To the Tower Born - Robin Maxwell (9 page)

“Perhaps we should get back,” said Bessie, “before it starts to rain.”

“Let’s do,” said Nell, and as they found their way back out, running into blind corners, back to where they’d started, laughing at their utter confusion, all discomfort between them faded.

The girls were nearly through the maze when they heard voices on the other side of the hedge wall. Clearly, others of the family had taken the rain’s letup as an opportunity to walk out in the overcast afternoon.

“Why have you done this, Richard?” they heard Bessie’s aunt Anne say. Her voice was low but clearly angry.

Nell and Bessie froze in their tracks and, with their eyes, agreed to silence. In fact, they had agreed to eavesdropping.

“You could be badly injured. Killed!” Anne said.

“I will be neither injured nor killed,” Gloucester replied. “I promise you.”

“But why? Why!” she cried. “No, let me tell you. ” Bessie and Nell were barely breathing.

“You shall risk your life and limb,” Anne continued, “chance to leave your son fatherless, your wife a widow, because you loathe Antony Woodville.”

Richard was silent, as though he was unable to refute his wife’s words.

“How could you do such a thing!”

“You speak as though I have no chance against Rivers.”

“You have seen him on the jousting field, Richard. You have no chance against the man.”

“And I have seen him on the battlefield! I am a hundred times the soldier he is. The king has called him a coward in war.”

“No. The king took issue with Lord Rivers’s choice in making a pilgrimage too soon after winning back England after my father’s rebellion. The joust is an art, Richard. And you have never studied it.”

“ ’Tis another form of armed combat,” Gloucester argued.

“He is a head taller and two stone heavier,” said Anne.

“Inch for inch, pound for pound, I’m Rivers’s match.”

“And you’re stubborn as a mule!”

“Let us be finished with this, Anne.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Not until I hear you admit the true reason for this folly.” When Richard remained silent Anne said, “Then let me tell you.

Despite the revulsion you claim at seeing your brother’s gluttony and decadence, you crave his love and admiration like a child craves sweetmeats.”

Nell felt Bessie clutching for her hand. It was extraordinary to be privy to such intimate family intelligence.

“It annoys you beyond measure,” Anne went on, “that Edward has placed his ‘precious jewel’ into the trust of Lord Rivers, because you despise the man every bit as much as you do 
his sister the queen. You think him an overrated scholar, and you find his famous piety insincere—”

“His pilgrimages are a sham.”

“And you mistrust his loyalty to the king, though he was the only man besides you and Hastings that sat out a painful exile with Edward during my father’s coup. In short, you are jealous of Edward’s affection for Rivers, and now you are willing to risk your life to prove to the king that you are a better man than your brother-in-law!”

Richard was silent.

“Maybe you believe that the royal blood you have coursing through your veins imbues you with magical powers,” Anne said. “Or that all your recent victories with the Scots are insignificant proof of your loyalty. Or maybe you simply believe that whatever the outcome, your challenge—so foolishly mis-matched and against your favor—proves courage and greatheartedness that Edward has forgotten you possess.”

“Are you through?”

“I am.” Suddenly her voice softened. “Richard—”

“The challenge cannot be rescinded, Anne.”

“I know that.”

“I will live through it,” he said gently.

“You’d best do.” Her voice was stern, but their argument was clearly over.

“Lady Margaret,” the girls heard Gloucester say.

“Lord Richard. Lady Anne,” the female voice replied deferentially.

It was obvious to the girls that Margaret Beaufort had approached the couple. Nell and Bessie strained to hear every word.

“I’m glad I found you,” said Margaret. “Have you all the linen you need?”

“I think we do,” Anne answered.

“I understand your hairdresser’s fallen ill. I would be glad to send mine over.”

“I’m all right today,” Anne replied. “If Mary’s no better tomorrow, I may well avail myself of your woman.”

“Very good,” said Margaret, and was gone.

A moment later Richard said, “She is a strange woman.”

