. Her grief was wretched. All because of George.

God, how hateful George had been!

Richard braced himself and crossed the chamber. Anne was still unaware of him as she cooed to Ned, explaining the lay of the land. Aye, even in the rain, the view was splendid. Mist bathed the treetops and the river glistened like crushed crystals. The sound of gushing water was so comforting he could almost forget what he had to tell Anne. He stood mutely a moment, seeking words for the news he bore.

Heaving a heavy sigh, he looked down at her. “Dearest, I must go to London on a matter of great urgency.”

Anne turned abruptly from the window. Her eyes flew to him in alarm and, though her lips parted to speak, no words came.

Richard bit his lip. They had everything now.
Peace. Love. Ned
. Yet fear had come to join them, a shadowy, unmistakable presence hovering beneath the surface. He had prayed fervently for an end to the ill tidings, but the new year had arrived on a note of death and gloom, which it seemed would continue. In January, Meg’s husband, Charles, that half-mad duke of Burgundy, was killed besieging another inconsequential town. He left no male heir, only a daughter, Mary, so King Louis declared that Burgundy had reverted to the crown of France. Meg appealed to Edward for help, and Edward vacillated. Though England’s trade was at risk, he had no desire to lose the fifty-thousand crowns Louis paid him yearly. And his Queen, ambitious Bess Woodville, desperate that Edward not jeopardise the marriage which would one day make her mother of the Queen of France, also agitated against Burgundy.

Richard had journeyed to court briefly in February to attend Edward’s council meeting and argue in support of Burgundy. There he found aligned against him faces he had hoped not to see again for a very long time: the murderer, St. Leger, now brother-by marriage to him; that devious man of the cloth, Bishop Morton, whom he had always despised; the Queen’s brother, Anthony Woodville; her son Dorset; Edward’s debauched companion Hastings—and cold, hard Henry Percy, a former Lancastrian for whom Edward had inexplicably sacrificed their faithful cousin, John Neville. These here had urged Edward not to move against France, but to wait and see what developed. His muscles tensed beneath his topaz doublet.
Of course they had
. Like Edward, they didn’t want to lose their pensions from Louis. Unfortunately, what developed was not much to Edward’s liking.

In view of Edward’s reluctance to support Burgundy, Meg offered another proposal: that George, a widower since Bella’s death, wed her stepdaughter, Mary. The marriage would keep Burgundy in the English orbit, Meg said, and George could at last wear a fine coronet if not a crown. Edward rejected Meg’s proposal and refused George permission to ask for Mary’s hand. His reasoning was clear: George was trouble enough at home under his watchful eye. He had no desire to put into his hands power that would surely be used against him.

As far as Anne was aware, that was where the matter ended. But there was more. Richard had kept it from her.

Ned had fallen asleep in Anne’s arms clutching the velvet blanket she had embroidered for him. He was a sweet babe, good-natured, with a sunny disposition. He loved to laugh and romp, and showed a lively curiosity about his world. In all ways save one, he was everything they could wish for.
If only he enjoyed better health!
Richard bent down and adjusted his coverlet. He was always battling some rash, or illness, or chill, and twice this winter he had burned with a raging fever that lasted a full month, causing them much worry. He’d be glad when Ned was grown and the troubles of childhood were behind him.

Richard watched Anne disengage Ned’s little fingers from around the gold cross that hung at her neck and hold him out to his nurse. He rested his hand on Anne’s shoulder and their eyes followed Mistress Idley and her charge until she disappeared from sight into the stairwell of the Keep.

Anne patted the silk cushion. “Come and sit, Richard.” He settled beside her on the window seat. “Now tell me why you must go to London.”

“’Tis to do with George.”

“Let me guess. He’s asked Mary of Burgundy for her hand despite Edward’s refusal to allow him to do so?”

“Nay, it would have done him no good if he had. As it turns out, Mary herself was against the match and wouldn’t have accepted George. She said that what she needs is a great prince who can defend her dominion against Louis, not an English duke who will bring her nothing but trouble.”

