“Or bewitched!”
All eyes turned toward Isabel.
“What other explanation could there be, George? Why else would he marry her if she’d not resorted to witchcraft?”
George dutifully crossed himself, but he looked skeptical. “Knowing Ned,” he said cynically, “it would take no more to bewitch him than white thighs, a rounded belly, and—”
“Hold your tongue, for pity’s sake,” Isabel interrupted hastily. “You know my lady mother does frown upon such bawdy talk in Anne’s hearing. Or mine,” she added as an afterthought, and she and George grinned at each other.
“Jesú, but you’re quiet of a sudden, Dickon!” George glanced quizzically at the younger boy, and when Richard didn’t reply, he laughed.
“You’re not often so loath to make known your opinions. What say you of our brother’s folly? Bewitched as Bella does suspicion? Or just overly eager to ride the Grey mare?”
He laughed but Richard did not.
“I should like to know,” he said, very low, “why Ned’s falling out with our cousin seems to give you such pleasure.”
No longer laughing, George said curtly, “You’re daft.”
It was then that the Earl of Warwick came into the solar.
Francis was shivering; the north-wall window seat was swept by drafts. But he dared not move, fearful of calling attention to himself. If only he’d taken the chance to slip away with Will! He felt sure he was not meant to be a witness to the Earl’s wrath. Richard and George, after all, were Warwick’s cousins. But he was not blood kin, and he waited apprehensively for the Earl to notice his obtrusive presence, to order him from the solar for a birching.
Isabel had been right; Warwick was in a tearing rage, awesome even for a man whose tempers were known the breadth and length of England. Ostensibly, his tirade was directed at the Lady Nan, his Countess, and his brother John, newly named Earl of Northumberland. Francis sensed, however, that Warwick was speaking to one man and one man only, his cousin the King, saying all that must, of necessity, have been choked back at Reading. For surely he’d not have dared to say to Edward what he was now saying in the solar of Middleham Castle. At least, Francis didn’t think he’d have dared; even from the Kingmaker, such words bordered on the treasonous.
“Woodvilles,” Warwick spat, and in his mouth the name became profanity. “I tell you, Johnny, it defies belief. Anthony Woodville faced Ned at Towton, and now he’s to be embraced as a brother-in-law?”
“So it seems,” John said. Rising from the settle, he approached the other man. “I like it no more than you do, Dick, but it’s done. He’s wed the woman and whatever we do think of her family, she’s to be Queen—”
“Queen? By the Mass, man, how can the very words not choke in your throat? The granddaughter of a squire, the widow of a Lancastrian knight…A right fine wife Ned has chosen for himself! If she’s fit to be Queen of England, I’m bidding fair to supplant His Holiness the Pope!”
John didn’t argue, and after a moment, he went quietly from the solar, as Francis yearned with all his heart that he might follow. He wasn’t surprised when John yielded; there were few men who would willingly face down the Earl of Warwick in a rage. Francis felt a sudden surge of admiration for King Edward, who had dared the Earl’s wrath so cavalierly.
The Lady Nan was now at the Earl’s side, speaking too softly for Francis to hear, and he took the opportunity to observe how his companions were bearing up under this prolonged exposure to Warwick’s wrath. Never had he seen such tense, unhappy faces…with one singular exception. George was following the Earl’s words with alert interest, a suggestion of a smile quirking the corner of his mouth, and Francis thought, Dickon was right; he is enjoying Edward’s fall from grace. He knew a certain strain had surfaced in Edward’s relationship with George, but only now did he see how deep it ran.
Turning his gaze from George, he glanced briefly at Warwick’s subdued daughters and then sought the eyes of his friend. But Richard was bending over the wolfhound puppy and all Francis could see was a thatch of dark hair, falling forward to screen his face.
“How in Christ’s Name do you expect me to react?” Warwick said suddenly, with such violence that Francis flinched. “He played me for a fool, Nan. Am I to forget that he stood mute all the while I dealt with the French, striving to bring about a marriage for England’s good? Am I to allow him to humiliate me before the whole of Europe for the sake of a parvenu trollop? I tell you, Nan, it isn’t to be borne! He’s made me the laughingstock of England, and all for a slut shrewd enough to keep her legs closed to him till he was hot enough to wed her!”