“She is Lancastrian,” Anne replied, as if that explained everything.

“Married to a loyal Yorkist,” Richard amended.

“Who has not
always
been loyal to the House of York.

There’s never been a nobleman with as ambiguous a history of loyalty as Lord Stanley—fighting for the York in the fifties, my father in the sixties—”

“He hasn’t fought on the Lancastrian side since 1471,” said Richard.

“By that time, York supremacy had been unmistakably
proven,
” Anne argued.

“Stanley’s been a faithful servant to my brother Edward for so long that I do trust him,” Richard insisted.

“My darling, loyalty is so deeply ingrained in your soul that you believe it must naturally be so in others.”

“So you do not trust Lord and Lady Stanley?” Richard asked.

“I reserve my judgment on him, but she is someone to watch very, very closely.”

The Gloucesters finally moved from their place in front of the hedge maze. Flattened against the inside wall, the girls saw the couple pause at the arched maze entry.

Richard gazed adoringly at his wife. He stroked her cheek with his finger, tracing the outline of her delicate jaw. “The voice of reason,” he said quietly. “What would I do without you?”

“You’d brood yourself into a black lump of coal,” Anne answered with a smile.

He laughed at that and enfolded her in his arms. Nell pretended not to see Bessie’s pained expression. A moment later Richard and Anne were gone.

The friends exchanged a look that spoke both of their embarrassment at such blatant eavesdropping and delight at their amazing good fortune to have done so.

“Did you know how deeply Gloucester loathed your uncle Rivers?” Nell began.

“Not in the least. I must be blind or stupid. Or both.”

“But how could you know?” Nell responded. “You’ve told me that neither uncle is ever at court.”

“True.” Bessie was thoughtful. “Do you believe my uncle Richard is right? That your Lord Rivers’s piety is false?”

“He is not ‘my’ Lord Rivers,” said Nell with unconvincing indignance. “But ’tis possible. My father always says that a person’s deepest relationship with God is a mystery, most especially to the person himself. And that for nobles, the number of pilgrimages traveled and the sums given as charity to the church are as likely political acts as religious ones. I personally believe Lord Rivers—”

“Your
beloved
Lord Rivers,” Bessie teased.

“—is sincerely pious,” said Nell, ignoring her friend’s mischief. “But of course I’ve no substantive proof.”

“Perhaps you’ll gather some in the next few months at Ludlow,” Bessie said with a wicked grin.

Nell had written to her father asking his permission to stay on as Prince Edward’s tutor. Everyone knew he would happily give it.

“I might,” said Nell, blushing at the thought of the glorious spring that lay ahead of her. There was the challenge of teaching Edward. And there was Antony, Lord Rivers, who seemed every day more smitten with her. “I will miss you, Bessie.”

“And I you,” said the princess, throwing her arms around Nell in an embrace. They felt the first drops of rain on their faces.

“Back to our needles,” said Nell.

“And idle gossip,” said Bessie.

They grinned like two conspirators, then ran back through the gathering storm to Ludlow Castle.

Thank Christ for the fair weather,” said Bessie to Nell.

They, with the rest of the royal entourage, were following a winding pathway that had been specially cut through the jonquiled meadow to the east of the castle. “Edward would have been crushed had the games been ruined by rain.”

“Tell me about Lord Rivers’s wife,” Nell whispered suddenly.

“Living or dead?” Bessie replied. She wondered why it had taken Nell so long to inquire about the man with whom she was clearly in love.

“Living.”

Bessie thought before she answered. Though she too loved her uncle, she’d spent little time in his presence for the last ten years. “You know he’d been a widower for nearly five years.”

“Yes.”

“Well, after his wife died, it took my mother no time at all to begin her matchmaking. At first she was positively determined to marry him to the Scots queen. Those negotiations went on endlessly—three years, I think.”

“So he would have become King of Scotland?”

“That was my mother’s plan.”

