Charles glanced from his brother-in-law to his Lord Chamberlain. “And they call Louis the Spider King,” he said dryly.
The portrait was of a man in his thirties. His hair was thick and as black as pitch; the eyes were of a startlingly vivid shade of blue; the face was rounded, the features well formed; while the swarthy complexion attested to the blood of his Portuguese mother and the protruding jaw to a stubborn inflexible nature.
Stepping back to study the painting from another angle, Richard exclaimed admiringly, “Jesú, but this is well done, Meg! Who’s the artist?”
Margaret joined her brother before the elegantly framed portrait of her husband.
“Rogier van der Weyden. A remarkable talent, isn’t he? This one was done while Charles was still Count of Charolais, and is my favorite, without question. It is as if Charles were here in the room with us, don’t you think?”
“I wish he were. At least the waiting would be over.”
Margaret smiled and reached out to ruffle his hair. “Don’t fret so, Dickon. As I told you, I do truly believe Charles will back Ned. Now come and sit down. To pass the time, I’ll show you how we play Primero, which is even more popular at our court than Trump or All Fours.”
Richard complied, with a marked lack of enthusiasm, and Margaret began to expertly deal the playing cards onto the marble-top table.
“Remember, each card is worth three times its face value, and the knave of hearts is the ‘quinona’ card, which counts as any card of any suite you desire to—Dickon, pay attention!”
Richard threw his cards down on the table.
“Meg, there’s no way on God’s earth that I can concentrate on a game of cards, not while so much hangs in the balance.”
“All right, Dickon,” she said indulgently. “I don’t wonder that your nerves are on the raw. What should you like to talk about, then, while we wait for Ned?”
“You. We’ve had so little time together and we’ve done nothing but speak of politics. I want to know about you. Are you happy, Meg? No regrets?”
Margaret was only eight months into her twenty-fifth year, but the smile she gave Richard was unmistakably maternal.
“No regrets, dearest. I like my life well as Duchess of Burgundy. But I do thank you for your concern on my behalf; you can be very sweet at times.”
“And every October I have yet another birthday,” he reminded her mildly. “I’m not still fifteen, Meg.”
“Mea culpa,” she acknowledged with a laugh. “It is difficult, I confess, to think of you as a man grown. But I will endeavor to try!”
They smiled at each other, sharing unspoken memories of Fotheringhay Castle, their birthplace, where they and George had passed the early years of childhood.
“These two years we’ve been apart have been eventful for you, haven’t they, Dickon? Ned says he thinks you’ve the makings of a right able battle commander.”
“Did he?” Richard grinned, and Margaret nodded. She had lovely grey eyes, very like her mother, but they were alight now with a mischief quite foreign to the Duchess of York.
“No, you’re not the little brother I remember,” she conceded cheerfully. “You’ve learned the ways of war since I last saw you. And the ways of women, too, it seems…. Ned says you’d a daughter born last spring.”
Richard was distinctly taken aback, much to her amusement.
“Ned says far too much, sometimes,” he said tartly, and Margaret giggled.
“You need not confuse me with our lady mother,” she chided. “Although I daresay she’s much too taken up with Ned’s sinning on such a grand scale to have time to spare for lesser sins of yours!”
Richard laughed. “Nonetheless, I’d rather not call them to her attention,” he confessed, and Margaret laughed, too.
“Do you remember, Dickon, how she could shame us with but a look? And she always seemed to know when we’d been up to no good! George would swear she had second sight!”
Sobered by mention of George, they were no longer laughing. She leaned across the table, touched his hand.
“Dickon, I would ask a favor of you.”
“You know you need only name it.”
“I told you I did believe Charles would heed Ned’s appeal for aid. So much do I believe it that I’ve been giving thought to your return to England…and to George.
