To the Tower Born - Robin Maxwell (8 page)

and subject.’ He’s dedicated it to me. A book of my very own.” He looked up. “Thank you, Aunt and Uncle! Thank you, Ned!”

“He’ll think it a bribe.” Nell heard the whispered voice next to her. She turned to Lady Margaret, whose tight-lipped mouth was cynically pursed.

“I beg your pardon?” said Nell.

“The Prince of Wales may like his gift, but he suspects ’tis a bribe for his affection. He loathes Gloucester.” Margaret was taking close note of Nell’s reaction to her bold statement.

Nell was at once flattered and suspicious of the woman’s motives. The correct response and tone were essential. She kept her voice low. “Prince Edward wrongly believes Gloucester was responsible for his uncle Clarence’s execution.”

“Do you not think it curious,” Lady Margaret said, clearly pleased with Nell’s engagement, continuing the conversation as though the two women were equals, “that the king has not made his own complicity in Clarence’s execution clear to his son? That it was he who ordered it. Why would he wish the boy to so mislike his only remaining brother?”

Nell thought carefully before leaning close to Lady Margaret’s ear and speaking softly. “Perhaps the king has given it no thought.”

“Does he not care that Prince Edward’s hatred of Gloucester deeply grieves his brother?” Margaret persisted.

“Perhaps he is unaware of his son’s perceptions,” Nell suggested.

“Unaware? But how can a King of England be so blithely igno-rant?”

Nell was suddenly conscious that she was being led into a subtle trap. The answer, if she were to utter it, was that King Edward was so sodden with drink and debauchery that his faculties were suffering. And that idea spoken aloud was treasonous.

Nell had caught herself in time, but wondered at Lady Margaret’s ambush.

“Ignorant? Not at all,” said Nell. “Gloucester has himself refused to burden his brother with the problem. And the prince has not complained openly. Those around the king may have reasons of their own for perpetuating this misunder-standing.”

Lady Margaret regarded Nell closely and her lips twisted into something that might have been called a smile. “You are a very clever girl, Mistress Caxton.”

“Thank you, Lady Margaret.”

The musicians struck up the first chord of a pavane, and with that, the older woman turned away, finished with Nell, and began speaking with her husband, Lord Stanley, who sat at her left.

Nell was quite overcome. First an offer of employment to tutor the future King of England. Now a mental challenge and a compliment from the shrewdest woman in England. Oh, how she longed to speak to Bessie!

“Nell.”

She turned to see Lord Rivers standing behind her with his upturned hand outstretched. “Will you dance with me?” She exhaled once to calm herself, then took his hand.

“ ’Twould be my pleasure.”

. . .

Whilst Nell had been Princess Bessie’s close—nay, inseparable— friend since the return with Nell’s father from Bruges six years before, and whilst Mistress Caxton had been many times invited to Westminster Court, she had never experienced the magnificence and excitement of a royal family gathering such as this. Indeed, she had never dreamed of being so warmly embraced by the Yorks. Besides Bessie, the king, queen, the princes Edward and Dickon, and Lord Rivers had treated her like nothing less than royalty.

Since their arrival in Wales, Nell had partaken of hunts, both on horseback and from blinds. Even a “wild-goose chase” with everyone racing on their mounts single file through the Ludlow Greenwood. Every meal was eaten together, dinners and suppers, each a sumptuous feast, invariably accompanied by music and dancing, jugglers and acrobats, and all manner of entertainments.

Every night the girls, happily exhausted, would retire to Bessie’s bedchamber. They chattered about the day’s events as maids undressed them, slipped nightgowns over their heads, and they never stopped talking as they were tucked into the luxurious canopied bed laid with the finest lawn sheets and richest lace-and-velvet coverlets. They chattered for so long and so incessantly that sometimes the sun was rising before they’d finally fallen asleep.

“Your father does love his brother Richard well,” said Nell one night. “Have they always been so close?”

“Since they were young boys. My grandfather’s death brought them closer still.”

“Your grandfather, the Duke of York?”

Bessie nodded.

“Now, there was a powermonger,” Nell observed.