“Did Antony . . .” Nell corrected herself. “Lord Rivers—”

“Come, Nell,” Bessie chided. “With me, at least, you must call him what you do in your heart.” Bessie shot her friend a sideways glance and saw she was smiling shyly.

“Did Antony wish for the new marriage? For kingship?”

“Neither. He’d not been particularly attached to his first wife—an arranged marriage—and was enjoying bachelorhood.

And he balked at the thought of leaving England.”

“But all the pilgrimages he made . . .” Nell began.

“Pilgrimages are different. Despite the way he looks—elegant and worldly, and contrary to what my uncle Richard thinks—

Rivers is the most sincerely pious man I know. He even risked my father’s extreme displeasure going off on one of his pilgrimages too soon after the Warwick rebellion. But to be the King of Scotland would have meant leaving England for the rest of his life. And he hated that thought.”

“Like you,” Nell said.

Bessie glanced at her friend and knew her mind was racing.

“It never occurred to me that a
man
could be a marriage pawn,” said Nell.

“With my mother plotting and scheming,
anything
is possible.”

“But he didn’t marry the Scots queen,” Nell observed.

“No. Thankfully the idea was abandoned, and Uncle Rivers breathed a long sigh of relief. But not long enough. Last year his sister foisted another marriage plan on him—this time not for dynastic purposes, but strictly financial reasons. The lady in question was substantially older than my uncle and quite can-tankerous, but almost as wealthy as Margaret Beaufort. Nothing Rivers could say or do moved my mother from her plan. All of his pleading fell on deaf ears. So he married the loathsome woman, but under the condition that he would never have to bed her, or even live under the same roof with her.”

Nell was silent as she walked, but her features had settled into something resembling happiness.

“Do you not think it is ironic,” said Bessie, “that we’ve both fallen in love with men we cannot have?”

“Brutally ironic.” Nell smiled sadly at her friend. She grabbed Bessie’s hand. “At least we have each other.” Bessie squeezed Nell’s hand. “Till death,” said the princess.

“Till death,” said Nell.

They emerged into a large clearing where the splendid tournament grounds had been erected. Already, the risers were filled with a raucous crowd composed of the castle staff, Ludlow villagers, and farmer families from the farthest reaches of the Welsh Marches, eager for the day’s pomp and pageantry. At the center of the risers was a raised, canopied box, this carpeted and hung magnificently with tapestries and fluttering China silk.

Bessie viewed the jousting field beyond, its low wooden tilt wall, on either side of which the opposing horses would run at one another, and at each end of which had been erected a stable, their facades appearing as miniature castles.

“This is my first joust,” said Nell.

“I wish you could sit with me,” Bessie said.

“I shall be quite happy with family friends and withered old clergymen.”

They hugged, and Nell left her friend to find a seat in the riser closest to the royal box.

To a blasting fanfare the King and Queen of England and their brood emerged onto the platform. The crowd rose for their entry, and a great roar of approval shook the morning air.

Bessie was not unaware of the vision they presented. The Yorks were the richest family in England, attired in their holiday finery, a dozen handsome heads of golden hair made even more dazzling by the day’s sparkling sunlight.

Bishop Morton stood and delivered a droning benediction over the tournament. Then, with a great blast of trumpets, the games began.

Two riders in the Prince of Wales’s livery galloped in suddenly, one from either “castle,” this to announce the grand entrance of the prince himself. Bessie’s heart leapt at the sight of the small, proud figure encased toe to head in gleaming armor, tall lance upended, riding forward on his high horse that was trapped out in matching plate. Edward’s face was hidden behind his helmet and visor, but she imagined it flushed with pride, this perhaps the finest moment of his childhood.

Prince Edward caused his horse to dip into a graceful bow before his mother and father, which caused more applause by the crowd. Then, lifting his visor, Edward trotted to the place below where his sister sat and bade his horse to kneel, just as he had done for the King and Queen of England. When horse and rider rose, the prince extended his lance in Bessie’s direction and cried out, “If you please, a token from my lady!” Bessie stood and draped her French lace handkerchief over the tip of Edward’s lance. She held her breath, praying that the lift of his lance would prove steady and graceful. It was. Then, with the slight jiggle his uncle Rivers had taught him, Edward released the kerchief, which fluttered down to his hand. He pressed it first to his heart and then to his lips. The spectators came to their feet with applause and whistles.