Francis was shocked; he’d never heard the Earl speak so crudely in the presence of his daughters. George laughed aloud, a startling sound in the sudden silence. That should have earned him a disapproving rebuke from the Countess, but she didn’t even deign to glance in his direction, not taking her eyes from her husband.
There was a stifled sound; Isabel coughed, trying to choke back a nervous giggle, and to Francis’s horror, it proved contagious. He found himself struggling against a diabolic urge to laugh…until he saw the expression on Richard’s face. He had jerked his head up at Warwick’s words, and Francis felt his heart begin to pound sickeningly against his ribs. Richard was flushed, taut as a bowstring, and for an appalled instant, Francis thought him to be on the verge of speech. Dickon, no! he willed silently, and sighed deeply when Richard kept still.
“And what am I to tell the French? How do I explain that there’s to be no alliance, no French bride…because my cousin the King is such a fool that he values a strumpet’s white skin and green eyes more than the weal of England!”
“No!”
“Oh, Jesus God, Dickon,” Francis whispered through frozen lips as the Earl spun around.
“Come here, Dickon.”
Richard came slowly to his feet, obediently moving to stand before Warwick.
“You spoke, lad?”
Richard was mute, and after a long, searching look at the boy’s tense face, Warwick said, a shade too dispassionately, “You may speak freely. You are Ned’s brother, after all, and his marriage does concern you, too. Say what is on your mind.”
Richard swallowed. Always soft-spoken, he was almost inaudible now as he said, “I’d…I’d rather not, Cousin.”
“Surely you don’t approve of this marriage, Dickon? Does this woman sound as if she should grace a throne?”
“No,” Richard admitted, and Francis slumped back in the window seat, weak with a relief that dissipated with Richard’s next words.
“But…that choice was not mine to make. It was Ned’s.”
“I see.” Very softly. “Are you saying then, that the choice being Ned’s, I should forbear to find fault with it?”
“Cousin…”
“Christ, Dickon, have you not heard a word I’ve said? How can you justify Ned’s actions? A clandestine marriage to a Lancastrian widow…. How does that serve England?”
Richard hesitated and Warwick snapped, “I’m awaiting your response. Tell me how your brother has served England with this accursed marriage!”
“I don’t know,” Richard conceded huskily. “I know only that Ned would never act dishonorably.”
“Indeed?” Warwick said, and the inflection in his voice chilled all within the room.
Francis was trembling, burning with a bright blasphemous rage, rage directed against the Earl of Warwick, the Kingmaker, who was choosing to vent his anger at King Edward upon Dickon. Anne was crying softly, Isabel on the verge of tears; and George, no longer amused, was pinioning his lower lip, blue-green eyes flickering from his cousin to his brother and back again and, at last, to the Lady Nan.
His silent appeal seemed to work, for she took a step toward her husband. But she went no farther. Nor did she speak.
“So Ned could not act dishonorably,” Warwick echoed, savagely sardonic. “You have a queer concept of honor, by God. He married in secret, married a woman who
has no attributes for queenship, married her for no reason save that he desired her body. And then he said nothing while I planned a French marriage, knowing full well such plans must come to naught. Tell me the honor in that, Dickon. I should truly like to know!”
Richard was staring at his cousin with the strained, exhausted look of one condemned and no longer even hoping for reprieve.
“I cannot speak for Ned. But you were the one who sought the French marriage, Cousin. Perhaps…perhaps you misread Ned. Perhaps you acted without making certain that he did indeed favor the marriage. Ned…Ned did tell me this spring that he thought you to be too fond of your friend, the King of France….”
His voice trailed off, in belated realization of a broken confidence. Color had scorched Warwick’s face. He took a step toward the boy, and the sound of metal striking wood resounded loudly behind him. A silver tray and wine flagon had been placed on the heavy oaken table. Tray, flagon, and wine cups now lay scattered on the floor. The patterned Flemish carpet was darkening with a spreading reddish stain, and wine was streaking the polished wood-grained table legs, splashing the lime-green of his daughter’s bodice.
