The Rose of York: Crown of Destiny (10 page)

And loneliness.

How he wished he could spare them that! But it was inevitable, unless Anne could find it in her heart to give them a chance…

Her rigid back told him it was useless. He supposed he should leave, but he felt drained, too exhausted to move. “I shall be gone before the cock’s crow,” he said in a weary voice. “You needn’t see me off.” He dragged himself to the door, rested his hand on the iron latch. He hesitated, turned back. “I was nine, Johnnie’s age, when I came to Middleham fatherless. You loved me then. It changed my life…”

He floundered, awash in misery and guilt, pulled the handle, and strode out the door.

Anne brooded the night.
I’ve never been good enough. Richard never loved me; not really
. Another woman had claimed his heart the moment she was gone. Visions of their naked bodies danced out of the darkness, taunting her, slicing and wounding without mercy. She saw the woman smile at him, heard him whisper her name.
Kate
. Their kisses grew more passionate; they entwined arms and legs and began to rock violently in frenzied lovemaking. The lurid details slashed at her, drawing blood as deeply as a whip on soft flesh. Hate and revulsion swept her and she trembled with a rage she had not known before. For the first time in her life she felt a deliberate desire to maim, to inflict punishment, to destroy. She slammed into Richard’s bedroom.

“Be gone!” she yelled at the servants sleeping in the antechamber, giving one of them a kick. They ran out in terror. “And shut the door!”

Richard, seated in the window, leapt to his feet in astonishment, nearly dropping the lute he had been strumming softly by candlelight.

“How dare you!” Anne screamed. “You deceived me! Betrayed me! Lied to me! And now you expect me to raise your bastards as my own? How dare you!”

Richard paled. This wild-woman could not be his gentle Anne! Even her voice had changed from the soft tones he knew to a harsh guttural sound that emanated from another place deep within her throat. She was trembling uncontrollably, her uncombed hair fell over her shift in rats-tails, and her fists were clenched at her sides. He had thought anger was preferable to the silence with which she had met his confession, but this maelstrom was enough to put the fear of God into the King’s own champion. “Anne…”

She strode up to him and slapped him hard across the face. Stunned, Richard wiped his mouth with his hand and stared at the blood her rings had drawn. His own temper flared. “All lords sire bastards!”

“Aye, when they marry for lands!” she fired back. “You swore you loved me, and you betrayed me!”

“I did love you; why can you not understand that—and forgive?”

“I’ll never forgive! Never, ever. And you can take your bastards and drown them for all I care.” She whirled around and stalked off. Richard was seized with a fury of his own. He ran after her, caught her arm and swung her around. “And what of you? Why should I not expect understanding when you deceived me and betrayed me, and took my forgiveness as your due?”

“You’re mad! I never deceived you!”

“With Edouard of Lancaster? You bedded him, and willingly, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”

She backed away. Richard matched her step for step until he had her pinned against the wall, arms above her head. “Tell me about it, Anne! Were his kisses as hot as mine? And his manhood, how did that compare? Did you cry out for him like you do for me…?”

“Cease!” she screamed, twisting her face away from his. “I hate you. I hate you!”

“You hate me. Did you love him?” He tightened his grip of her wrist. “Speak! I want the truth!”

“Let me go…” She writhed to free herself. “You’re hurting me!”

He slammed her hard against the wall. “Not until you give me the truth!”

She burst into tears. He dropped her wrist in confusion, retreating. “I’m sorry, Anne… I don’t know what came over me… I never meant to hurt you; I swear it.”

She looked up at him, silent tears rolling down her cheeks. “The truth is… we began by loathing each other…”

He held his breath. He had not realised how desperately he needed to know until this moment.

“…and he ended by loving me.”

Richard swallowed. “And you?”

“I… I don’t know what I felt—but it wasn’t love.”

“What then?” he whispered hoarsely, his heart pounding.

“More… like pity.”

“Did you weep for him when he was dead?”

She didn’t respond for a moment. Then she gave a nod. Richard closed his eyes.

“Not in the way you think,” came the sweet voice he knew.

His eyes flew open.

“I wept because… because there was good in him… and he died brutally, betrayed by one he trusted…” She met his gaze. There was no need to add that it was Richard’s brother George, Edouard’s brother by marriage, who struck seventeen-year old Edouard down on the field as he begged for mercy.

