Jean Plaidy (27 page)

“You mean…?”

“That nothing should be put in the way of our marrying and since the dispensation from the Pope was so long in coming, we might do without it.”

He put his arms around me and held me tightly to him.

“There shall be no delay,” he said. “We have waited long enough. It will not be a grand ceremony, of course. We do not want to call the Pope's attention to our disobedience. But do you care? Do I care?”

“We do not,” I said.

“Then let there be a wedding, and then…to Middleham!”

THE DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER

R
ichard and I were married and there followed two of the happiest years of my life. We were young: when the ceremony was performed I was sixteen years old and Richard was twenty—but only in years. We had both suffered experiences that had inevitably matured us. We were both deeply aware of our good fortune in being together and were determined to enjoy this happy state to the full.

How fresh seemed the northern air! And what a happy journey that was, riding side by side on the way to the home that we both loved.

The north was for Richard. The people liked his quiet ways, preferring them, I imagined, to the ostentatious splendor of his brother the king. They came out of their cottages to cheer for the Duke of Gloucester and to give him a “God bless you, your Grace,” to which he responded with a dignified greeting.

How different he was from Edward and George, that pale shadow of his magnificent brother! These people knew that they could trust Richard and it was to him that they gave their loyalty. Edward had shown his wisdom when he had selected Richard to guard the northern territories.

And there was the familiar castle. My heart bounded with emotion when I saw it. It would always be home to me. Of course, there were sad memories. I felt a longing for my mother and a sadness for my father. I could not help recalling those days when he had come to the castle, his followers about him, to the shouts of “A Warwick,” and I could see the banners of the Ragged Staff waving in the breeze.

We had been so proud of him, Isabel and I, as we watched from the turret. Our father—the king of the north—the king of the whole country, in fact if not in name, for we knew it was he who made the king and decided how he should rule. Then I thought of his body lying on the battlefield at Barnet…stripped of power…stripped of life. A kingmaker but in death no different from the commonest soldier.

But these were morbid thoughts. I was home with my husband. At last we were together; and the past must be forgotten because it had led us to this.

How happy we were! How we laughed and remembered! There was the field where the boys had tilted; there had the hero of Agincourt taught them the arts of battle; there was the seat near the well where Richard had sat, tired from the exercises, with me beside him, the only one who was allowed to see him at such a time because no one must know that he was not as strong as the others, and I could be trusted to keep the secret.

There was much to occupy us. Nobles from the surrounding country came to Middleham to consult Richard, and each night there was entertainment in the great hall. Then Richard must make his pilgrimages through the neighborhood, and I accompanied him. How proud I was to see how the people respected him. I liked their frank manners. I was one of them, born and bred among them. It seemed fitting to them that the lord of the north should be allied with Warwick's daughter.

It was comforting to be free of court intrigue…far away from Clarence and his schemes…though I should have loved to see Isabel and my mother.

I could sleep beside Richard and there were no more dreams of the cookshop. With each passing week it became more and more like a hazy fantasy.

We were far away from London, far from the court. And that in itself was wonderful.

I told Richard that George was welcome to have the rest of the Warwick estates because he had left us Middleham.

So passed those idyllic days, and then came the discovery that I was to have a child.

I had never thought such happiness possible. There was only one thing now to make me sad, I told Richard.

He was eager to know what it was.

“It is my mother. They say she is in sanctuary, but it is prison to her. How she would love to be with me and particularly to be with her grandchild.”

“Edward has half-promised that she shall be free,” he said. “I expect George is persuading him that it is better to keep her at Beaulieu. When I see him I shall talk to him.”

“To talk to him you would have to go away,” I said, “and that is the last thing I want.”

He looked at me rather sadly then. I knew that this cozy happiness of ours could not go on forever. One day there would come a summons for him and he would have to leave me.

I did not want to think of that. I just wanted the joy of being here with my husband where we could both look forward to the coming of our child.

         

Isabel wrote to me. She was exceedingly happy.

“I am going to have a child,” she said. “Oh, Anne, you cannot understand how I have longed for this! Do you remember how we set out for Calais? Oh, how I suffered! That fearsome journey…with the ship pitching over the sea…and there was I…in agony. And all to no avail! Do you remember, Anne?”

I did remember. It was one of those memories I should never forget. I could recall it as clearly as though it had happened yesterday…the solemn prayers and the little body being swallowed up on that turbulent sea.

“I am at Castle Farley, which is near Bath. Here I shall stay until the child is born. I am a little frightened, but this will be different from that other. If only our mother were here! She should be with me at such a time, but George says it is better for her to be where she is.”

George, I thought! It is George again who is attempting to guide our fates. Why will he not let my mother go? And why does the king think that he should be placated at such cost to us all?

“George is sure the baby is going to be a boy. I hope so, too, but I am sure I should love a little girl. Oh, Anne, I do so wish that I could see you! The north is so far away. Richard will surely be coming south some time. You must come with him, I shall want to show off my child.