“George must be furious.”

“Aye, he’s convinced Mary would have married him had Edward granted permission to bring his suit. And Edward…” Richard hesitated, drew a deep breath, “…spitefully crowned George’s injury with an insult. He gave the Queen’s brother, Anthony Woodville, permission to ask for Mary’s hand.”

“Mary is the richest heiress in Europe; the Woodvilles are low-born! Has Edward gone mad?” The moment the words fell from her lips, Anne wished she could recall them. This was no time to start a bitter argument. She braced herself for Richard’s response, but it was not what she expected.

“Edward’s not altogether in his right mind. Bess Woodville has cast him under her evil spell.” He fell silent and a faraway look came in his eyes as he gazed at the river.

So he is beginning to see the faults in Edward
, Anne thought. Yet the old loyalty demanded the blame be placed elsewhere.

Lost in thought, Richard stared at the river, seeing Warwick’s face in the rippling currents, hearing his voice in its roaring. So much of what Warwick had foretold had come to pass. Charles of Burgundy had proven as mad and useless an ally as Warwick had predicted, and had practically served up Burgundy to Louis on a silver trencher, just as Warwick had warned. If Meg had married into France, how much better would it have been for her—and for England…

Warwick had been far too accurate about another marriage as well. The Woodvilles had proven the plague he’d feared. He recalled the prophecy Warwick had made to Edward: that his Queen was a woman so reviled throughout the land, no son of her blood would ever be permitted to mount the throne of England. A dread prophecy, for kings were not ousted without war.
If only Edward hadn’t married that woman!

But, unable to help himself, Edward had wed Bess Woodville in a secret marriage after a chance meeting in the woods where she had lain in wait for him during a hunt. Months later, he’d made the marriage public and unleashed her on the land. She was the cause of his rupture with his Neville cousins, and the cause of civil war. The image of the council chamber at Reading Abbey where Edward had announced his secret marriage flared in his mind. Once again he saw John’s ashen face, saw Warwick pounding his fist on the table.

And so began the rift that led to civil war. Richard shook the memories away.

“My dearest, there’s more… Two months ago, in April, George sent his men to abduct Bella’s midwife, a woman by the name of Ankarette Twynyho, from her home in Somerset. They brought her to Warwick Castle where George charged her with poisoning Bella.”

“Tell me she didn’t do it, that it’s not so!”

“Nay, my little bird, it’s all in George’s sick and clouded mind. Ankarette Twynyho had been sent to Bella by the Queen. No doubt she was a talebearer, but the woman would never stoop to the foul murder of a duchess. She protested her innocence to the end and George had to force the justices to condemn her. She was dragged off to the gallows, along with a doctor whom George claimed had poisoned his babe.”

“Why would George do such a brutal thing?”

“By taking the King’s justice into his own hands, he wants to show the land that he is rightful King… He once put out the story that Edward was the bastard son of an archer…” Richard rose abruptly from the window seat, the old doubts about his own paternity assailing him once again. As far back as he could remember, he’d been tormented by the thought that he was no true Plantagenet. The evidence had seemed overwhelming to him as a child: in a family of blonds, he was dark; where they were self-confident, he struggled to find his place in the world. His brothers were tall, powerfully-built natural warriors, while he had been born puny and of average height. Only by study and force of will had he overcome his handicaps. Even now as a grown man the dragon of his childhood nightmares appeared at times of strain to cry out that he was a bastard.

He had always doubted himself, but only George could doubt Edward.

“A shameful tale for it impugns our mother’s honour. Now he’s sent his servants through the land to proclaim that Edward practises the Black Arts and has ordered his followers to be ready in armour within an hour’s warning. It seems he’ll stop at nothing to gain the throne.”

“God help us!”

“Anne, there is more…I would keep all this from you if I could, my dear one, but I may be gone a long while and the tales that come to your ears may be more fearsome than the truth.”