“My God, Anne!” He stared at the girl and then at the wreckage-strewn floor. Anne stared, too, at the havoc she’d wrought and burst into tears. It was then that John Neville came back into the solar.
He stood in the doorway, taking in the scene. His tearful little niece. The relief that so suddenly shone upon George’s face as George saw him. His brother’s fury. But it was at Richard that he looked the longest, saw the boy’s despair. He understood, and his normally phlegmatic temperament suddenly caught fire.
Warwick pulled his daughter to him. “What possessed you, girl? Look what you’ve done!”
Anne sobbed, stammered what would have been a plea for forgiveness had her words been intelligible. And suddenly the solar was full of sound.
Isabel cried, “Oh, but it was an accident!”
Nan was shaking her head. “Really, Anne, such clumsiness!”
It was Richard, however, who drew Warwick’s attention back to himself, saying swiftly, “Don’t blame Anne, Cousin. The fault was ours. We did distress her with our quarrel.”
Warwick released his daughter, swung back toward Richard. The expression on his face was such that Richard instinctively took a step backward. Warwick acted instinctively, too, grabbed the boy to forestall what he thought to be flight, and jerked Richard roughly toward him. As he did, John moved. In three strides, he’d crossed the solar, clamped his hand down upon Warwick’s wrist.
“A word with you…Brother,” he said tightly, and Warwick, who’d not even noticed his return to the solar, was now further taken aback by the heat in those placid brown eyes.
Before Warwick could reply, John’s grip tightened on his arm, and he quite literally pulled Warwick toward the door. And so rare was his brother’s rage that Warwick found himself submitting in surprise.
John slammed the solar door shut behind them. In the empty grandeur of the great hall, they faced each other. Warwick was the first to break the silence.
“Well, Johnny,” he said brusquely, “what had you to say that was so important it could not wait?”
“What the bloody Hell did you think you were doing in there?” John demanded hotly. “I do understand your anger with Ned. But to hold Dickon accountable for what Ned has done…Christ, man, what were you thinking of? He’s only a boy, Dick, cannot be blamed for being loyal to his brother. You know he does think the world of Ned!” He shook his head in disgust, said, “You do surprise me, in truth. It did seem to me that you’ve gone to some pains to win Dickon’s affection. Moreover, you always did act as if you were fond of him yourself.”
“Of course I’m fond of Dickon,” Warwick said impatiently. “He happens to be important to me, to my plans….”
“I’d suggest, then, that you do try to remember that in the future,” John said, in tones Warwick would have accepted from no other man. “Just think on this: what would have happened had Anne not knocked over that tray?”
That gave Warwick pause.
“Perhaps I did lose my temper,” he conceded. He fell silent, began to pace.
“Yes, you’ve a point, Johnny. I don’t want Dickon bearing some fanciful grudge for what was said or done in the heat of anger. That’s not the way….”
He turned, and not waiting for John, flung the solar door open.
Francis Lovell still sat frozen in the window seat. Under her mother’s critical eye, Anne was picking up the scattered wine cups and depositing them back on the table. Isabel watched sympathetically, but it didn’t seem to have occurred to her to offer assistance. It had occurred to Richard, but the Countess said rather coolly that he’d caused enough of a disturbance for one evening and Anne could manage without his help. He’d flushed under the rebuke, moved toward the hearth. There he’d been joined by George, who looked as if he weren’t sure whether he wanted to offer comfort or box the younger boy’s ears. He seemed to be inclining toward consolation, but he backed away hastily from Richard when he saw Warwick standing in the doorway.
At sight of her father, Anne abandoned her efforts and ran toward him. He looked down into her imploring dark eyes, and then touched her wet cheek. She slipped her hand into his, raised up on tiptoe to whisper, “You aren’t still wroth with Dickon, are you, Papa?”