“Do you remember Ankarette Twynyho? She has gone back to the queen. The queen wrote to me most graciously and said that she had lost one of her women who is traveling with her husband for a year or so and Ankarette was so good with the children. She does not know of my condition, of course. So would I “lend” her Ankarette?

“So Ankarette has gone back to her. She is quite pleased to do so, I think. She will get the best of the gossip at court. So I must needs manage without her. And at such a time!

“However, I am surrounded by good friends, and think of all Ankarette will have to tell me when she comes back!”

It was with great pleasure that I wrote and told her that I, too, was about to become a mother.

I was a little sad, thinking of her. She was such a part of my life. We had bickered, as sisters will, but there was a strong bond between us. How I wished that she had not married George. But to our father it had seemed desirable that his daughter should marry the brother of the king he had made, but Isabel's marriage had come out of the attempt to unmake that king. Well, Isabel and I were there to go the way our father decided and our future had been planned by him to augment that power which had all come to nothing on the field of Barnet.

I thought of the marriage he had arranged for me and that brought back memories of Queen Margaret. I believed she had left the Tower and was in some mansion under the care of her hosts—which meant that she was a prisoner still. I wondered if she would ever be allowed to go home to her family. I knew that she would be a sad and lonely woman, for never would she recover from the loss of her beloved son.

Life was cruel. Life was hard. One must rejoice when happiness came, even when one's instinct warned that it can only be transient.

Then came the day when my child was born—a beautiful boy to gladden our hearts and fill us with pride. This was the culmination of happiness.

         

It was Richard's wish that we call him Edward after the man he most admired, and I had no objection to this.

I heard from Isabel and was overjoyed that she, too, had come safely through her ordeal. She had not been blessed with the longed-for boy, but she was very pleased with her daughter who was to be called Margaret.

I wanted my life to be always as it was at that time. If I could only know that my mother had her freedom I would have been completely happy.

Richard shared my contentment with our life at Middleham, but he had certain anxieties. There was always the danger of the Scots making trouble on the border; moreover he was a little unsure of some of the nobles. The lords of the north had been the Nevilles and the Percys, and since the power of the Nevilles had declined with the death of my father, the Percys were in the ascendant. Richard, as the king's brother, was in command over all, of course, but this rankled with the Percys. Conflict with this powerful family had to be avoided, and this was a continual concern to Richard. If we were to keep peace in the north, he needed to have the Percys working not against him but with him and he had to be constantly on the alert.

I knew that he had sent a message to Edward explaining the situation, so I supposed I should not have been surprised when an emissary from the king arrived at Middleham.

He was closeted with Richard for some time and I was fearful of what news he brought. Richard was soon able to tell me and he was very grave.

“There is trouble brewing,” he said.

“Is it Clarence again?”

“I fear he may be involved in it.”

“Oh, Richard, what is it all about…and what does it mean?”

“The king is riding north.”

“Coming here?”

“No. I am to meet him at Nottingham.”

He smiled at my woebegone expression. “It is just a meeting, but I like this not. George will always make trouble. My brother does not seem to realize how dangerous this is. The plain fact is that George resents not being born the eldest of us all. It is something that has been with him all his life.”

“What is he doing now?”

“Nothing openly. But I believe he is in league with John de Vere, who is out to make trouble. Edward has wind of it.”

“John de Vere. Is he not the Earl of Oxford?”

“He is and a firm Lancastrian. The de Veres always were. He was with your father when he restored Henry to the throne and fought against us at Barnet. Then he escaped to France. From there he has worked consistently against us. Now he is reported—with Louis's help—to have gathered together a squadron of men to make a landing. He cannot do much so there is little fear on that score, but what is alarming is George's subversive connection with him.”

“Why does Edward not see the danger George is to him?”

“He will not take it seriously. George is still to him the naughty, charming little brother. You have to admit he has a persuasive way.”

“Not to me. I shall never forget. But what of you, Richard? What does this mean?”

“I am to meet the king at Nottingham. He is inviting Henry Percy to be there. He is most eager to secure a pact between Percy and myself. We cannot afford trouble in the north at this time. Do not be sad. I shall be back ere long. Edward will not want the north to remain unprotected.”

There was truth in that and I felt a little happier.

Richard was ready to leave early next morning. I was at the gates to see the last of him before he left.

“Take care of our son in my absence,” he said. “And of yourself. I promise I shall soon be back.”

“I hope so, because I cannot be happy without you.”

Then he rode south to Nottingham.

         

How I missed him! But how grateful I was to have my son to care for!

I promised myself that we should not follow the usual practice of sending him away to be brought up in the house of some nobleman. He should be brought up at Middleham and learn all he needed to learn here. I would not have him taken away from me.

The days seemed long. Always I was on the alert for the sound of horses' hoofs, which would herald Richard's return or some messenger from him.

I sat with my women at our needlework and we took it in turns to read aloud. Perhaps one of us would play the lute as we worked or we would talk.