“No more so than Lady Anne’s father, Warwick,” Bessie 
added. “First he was my father’s ‘kingmaker,’ then turned round and tried to dethrone him.”

“Do you never wonder how Richard, who is so loyal to his brother, can be married to the daughter of the man who thrice sought to destroy him?” Nell asked.

Bessie sighed heavily at that, and Nell realized the subject of Anne and Richard of Gloucester was still a sore one with her friend. “Perhaps they’re not as happy together as they seem,” Nell said, hoping to soften the heartache.

“They’re deliriously happy and you know it.” Bessie looked miserable. “Everyone knows it.”

Nell pushed the hair back from her friend’s brow. “Best not to dwell too long on what can never be, Bessie. You’ve an exciting future ahead. Think of that.”

“Exciting? I may have escaped having to marry the pimply French dauphin, but Jesus knows who my parents will choose for me next.”

“Jesus be praised! Whomever you marry, you will become a queen. The highest lady in the land.”

“But a foreign land,” Bessie replied, turning her face away.

“Ah, Nell, I don’t mean to whine and complain. Surely I’m the luckiest girl in all England. But that’s my point. I love England. I don’t want to leave her.” She turned back and gazed at her friend. “I don’t want to leave you.”

“Perhaps the pope will grant a dispensation so you can marry your brother,” Nell quipped with a straight face.

“Nell!” Bessie laughed. “You’re a dreadful girl!” Under the covers a sharp poke was delivered to Nell, who squealed. The maids, still hanging their mistresses gowns, gig-gled.

“Seriously, though,” said Nell, pulling the covers up around her neck, “to be a queen is a marvelous thing.”

“I suppose it is.”

“Think of a chessboard,” said Nell.

“A chessboard?”

“Which piece on the board is most powerful? Not the castle.

Not the knight. Not the bishop. Not even the king. ’Tis the queen that moves the farthest and in every direction. You may have no say in whom you marry, but once that crown is on your head, no woman—or most men, for that matter—wields greater control. Look at Queen Margaret of Anjou. Look at your father’s sister, Margaret of Burgundy. Your own mother!

These are women who have forged their own destinies, directed armies. Ruled in the absence or dereliction of their husbands.

Bessie, without a queen there is no kingdom!” Bessie was smiling shyly. Clearly, she’d taken Nell’s words to heart. “Will you come and visit me where I live?”

“I might,” Nell teased.

“I could hire you as my spymaster.”

“Oh, I like the sound of that,” said Nell. “The court of a queen of your stature will certainly be steeped in conspiracy and espionage.”

Bessie laughed delightedly. “How do you always manage to make me feel so much better?”

Nell was suddenly serious. “Because I see you more clearly than you do yourself. And I remind you of all that you are capable of accomplishing in this life.”

“Which is no more than yourself,” Bessie insisted.

“True,” Nell agreed, and with a sly grin added, “though I cannot pop little kings and queens out my cunny.”

“Nell Caxton!” Bessie cried, pummeling her friend in mock outrage. Their shrieks of laughter grew so loud and uproarious that they echoed through the Ludlow courtyard and made smile everyone who heard them.

. . .

or two days now it had been cold and rainy, and whilst the Ffamily was quite used to indoor amusements, there was a worry that Sunday’s tournament would be ruined by inclement weather. Despite Prince Edward’s attempt at lightheartedness, and Nell and Bessie’s repeated assurances that the skies would clear, the boy could think of nothing else.

Today they had all gathered in Ludlow’s high-ceilinged great hall, and a fire blazed in the massive hearth. The women sat am-icably round a large, gorgeous-hued tapestry, and were gossip-ing as industriously as they were stitching.

The three cousins, Edward, Dickon, and Ned, were doing battle with wooden swords, and Nell noticed that the stronger two—the princes—played fairly with Ned. They were careful not to injure a boy they knew to be more frail than themselves, whilst fighting hard enough that Ned would not feel patronized.

Nell and Bessie had seated themselves closest to the men, who were gathered in council—the better for the girls to hear what was being said. The first order of business had been Prince Edward’s maintenance, but that was dispensed with easily, as Lord Rivers and the other Woodville relatives kept a staid and orderly household for the boy. He was growing up well, and the king had nothing but adulation for his brother-in-law Rivers.