“He is desperately unhappy, Dickon. He knows now that Warwick played him for a fool. He feels he can no longer trust Warwick and he fears for his life under a Lancastrian rule, as well he might. I do believe he would be amenable to a reconciliation with Ned. He hasn’t admitted this, mind you, but I know him, Dickon. Once you are back in England, I do think he’d seriously consider returning his loyalties to York.”
“He would if he thought Ned likely to win,” Richard said and at once regretted it, for he saw that his sarcasm had stung.
“I’d have expected that from Ned,” she said reproachfully, “but not from you. You loved Warwick once; you know how persuasive he can be. Don’t hate George for being weak, Dickon. He cannot help himself, truly he cannot. Ned cannot understand that, but I hoped you might….”
“I do understand, Meg. But I don’t find it as easy to forgive.”
“If you cannot forgive him for his sake, Dickon, do so, then, for mine.”
He acknowledged the power of her plea with a wry smile. “If you do put it that way….”
“I know George committed a grievous wrong, but I do believe he wishes to make amends. Why else would he write me that the French King was tempting Warwick with the promise of Holland and Zeeland?”
That, however, was too much for Richard. “Come now, Meg,” he protested. “You showed us that letter, remember? He didn’t write as one sharing a confidence of critical import; he sounded, rather, as if he were sorely affronted that Louis had not seen fit to make a like offer to him!”
“Granted, he didn’t make his intent plain in so many words that he meant to aid you. But surely he knew I’d confide in Ned. And he must have known, too, that Ned would be sure to make the best use of such information.”
“Perhaps,” Richard said dubiously. “With George, one never knows what motivates him. If you’d prefer to believe he did mean to do us a service, who am I to say for sure that it isn’t so?”
He sounded so skeptical, though, that Margaret was moved to entreat, “Can we not give him the benefit of the doubt, Dickon? That’s not so much to ask, is it?”
“No, I suppose not. If you—Ned!”
Edward was alone. He closed the door behind him, pulled the bolt into place as Richard froze and Margaret, the confident one, spilled the deck of cards all over the table.
“Ned?” She read nothing in his face, and there was an appalled instant, brief but bitter beyond any she’d yet experienced, when she thought, Sweet Mother Mary, Charles said no! But even as her blasphemous fear took form, Richard came to his feet.
“My God,” he said softly, “you’ve done it….”
Edward nodded, once. “I expect to be in England by Easter, if not before,” he confided quietly, and then he grinned. “What say you, Dickon? Should you like to go home?” And that broke the spell.
Margaret rose to her feet as her brothers embraced jubilantly, and then she was in Edward’s arms, and he was depositing undirected kisses on her cheek, her eyes, her hair, and Richard, too, was hugging her, and then Edward again. And now that it was over, now that they had won, she dared acknowledge at last just how truly fearful she had been.
“Charles is convinced, then, that George means to betray Warwick at the first opportunity?”
Edward nodded and grinned. “I would surely hope so, Dickon. I did my very damnedest to give him that impression!”
It was the opening Margaret had been waiting for. “Ned,” she said quickly, “I do believe George would indeed forsake Warwick…if he thought he’d be forgiven.”
“By whom? God?”
She was not put off by his sarcasm. She’d expected such a res
ponse at first, and now she came swiftly across the room to his side as he said, “ ‘Forgive George, he knows not what he does.’ As far back as I can remember, I’ve heard that from you, Meg, and when not from you, from Dickon. It passes my understanding; it always has. I should truly like to know what there is about George that makes the two of you defend him even now. What do you see in him that I do not?”
“I see him as a boy,” Margaret said unhesitatingly. “I remember him as he was during our years at Fotheringhay…before he was swayed by our cousin Warwick. He was always self-willed and headstrong, but there was no malice in him, Ned, not then….”
“No malice?” he echoed incredulously and laughed.
“I know he’s given you little reason to love him,” she conceded. “But can you not see why? It is that he’s jealous of you, Ned; he’s always been jealous. He sees you as all he is not—”
“Aye…as King of England.”
Margaret saw it was futile. He’d not heed her. Nor would he forgive George.
