Rose of rapture (47 page)

"Tis your nephew. His Grace the Duke of Buckingham, my lady," a man-at-arms told the Baroness, who had drawn her mare to a halt at the sight of the approaching party.

"Aye." Margaret nodded, for she too had recognized Harry's baimer fluttering in the wind. "We will wait."

The knight delivered the order to the rest of Lady Stanley's escort, and presently, Buckingham was upon them.

"Good day to ye, my lady aunt," he greeted her and smiled. With a flourish, he swept off his cap and bowed low in his saddle. "What a pleasant surprise. Dare I hope ye be going my way to Wales?"

"Nay, Harry." Margaret smiled back, but the warmth of her curved lips did not quite reach her dark eyes, which were assessing him with cool detachment. "I am but bound for Bridge-north."

Harry Stafford was her nephew; his family had fought for the Lancastrians; and he despised the Woodvilles, who had forced him to marry the Queen's sister Katherine, then relegated him to the position of a nonentity at Court. Because of this last—and because he'd seen a chance at seizing some of the power and glory he had so desperately craved—Harry had come forward, after King Edward IV's death, to support Richard, Duke of Gloucester. Harry had been largely instrumental in putting Richard on the throne and had been well rewarded for his services. But still, it had not been enough. Harry had the same obsessive ambition and weakness of character that had tainted George, Duke of Clarence—and George's fatal charm as well. Second best had never been good enough for George, and it wasn't good enough for Harry. He would have it all—if he could. Margaret, a keen judge of character, had read him like a book, just as she had read Richard.

It was simple to understand why Richard, who had loved

George, despite his failings, so favored Harry. Harry was George made over, and Richard would not see through his cousin any more than he had seen through his brother.

Margaret had counted on this when, some time ago, she'dbought Harry's soul. That he would seek to dupe her and had meant to do so from the start, she'd had no doubt. He had, after all, his own legitimate claim to the throne through Thomas of Woodstock, while her son's claim descended through the illegitimate line of John of Gaunt through his mistress Katherine Swynford. Nevertheless, Margaret had known she could manage Harry. She had outwitted men far more intelligent than he was. In the end, it would be Harry who was deceived; but by then, he would have served his purpose, and his usefulness to her would be over. If he lost his head to the executioner's ax, so much the better. Alive, he would be a liability she and her son could not afford. But first things first. There were two in Garden Tower to be disposed of. Had Harry done the deed? Had his hunger for the Crown been great enough to outweigh the mortal damnation of his soul? He had stayed behind in London, had let Richard begin the royal progress without him, as they had planned. But had Harry done it? Had he?

Margaret smiled again, and this time, the warmth reached her eyes.

"I do spy an inn yonder, Harry," she said. "Do ye dismount, and join me in a light repast."

"My lady aunt"—Buckingham grinned—^"I would be delighted."

And she knew the deed was done.

"Oh, Warrick, hold me. Hold me!" Isabella cried as she stumbled into their chamber at the Tower, hot tears stinging her eyes.

"What is it, sweetheart?" he asked as he leaped to his feet in concern and clutched her trembling body to his chest. "What is it? Has someone accosted ye? Was it—was it that damned Italian—"

"Nay, nay. 'Tis nothing like that and has naught to do with him besides. Ye know he has scarcely so much as bowed to me in passing. 'Tis something much worse that a moonstruck courtier. Oh, Warrick, I cannot believe it. It simply can't be true!"

"What, 'Sabelle?" her husband inquired gentiy, trying to make some sense of her nearly hysterical babble. "What can't be true?"

"What people are saying. Oh, 'tis wicked. Wicked! I heard it in the marketplace.

"Heard what, cariadT Warrick queried again.

"Oh, Warrick. People are saying that—that Richard has—has murdered the Princes!"

"Aye, I know, but I hoped ye wouldst not learn of it."

"Oh, Warrick, 'tis cruel, so cruel of them. How can they slander him so? Have they not cast enough stones at him? Must they besmirch his name and honor with so foul and despicable a crime, 'tis not to be borne? 'Tisn't true, I tell ye! Richard loved those boys. He would have cut off his right arm before he would have allowed any harm to come to them. I know it!"

"Hush, 'Sabelle, hush. You'll make yourself ill."

"I don't care. I don't care," she wept. "That he, who is so kind and good, should have so foul a deed imputed to him..."