When the girls heard the word Scotland uttered, they exchanged a furtive look and listened as intently to the men as was possible over the chattering females. Besides making his brother Constable of England for life, the king had given full powers over Scotland and the northern borderlands to Richard of Gloucester. Now Gloucester was giving report over those terri-tories. It was clear from his words that he had done well there.
Battled for, and secured, the Scottish borders. Won the siege of Edinburgh. All to the pride and joy of the king.

“There’s good reason why they call you ‘Lord of the North,’

brother.” From the corner of her eye, Nell saw Bessie’s father throw an affectionate arm about Richard’s shoulder. Then she glanced at her friend, who was watching the moment quite openly. Bessie always said that above all, Gloucester craved his elder brother’s love, perhaps even above his wife Anne’s. She saw Bessie’s lips curl into a smile, and knew the girl was quietly happy for her uncle Richard.

“Lord Stanley.” A serving boy had entered the great hall unnoticed and handed Richard’s steward a folded letter.

Stanley moved to the slitted window to read by the gloomy light. He looked up and spoke to the men. “My son Lord Strange has broken his arm.”

“Damn!” Nell heard Rivers mutter.

Stanley addressed Rivers. “He sends his deepest regrets, my lord, for he wished very sincerely to meet you on the jousting field on Sunday.”

“What is it, Father?” Prince Edward approached, no doubt sensing something was amiss.

“I’m afraid your uncle Rivers is without a jousting partner for Sunday’s tilt.”

The prince’s face collapsed utterly into disappointment verging on despair. “What will you do, Uncle?” he said, his voice cracking with emotion. “There’s no one suitable who could be sent for in time for Sunday. No one who would dare challenge you. The games will be ruined!” Whilst Edward’s sentiments were those of an adoring nephew, they were not without some truth. Rivers was, by reputation and in fact, the finest jouster in England. Indeed, on the continent as well.

“Go on, Hastings,” the king enjoined his friend, “you meet my brother-in-law on the field.”

“Pigs will fly first, Majesty,” Hastings replied with all seriousness, causing the men to roar with laughter.

“I have it,” said Rivers, trying to keep a straight face. “I’ll send a challenge to Harry Buckingham.”

There were more whoops of hilarity from everyone, except the Prince of Wales, who looked near to tears. The lack of a jousting partner for Rivers was no laughing matter.

“I challenge you, Rivers.” It was Richard of Gloucester speaking.

The room went silent as a tomb. Prince Edward’s eyes were saucers, and his jaw hung slack. The ladies looked up from their stitchery. Nell could feel Bessie, sitting next to her, straighten in her chair.

“It has never been my pleasure to joust,” said Richard, finally breaking the silence. “I have always found the sport . . .

frivolous. But I am a man-at-arms. I believe I can deport myself proudly at the tilts. I shall do so in honor of my brother the king.”

Richard’s words seemed reasonable enough. But then Nell caught sight of Lady Anne’s face. It was a mask of incredulity and fear. Nell was afraid to glance at Bessie, for everyone in the hall knew that Gloucester’s overproud challenge might have been a blunder . . . perhaps a fatal one.

Nell felt the light prick of a needle on her arm. Bessie was trying to get her attention. When she turned, her friend had an imploring look in her eye. Both girls remained silent and ladylike, but within moments had found reason to excuse themselves from the sewing circle.

The rain had let up momentarily, so Nell and Bessie ran outside and hurried to the privacy of the tall hedge maze, and wove

through the living green walls. But when they arrived at the center they found themselves unnaturally tongue-tied. The reason was Gloucester’s challenge to Antony Woodville. It was a strange and uncomfortable moment, for each of the girls held a forbidden fondness for one of the challengers, and for the first time in their lives, they had been thrust into opposition with each other.

“Will your father allow the joust?” Nell said to break the uncomfortable silence.

“I don’t know,” Bessie answered. “He seemed unconcerned.” Nell was reminded of her conversation with Lady Margaret, and the woman’s intimating that King Edward was perhaps losing his strength and capability. Nell had mentioned nothing of this to her friend, and stayed silent on it now.