In the next moment the Prince of Wales wheeled about and rode along the partition wall to the far end. During the time he’d been acquiring Bessie’s token, a wooden quintain—a tar-get mounted on a horizontal pole—had been wheeled out to the far end of the lists. Edward trotted to the opposite end of the tilt wall, and at the drop of a red flag, he spurred his horse to action and raced the whole length of it. The armor must have

weighed heavily on his child’s body, but his spine was rod straight, and the movement of mount and rider was strong and seamless.

At the last moment the lance, with great control and steady aim, was lowered toward the quintain. If hit with accuracy, the tar-get would swing harmlessly aside. Should Edward strike it off center, however, the heavy arm would swing round and ingloriously knock him off his horse. To everyone’s delight—for all present wished the boy well in his solitary game—each of Edward’s six runs proved a perfect bull’s-eye, and with each success the cheers grew louder.

When the quintain was removed, replaced by six gold circles suspended on cords, Edward “rode at the rings” and carried five of the six off on the tip of his lance. With one final, triumphant bow to his parents and Bessie and a wave to the cheering crowd, the demonstration came to an end, and Prince Edward rode off.

The jousts were next. Pairs of knights, each with fresh horses for each of four rounds, rode full speed at each other with lowered lances. Dozens of weapons were shattered upon their opponents’ shields, making points for the rider with the broken weapons. Though lance tips were blunted—to save England’s finest from death and injury—jousters nevertheless fought as if their lives depended on it. Bessie found herself unaccountably thrilled by the thundering hooves and crashing steel. She shouted encouragement loudly, and jeered her disappointments like one of the common crowd.

“Bessie,” her mother hissed. “Quiet yourself. You sound like a fishwife.”

“Leave the girl alone, Elizabeth,” Bessie heard her father say.

“ ’Tis a joust. Yes!
Yes!
” he shouted as two knights collided with a resounding crash.

The queen glared at her husband and defiant daughter, neither of whom was in the least perturbed by her fury.

The morning hushed suddenly, and Bessie knew that all were anticipating the match between her two uncles. Ludlow had lately been abuzz with the challenge, for it was an event of historic proportions—the king’s beloved brother riding against the king’s beloved brother-in-law. Lord Rivers, being the local governor, was the common crowd’s favorite. Few had ever seen the king’s brother.

Richard of Gloucester came first to the field, emerging from his castle as the “Black Knight” in dark-burnished armor, his attendants leading three more armored mounts behind him. Upon a sixteen-hand horse encased in that massive metal suit, Richard’s stature belied his smaller size. His high posture and the ease with which he carried his lance proved his strength beneath the steel plate, and Bessie felt a strange pride that the bearing of her uncle was so regal.

A moment later a rumbling in the crowd, then a roar, grew as the opposite castle door opened. All eyes turned to find a strange and riveting sight. A “hermitage” had been built over a horse, entirely covering it. It was a wood-framed structure of white velvet, with four glass windows on either side, a cross of Saint Antony mounted at its top, and a ringing bell above that.

Once it had come full center, attendants rushed to all sides of the simulated building and with practiced hands removed it to reveal a horse trapped in tawny satin and gold plate. It was ridden by a robed and deeply hooded “White Hermit.” Now with a great flourish, the hermit’s robes were pulled away, and there, resplendent in full silver armor was Antony, Lord Rivers, the visor open, a fist raised as if triumph was already his.

In an age-old ritual so beloved by the people, each jouster now came forward to receive a token from his lady, who could be anyone
not
his wife. The woman would be expected to

swoon with delight that such a gallant knight would ride, at peril of his very life, for her honor.