"I know 'tis difficult for ye to accept, sweetheart. But the fact remains: The lads have not been seen since Richard departed Lx)ndon nearly three months ago for the royal progress—"

"He took them north with him to Sheriff Hutton. He must have."

Warrick was silent for a moment at this, then he asked softly, carefully, "Even if he did, 'Sabelle—and I do not believe he did so—why have they not been seen?"

"I don't know. I don't know. But I'll tell ye this, Warrick: If aught has truly happened to those boys, 'twas none of Richard's doing. I wouldst stake my life on it! Besides, it doesn't make sense for Richard to have slain the lads and then kept their deaths a secret. He'd have wanted it known, so there'd be no uprising on their behalf. Nay, he did not do it, I tell ye."

"Then whom would ye accuse?"

Isabella inhaled sharply, and her eyes narrowed.

"There was only one man here in London, in Richard's absence, with enough power and ambition to have carried out such a dastardly crime: the Lord Constable, His Grace the Duke of Buckingham, Henry Stafford. Lady Stanley's nephew. Of course, Harry Tewdwr would want the Princes out of his way, wouldn't he, since he means to seize the throne?"

"I would think that an accurate assumption, aye," Warrick replied evenly. "Their existence would certainly pose difficulties to any would-be claimant. However, that still does not explain why Buckingham would have done the deed. What could he possibly hope to gain by it?"

"The Crown, of course, as well ye know. He wants it himself, and he has a legitimate claim to it. Lord Hastings did try to warn Richard as much, but Richard wouldn't listen to him. Buck-

ingham was there when Richard needed him, and naturally, Richard trusted him because of it. But I never thought he was to be trusted, and neither did Anne. She said he reminded her of George, Duke of Clarence, and that Richard always had a blind spot where his traitorous brother was concerned. Aye, if those boys are dead, I'll wager that Buckingham is to blame. Mayhap Harry Tewdwr had naught to do with it at all, though I doubt it. After all, he's promised to wed young Bess Woodville if he wins the throne, hasn't he?

"Mother of God, what an alliance! Another one of Elizabeth Woodville's wicked schemes, I'll warrant, aided and abetted by Lady Stanley. Aye, I'll wager the Baroness is in it up to her pious, clever brain! 'Twas doubtless she who hatched the entire plot. Her son, together with the Woodvilles and Buckingham, would be strong enough to unseat Richard from the throne. Naturally, once Richard was dead, Buckingham would try to seize the Crown for himself, but then. Lady Stanley would have guessed that, wouldn't she? So they'd prepared, she and Harry Tewdwr. And once Buckingham was dead, who would be left? George'§ young son, Edward, Earl of Warrick, a simpleminded boy? No one would want him on the throne, of course. That would leave only Jack de la Pole, Richard's nephew by his sister Elizabeth, a minor nuisance, I would imagine.

"Aye, I see it all now. I'll tell ye this, my lord: If the Princes are dead, 'tis Lady Stanley's doing. Buckingham's not smart enough to have carried out such a crime all on his own."

"Nay, I would think not," Warrick conceded. "However, this is all sheer speculation on your part, 'Sabelle. There is no real proof the boys are dead. They may indeed be at Sheriff Hutton as first ye surmised."

But the Princes were never seen again; and in October, Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, allied with John Morton, Bishop of Ely, who had been remanded into Buckingham's care at Brecknock, in Wales; Harry Tewdwr, and the Woodvilles marched against Richard, the King.

Nothing went right with the uprising from the start. At the beginning of the rebellion, a terrible storm blew up that lasted for days, bringing with it sheets of such blinding rain that people were calling it The Great Water. Numerous persons drowned as the rivers of England overflowed their banks, flooding the terrain beyond. Lakes stood where once fields had lain, and the dirt roads were quagmires of mud. Most of the Welshmen who would have joined Buckingham in support of their countryman, the

Lancastrian, Harry Tewdwr, were cut off from the Duke's forces by the Vaughns, who were Yorkists and who had a grudge against Buckingham anyway. No sooner had the Duke left Brecknock than his enemies torched his lands as well.