Warwick had to laugh. For a timid child, she could be surprisingly persistent. But her loyalty to her cousin pleased him; he had, after all, done what he could to foster it. He seized upon the opening she unwittingly provided and said,
“No, Anne, I’m not wroth with Dickon.” He looked across the room at Richard.
“Come here, Dickon.”
He saw Richard’s reluctance, but the boy came.
“When men are angry, Dickon, they are often intemperate. I fear that was true tonight for us all. I want you to understand that I do not blame you for speaking as rashly as you did.”
He paused and dropped his hand to Richard’s shoulder. “You are Ned’s brother, and it is only right that he should command your loyalties. However, I’ll admit to being disappointed in you, Cousin. You see, I would have thought that I, too, laid claim to your loyalties.”
Richard looked stricken. “You do!”
“I would hope so, Dickon,” Warwick said slowly. “For I confess, it would be painful to think otherwise.”
Francis and Richard were alone in the solar. Warwick had retired for further discussion with his brother and, much to his delight, George, who’d been flattered beyond words at being included in adult politics. The Countess of Warwick had ushered her daughters toward the door immediately thereafter, with an especially warm hug for Richard now that he’d been restored to favor.
Francis sagged against the window cushions. “Christ keep us,” he said softly. He wanted to tell Richard he admired him for defending his brother to the Earl, but he did not think Richard would be receptive to such a compliment. He’d never seen the other boy look as troubled as he did at that moment. No, he did not think the Earl of Warwick to be a safe topic of discussion.
It never occurred to him to bring up the subject of King Edward’s incredible marriage. Francis understood perfectly why Edward had sought to keep the marriage secret as long as possible. But what had possessed him to wed a Lancastrian widow in the first place? Love? Lust? Witchcraft, as Isabel suggested? It would have been great fun to speculate upon the reasons for an action unprecedented in the history of the English monarchy. But Francis knew better, knew that whatever Richard thought of his brother’s astonishing behavior, no one but he would ever know. George of Clarence, however, was another matter.
“Does not your brother of Clarence like His Grace, the King, Dickon?”
Richard made a sudden grab for the wolfhound, rescuing a candlestick that had fallen to the floor with the tray of silver.
“Sometimes, I do wonder, Francis,” he admitted. “There are times when I think he is jealous….
”
He stopped, having said more than he’d intended. The candle was so thoroughly chewed that he felt it best to dispose of the evidence, and was moving toward the hearth when the door opened and Anne rushed back into the solar. Darting to the settle, she knelt and rose clutching Francis’s journal.
Giving Francis an apologetic smile, she said softly, “Good-night, Francis, Dickon.”
As she passed Richard, he reached out, caught one of her blonde braids.
“If you like, Anne, you may pick the name for my wolfhound.”
She nodded. “I should like that.” And holding the journal tightly against her, she backed toward the door, keeping her eyes on him all the while. At the door, she paused, gazed thoughtfully at the dog and said, “Let’s call him Gareth…like the knight.”
Richard was testing the name on his tongue, and now looked at the dog. “Gareth! Here, Gareth. Here, boy.”
The puppy yawned and both boys laughed, not because they thought it all that funny, but because laughter seemed the safest way to release the pent-up tensions of a night neither was likely ever to forget.
Francis slid off the window seat, stiff with cold.
“Dickon…” He stopped, realizing there was nothing that could safely be said.
In silence they made their way out onto the covered wooden bridge that spanned the inner bailey and connected the keep with the west-wall chambers. As he snapped his fingers to coax the lagging puppy, Richard’s step slowed.
“I wonder…”
“What, Dickon?”
He regarded Francis unsmilingly. “I wonder what she will be like…Elizabeth Woodville Grey.”
9
London
June 1467
Elizabeth Woodville may have been the most beautiful woman to ever wear the coronet of an English Queen. Men who saw Elizabeth no longer shared the certainty of their wives that only witchcraft could have beguiled Edward into so shocking a mésalliance. Even John Neville, quite happily wed to a placid, perceptive woman who was attractive only in his eyes, had been struck speechless at his first sight of Edward’s Queen.