“I regret that, Anne… I regret many things.”

“So do I, Richard.” She raised her hand to his cut cheek.

“That will heal.” He kissed the palm of her hand.

“I don’t know what came over me. It was as though a demon possessed me… I was jealous because I couldn’t give you more children, and she did.” Tears stung her eyes. She broke off, bit her lip.

“My love,” he said gently, tilting her face up to his, “’tis a relief that you can give me no more children.”

Her lashes flew up. She stared at him, violet eyes bewildered.

“I nearly lost you with Ned. I could never go through that again, my little bird.” He bent his head and kissed the hands he clutched between his own. “Forgive my jealousy of Edouard.”

“Oh, Richard,” she said, gazing at his dark head. “We both did what we had to do. What else could we do?”

He gathered her to his breast and held her close. After a long moment she looked up at him. “I’ll make arrangements for the children. They’ll be here to greet you when you return.”

“Thank you, Anne,” he murmured into her hair. “Thank you, Flower-eyes…” He crushed her lips beneath his own.

~*^*~

Chapter 10

“I know, God knows, too much of palaces!”

Richard arrived at Windsor on the Feast of St. Swithin to find that Edward had spared no expense for the visit of their sister, Margaret, Duchess of Burgundy. In a grand gesture he had sent his fleet, headed by Bess’s brother, Sir Edward Woodville, all the way to Calais to escort her to London. With minstrels playing and oars dancing in the sparkling waters, she was transferred to a royal barge festooned with flowers and streamers and brought up the Thames to Greenwich Palace. There, after a lavish pageant, banquet, and gift-giving ceremony, the glittering court gathered in a torch-lit chamber adjoining the great hall. Richard was conversing with his sister and a group of her ambassadors in a corner of the room when Bess Woodville drew up to Meg.

“Have you heard, fair sister, how matters go with Marguerite d’Anjou in Reculee? Is she content?”

“Content? I think not, Madame. In truth, she is no longer in Reculee but in Dampierre, living almost in poverty. Louis—as you may be aware—is not an overly generous man.” Meg’s lips curled with distaste. Louis was notoriously mean with his gold. “Sometimes he fails to send her even the meagre pittance he agreed to. Yet she continues to provide for some old Lancastrians who are in dire need and have nowhere else to go.”

Bess gave a measured sigh. “Thankfully, I cannot reproach myself. I was good to her and did what I could to ease her lot while she was here, in spite of the expense. She was a queen, after all.” Hoping no one remembered that she herself had been Marguerite’s lady-in-waiting before marriage to Edward elevated her to Queen, Bess rushed on. “I remember one particularly generous gift of mine, a black velvet gown with miniver at the collar and cuffs, which cost the royal sum of fifty marks…” Bess had kept careful tally of the expenses she had incurred for her former benefactor, and of them all, this was the one she most regretted. “I do believe the services of my physician, Dr. Lewis, also meant much to her. Indeed, how is her health?”

“Not well, Madame.”

Bess raised her plucked brows carefully. “How so?”

Meg turned to one of her advisors, a tall, distinguished-looking gentleman with a heavy golden collar that announced him Treasurer of the Order of the Golden Fleece. “You have seen her, Monsieur Gros. What was it you told me? I have forgotten.”

“I did not actually see her myself, Your Grace, but I haf spoken to one who has,” he said in an accented guttural voice. “His report vas dat her eyes are hollow and dim, and perpetually inflamed—no doubt from constant veeping—and dat her skin is so dry and scaly, some think she may haf leprosy.”

“Leprosy?” Bess gasped. “How revolting! Let us speak of more pleasant matters… Dear sister, how do you like my arras?” She gestured to the wall behind Meg with a fine white hand laden with enormous jewels. “’Tis the Siege of Jerusalem, wrought in pure gold. You have not remarked upon it, but I hope you find it worthy of us?”