“You do bring out the worst in George. It has ever been so. He knows you love him not. He knows you’ve always favored Dickon….”
“You yourself did admit he’s given me scant reason to care for him,” Edward countered impatiently, and Richard decided it was time to intervene.
“Meg is not defending what George has done, Ned. She is trying to make you see why he acted as he did, no more than that.”
“If you can satisfactorily explain George’s actions to me, Dickon, I daresay you can tell me, as well, how many angels may dance on the head of a pin.”
“I know George’s failings as well as any man, but I’ve other memories of him, too, Ned. Memories of happier days and of times, too, when I did need him and he was there for me. George and I shared a great deal. We were at Ludlow together, remember? We had to watch as they sacked the village. George…Well, he kept me close by him all the while. He did what he could for me.
“We shared exile, too. I’m not likely to forget that. I remember Ma Mère hurrying us aboard ship, telling us to be brave and telling George to look after me.
“And he did, Ned. Above all, during that first night at sea, when I’d not yet fully realized what had happened or why. I didn’t even know where Burgundy was!
“He was good to me then, Ned. Not just that night, but in the weeks that followed as we waited for word from England. He let me confess to feeling fearful or homesick and he never made mockery of such fears.” He smiled at that. “Well, almost never! I think you’d agree, though, Ned, that these are not memories to be easily forgotten. When I do speak on George’s behalf, you know now what I am remembering.”
Margaret leaned over, kissed his cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered, and then turned toward Edward.
“Now do you see, Ned?” she said quietly.
Edward was still watching Richard. “I don’t doubt that George was as protective as you say, Dickon. Nor does it surprise me. George is not a monster; he’ll be kind if it costs him nothing. I’m sure he was fond of you in his way…and you gave him a God-given opportunity to play the courageous older brother. I daresay he enjoyed it immensely.”
Richard started to speak, then checked himself, disappointed but not truly surprised.
Margaret, however, had been led to expect a more sympathetic response by Edward’s attentive silence, and she said bitterly, “You’ll not give him the benefit of the doubt in anything, will you?”
“No.”
The answer was brutal in its brevity; the eyes regarding her were blue ice. She caught her breath, swinging around in appeal to Richard. As she did, Edward came swiftly to his feet, reaching out and grasping her wrist.
“I’ll do nothing for George. But I will for you, Meg. What do you want of me?”
She stared at him. “I want you to forgive him, Ned,” she said softly, and he nodded.
“You mean it? You truly will?”
He nodded again. “I cannot forget his betrayals, Meg, not even for you…and there’s no way on God’s earth that I’d ever trust him again. But I do promise you this: if he wants to cut loose from Warwick and return to York, I’ll do my best to live with the past.”
“Thank you, Ned.” Her arms went up around his neck. For a moment, he held her to him and then she stepped back.
Her smile was radiant. “Now I must find Charles. I’d not want him to think me ungrateful!”
Rising up, she kissed Edward again, and in passing, gave Richard a quick hug.
As she reached the door, Edward said, “You may tell George what I said, Meg, if you wish.”
She laughed. “You know damned well I will!”
Edward sat down again and glanced over at Richard. “I do believe Meg is the only one who has ever truly loved George. I hope to God he appreciates her…. But knowing George, I doubt it.”
Richard said nothing, and Edward’s eyes lingered speculatively on him.
“You didn’t want Meg to plead for George. Why?”
“There was no need,” Richard said tersely.
Edward didn’t deny it. “Then why did you bother to tell me of Ludlow and Burgundy?” he asked curiously.
“Because Meg wished it. And because I thought I might be able to help you see George through our eyes. As we both do remember him.”
“Is that what be bothering you? That I cannot see George as you and Meg do?”
“I think you do know what is bothering me. That you let Meg entreat you to forgive George when she had no need to do so. When that was your intent all along.”
“I didn’t lie to Meg, Dickon,” Edward said placidly. “It will be a cold day in Hell ere I’d ever trust George again.”