In Herefordshire, Buckingham's own cousins Humphrey and Thomas Stafford opposed him, and the people whom the Duke had thought would rally to his cause had had enough of civil war. The accursed rain had so swollen the River Severn that Buckingham and his rapidly dwindling forces were unable to cross it and thus were cut off from the Woodvilles, who would not, by now, have helped them anyway. Lord Dorset's part of the uprising, in the south, had already been contained; and Bishop Morton had fled. Harry Tewdwr's ships were driven back twice by the storm; and by the time he reached the Dorset coast, a trap was laid and waiting for him. Fortunately, having lived in exile nearly all his life had sharpened Harry's wits, and, suspicious of the soldiers who lined the shore, claiming to be Buckingham's men, he refused to land. He sailed on up,to Plymouth, in Devon, where, by now. Lord Warrick ap Tremayne, Earl of Hawkhurst, was waiting to inform him that Buckingham was a fool, and the rebellion was a failure.

The rain was still falling heavily as Harry's mercenary soldiers rowed Warrick out to one of the ships, anchored in the Channel, where Harry waited. The day was grey and bleak, and the sharp, tangy scent of autumn mingled with the damp and the sea. Warrick was chilled to the bone as the treacherous waves swept over the small boat. By the time he had boarded the larger vessel, he was numb with cold and soaked to the skin. Thank God, there was a fire burning in the brazier in Harry's cabin. Warrick stretched his hands out gratefully to the blaze as several squires toweled dry his drenched body, then gave him some food and brandy. When finally he was warm, he turned and studied Harry assess-ingly in the flickering candlelight.

The two men had been children together in Wales. In the past, before Harry's exile, Warrick and his brothers had often been visitors at Pembroke Castle, and later Harlech Castle, where Harry had lived with first his mother and his uncle Jasper Tewdwr; then, after his family had been named traitors, with his warden. Lord Herbert. Warrick's grandfather. Lord Owein of Pencarreg, was one of Jasper Tewdwr's staunchest friends. Still, Warrick had not seen Harry in several years.

Harry Tewdwr, at twenty-six, was three years younger than Warrick but looked older for the simple reason that his face was

generally an emotionless, wary mask. Of medium height, he was slender in build, almost too thin; and his pale blond hair and icy grey eyes made him seem somewhat washed of color. His features, however, had the classically chiseled elegance of his mother, Lady Stanley; and his voice, when he spoke, was low and pleasantly modulated.

"So, Waerwic," Harry said tiredly once the amenities had been gotten out of the way. "I am not yet then to be King of England."

"Nay, Harry, not this time anyway."

Briefly, the two men were silent, each thinking his own thoughts, remembering the past. They had gone separate ways then—of necessity; they had understood that. Now, the paths of their lives had come together once more. They shared a common goal: to put Harry on England's throne. Warrick was sure now that he'd made the right decision. Harry would marry young Bess Woodville, Edward's daughter, and unite the Houses of Lancaster and York once and for all.

"Tell me what happened, Waerwic"—Harry spoke again at last.

"Buckingham botched it, of course," Warrick stated wryly, swirling the brandy in his chalice a little. "He tried to deceive ye, as we knew he would, but the people refused to rally to his cause. Even his own cousins would not come to his aid but opposed him in battle instead. Richard's men took Buckingham prisoner and marched him to Salisbury, where Richard is camped. There, they brought Buckingham up before Sir Ralph Assheton, the Vice-Constable, and charged him with treason. Buckingham was found guilty and executed the next day. He died badly, I'm told, a coward to the end."

"And the Woodvilles?" Harry inquired.

"Hiding in sanctuary or fled."

"I see." Harry paused, considering. "Well, then," he continued, "there's no need for me to linger here. I do but endanger ye, as well as myself, Waerwic, especially as my mother has informed me your wife is a devout Yorkist."

"Aye, my lord," Warrick answered smoothly the question in Harry's eyes. "Our political differences be a source of pain to us both. She loves Richard, for he and his wife, Anne, were most kind to her when she was a child."

"Richard is indeed fortunate to have so loyal a subject," Harry remarked somewhat dryly.

"Aye, my lord," Warrick noted frankly, then went on somewhat defiantly, "But I wouldst not part with my 'Sabelle all the

same, Harry, for I do love her dearly. Twas she who healed the bitter wound that Brangwen's betrayal of me left. If you'd rather I were not your man—"

"Nay, nay," Harry interrupted. "I'm glad of the happiness ye have found with your wife, Waerwic, no matter her loyalties; and I do apologize if I sounded harsh. Tis merely that I am weary of this waiting and do long for Wales, for home. I wouldst not ask ye to give up your wife for me, and I was not questioning your loyalty to me. I know ye have served me faithfully."