Meg turned to look. So this was the famous arras for which Bess had ruined poor Thomas Cook, a rich burgher and former Mayor of London who had declined to sell his arras to her family for a paltry sum well below its worth. She herself had managed to get the old man, a good friend, released from prison the first time Bess had dragged him there, but Bess had him re-arrested as soon as Meg had left England to marry Charles the Rash. The tapestry had disappeared when Cook’s house was ransacked by Bess’s father. Clearly, Bess had stolen it and was not ashamed of her theft, even flaunting her prize openly. “Wonderfully pleasing,” Meg managed, swallowing her disgust. Unable to say more, she transferred the burden to her Treasurer. “What think you, Monsieur Gros?”

Monsieur Gros took the hint. “Vonderfully pleasing, Your Grace, as you say.” He turned to Bess. “However, might I add that the gold thread, though magnificent, has not the lustre of your gilt hair, Madame, and the royal maiden is but the shadow of your beauty.”

Bess gave him a gratified smile. “So I am told.”

A trumpet fanfare sounded. “Ah, the banquet begins.”

Richard waited for Bess’s long train of ermine and green cloth of gold to sweep past and witnessed Meg exchange a glance with Monsieur Gros that conveyed their thoughts more clearly than words: that Bess held her head higher than any queen of royal blood they had met on the Continent, and that there was a leprosy of the soul far worse than any of the skin. He offered his arm to his sister.

At Windsor later that evening, Richard strolled through the torch-lit gardens with Meg. It was a beautiful July night. A cool breeze stirred the trees and the sky glowed with stars, but he had no eye for the fragrant blooms or the hedges carefully manicured into animal shapes past which they ambled, and no ear for the laughter and song around him. Being at court with Woodvilles had brought back the anguish of George’s death. Ever since George was executed, he had been plagued with dreams of his brother’s death. He’d see himself in the Tower in George’s place, his hands bound behind him, being pushed down steep, dark steps into a dank cellar where wine butts stood. He would be shoved face down on the cold floor and his knees strapped to his chest. Then powerful arms would hoist him up and throw him into the cold black liquid. As he struggled, the cover would be slammed down and secured. The darkness would be complete; the panic overwhelming. He always bolted upright from these dreams, drenched in sweat. Anne would light a candle and calm him.

Richard stole a sideways look at Meg, wondering how she felt about being here, among their brother’s murderers. It could not be easy for her. She had loved George best, yet it did not show in her gracious demeanour.

She is growing old
, he thought sadly. She was thirty-four now; six years older than himself. Tall and slender, she carried herself as erect as their mother, with as much dignity but none of the haughtiness. Though she hid the beautiful thick brown hair he remembered beneath a jewelled hat and veil in the severe style demanded by fashion, and though time had sharpened the angles of her face, which resembled their mother’s more than any of his other sisters, yet she did not look hard. There was understanding in her blue eyes and a hint of a smile in the curve of her lips. He wished life had been kinder to her. She had known neither the love of a husband nor of a child, this sister who had given him a mother’s love. Thankfully, she was not completely bereft. By all reports, she adored her stepdaughter, Mary, who was said to be very pretty and sweet-natured.

“And you, dear Dickon, are happy now at last,” Meg smiled.

“Aye, Meg. Fortune has been kind to me in many ways.”

“I have heard, my brother, how well you have done in the North. That wild Lancastrian stronghold is now reconciled to the House of York and devoted to you, so they tell me. It seems that justice is as much your passion, Dickon, as it was our noble father’s.”

“I’ve simply done what I believed was right.”

“You are the only one of our brothers to take after him, you know.”

Richard halted in his steps, looked at her. “I’m nothing like our lord father, Meg.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. There is much about you that has always reminded me of him, God assoil his noble soul. Now I see that you have not only his face, but also his heart.”

“But our father was fair, and I am dark,” said Richard, struggling to suppress the doubts about his paternity that had plagued him since childhood.

Meg smiled. “Not as fair as you seem to remember.”

Richard had been given that assurance once before, from a kindly Irish earl on a night almost exactly like this one. He hadn’t believed Desmond, either. People saw what they wanted to see. Meg loved him, and Desmond had been a generous man.
Desmond, who was murdered by the Woodvilles
. A stabbing pain came and went. He gnawed his lip. A silence fell, broken by the gushing of the fountain they were approaching.

“Certainly you look well, Dickon,” Meg continued. “’Tis more than I can say for Edward.”

Loyalty kept Richard from voicing agreement with Meg’s observation.