“You may not trust him but you’ll make use of his discontent. You’d have to be a fool not to, and I’ve never met a man who’s less of a fool.”
“I’d thank you for that, but I don’t think you meant it as a compliment,” Edward said, sounding more amused than annoyed. “You’re right, of course. George commands an army and Warwick has no choice but to trust him. That makes him an ally worth having. Surely you don’t fault me for that.”
“No, not for that. For making Meg think you do it for her sake.”
“Well, what if I did? You know the love I bear Meg. Why is it wrong to want to make her happy?”
“Damnation, Ned, you made her believe you’ll make peace with George because she asked it of you, when you do but serve your own interests. And were Meg not so frantic for George’s sake, she’d have been sure to see it, too.”
“Granted, I’ve need of George. But I do owe Meg much. If I can make her think she is responsible for any reconciliation, what harm in that? She does care deeply for George. Don’t you think it gives her pleasure to believe she has aided him? Why should I deny her that?”
Richard’s expression was one of disbelief. “Jesus,” he said at last, shaking his head.
Edward laughed. “If the end be the one desired, why quarrel over the means, Dickon? Now, fetch that wine flagon from the sideboard. We may never have better reason to celebrate than tonight!”
Setting the flagon down upon the polished surface of the marble-top table, Richard poured white wine into silver cups fretted with gold; he’d never seen such luxury anywhere as at his brother-in-law of Burgundy’s court. And suddenly he was remembering the last time he’d drunk with his brother, from unwashed pewter mugs at a warped wooden table wet with wine spills and greasy with the drippings of reeking tallow candles.
“There has never been a King of England to lose his throne and then regain it, Dickon. Harry of Lancaster is a pawn, no more than a puppet to be manipulated at Warwick’s whims. And the others who did lose their crowns were not long in losing their lives as well.”
“Until now,” Richard said softly, and Edward smiled at him. In that moment, Richard knew that his brother, too, was remembering the night at the Gulden Vlies.
“What shall we drink to, Ned…to England?”
“I’ve a better tho
ught even than that. It is not precisely the season for it, with Epiphany still four days hence, and I daresay our lady mother would never forgive me for saying it! But blasphemy or not, I think it fitting, nonetheless.”
He touched his cup to the one Richard now held. “To the Resurrection,” he said.
22
London
March 1471
Paul’s Cross, situated in the northeast corner of St Paul’s churchyard, was the most celebrated of the London outdoor pulpits. Papal bulls were read at Paul’s Cross, as were royal writs. Those unfortunates who’d offended Holy Church or run afoul of secular law did penance before the wooden pulpit shaped like an octagon. And on any given Sunday at noon, a large crowd was likely to have assembled in the churchyard to hear the sermon, which, more often than not, was of a highly political nature.
This Lenten Sunday proved to be no exception. That past September, a Franciscan preacher, Dr John Goddard, had here proclaimed Harry of Lancaster as England’s true King, and on this chill March day six months later, he was again preaching at Paul’s Cross on behalf of the House of Lancaster.
He was a skilled public speaker, with a flair for the felicitous phrase, the memorable metaphor, and he was accustomed to commanding the unwavering attention of his listeners. This noon, however, his audience was restive, distracted, and he was both irked and mystified. He was more than midway through the sermon before he discovered the competing attraction, and then he could only marvel how he could ever have failed to notice her until now, the austerely elegant woman who’d given birth to Edward of York. He was too seasoned a speaker to falter, however, and after a fractional pause, continued with aplomb. And for her part, the Duchess of York appeared oblivious of the stir she was causing, listening impassively as the Franciscan extolled the piety and grace of good King Harry.
Across the churchyard, Lady Scrope was conversing in heated whispers with her husband, all the while keeping her gaze on the Duchess.
“We must surely speak to her, John,” she insisted softly. “We’ve known Her Grace for years; how can we snub her?”