Jean Plaidy (28 page)

I was never far from little Edward. There was great alarm when he developed a chill. I sat by his cot all through the night, unnecessarily, said his nurse, but I insisted. Children had ailments and quickly recovered from them, she assured me; but as I listened to his breathing disturbed by an occasional cough I suffered agonies. I lived through his death, the funeral obsequies, and I could see the little coffin, and Richard's homecoming to hear the dreadful news. I passed one of the most miserable nights of my life. And in the morning he was better.

If Richard had been here he would have shown me how foolish I was, or would he? Where our child was concerned he was as vulnerable as I was.

I prayed for my child. I had come through a great deal to reach this happiness. I could not lose it now.

I knew I should always be uneasy while Richard was away. I would always fear evil. I had been immature when I had been thrust into an unkindly world. It had left its mark on me. I should always be watching for disaster, even in the midst of my happiness.

Richard knew of it. He said I should grow away from it. But should I ever do that?

However, my child was well again, and I prayed that there would be no more alarms from little Edward.

He charmed my days. He made Richard's absence bearable. But at every moment I watched for Richard's return.

         

At last he came. He was in good spirits. I was in the solarium when he arrived and I ran down to meet him as he leaped from his horse.

“All's well,” he cried, catching me in his arms. “Come, I must tell you.”

It was wonderful to sit beside him, his arm encircling me, while now and then he would hold me fast to him as though to imply he would never let me go.

He must first hear of little Edward. He was sleeping now, I told him, and his nurse never allowed him to be awakened, even for such an important event as the return of his father. I told of his chill and my agony. Richard laughed and said the nurse was right. I must not be foolishly anxious. I should rejoice that we had a healthy son.

“Now for the news,” he said. “The great Earl of Northumberland, Henry Percy no less, was at Nottingham, there summoned by the king. My brother exerted all his charm. He flattered Northumberland, knew of his love for the north, realized his loyalty and so on. But I was Lord of the North. I was keeping it loyal to the crown, and, as Percy knew, that was to the advantage of us all and should remain so. He had summoned Percy so that he and I should make a pact. Percy should be treated with all the respect due to him. He should maintain all the rights that had belonged to his family. The king was asking for his cooperation, for his help in keeping peace in the north. He was certain that, for Percy's own good and the good of us all, Percy would want to be part of that pact. I was, however, holding the north for the crown and I was in charge. If there were any differences of opinion, I would consult Percy. But I should be in charge. Percy agreed. He does really care about the north. He wants no trouble, and I believe he trusts me. We swore to stand together. I would respect his wishes; he would accept me as the higher authority. It was all very satisfactory.”

“Then it was a successful meeting, and I am glad that the king realizes your presence is needed here—not only by Percy and the rest, but by your wife and son.”

“I think he understands that, too. He would not call on me to leave here unless there was something serious afoot.”

As he looked a little grave I said, “Do you think that is likely to be?”

“De Vere is ineffectual. What gives me cause to worry is that George might be involved in his schemes.”

“Against the king?”

“It would not be the first time he has been against the king. It saddens me. It saddens Edward that we have to be suspicious of our own brother.”

“Perhaps the king will realize the folly of giving way to him. He does act so impulsively. It is all so obvious.”

“I know. So we must be watchful. I have another piece of news for you, and I think you will like this better.”

I waited expectantly as he paused, smiling at me.

“Sir James Tyrell is going to Beaulieu.”

“To my mother?”

“My brother George is not in the highest favor with the king. Although Edward has tried to tell himself that the rumors about George's connections with de Vere are false, in his heart he can't help knowing that there is some truth in them. You know George has been putting obstacles in the way of your mother's release? Well, I thought this was a good time to put my point of view, as Edward is not inclined to favor George at this moment. Edward said, ‘Where would the Countess go if she left Beaulieu?' I replied, ‘Where, but to her daughter at Middleham? Anne longs to have her with her.' Then the king said to me, ‘Richard, you have ever been loyal to me and I love you dearly. If it would please you to take the countess to Middleham, then do so…and to hell with George.' I wasted no time and I think it will not be long ere your mother is with us.”

I could not contain my delight.

I said, “Surely this is the happiest day of my life! How delighted she will be. How she will love little Edward! I cannot wait for her arrival. And you, Richard…my dearest Richard…have done this for me. All my happiness comes through you, and everything that went before…yes, everything…is worthwhile since it has brought me to this.”

         

I was eager to give my mother a wonderful welcome when she came to Middleham. For days I set the household preparing. I was glad that Richard would be able to join me in letting her know how happy we were to have her with us.

She arrived at length with Sir James Tyrell, who had been sent by Richard to bring her. He trusted Tyrell, he told me. He was a stalwart Yorkist and had received his knighthood for his services at Tewkesbury.

She had changed. It was, after all, a long time since I had seen her and I could imagine what parting with her family had meant to her.

We clung together, looked at each other and then clung again.

“My dearest, dearest child,” she kept saying, over and over again.

Arms entwined, we went into the castle. It was as dear to her as it was to me.

“This,” she said, “is coming home.”

Happy days followed. We were together most of the time. We talked constantly of the old times, the days of my early childhood. There was sadness, of course. There were so many memories of my father, that ambitious man whose desire for power had been the very pivot around which our lives revolved.

Now he was gone; I was happily married; so was Isabel, and although she was not with us, at least we both knew that she was happy and that her new daughter was a delight to her.

At first my mother did not want to talk of my father, but later she did and she told me how terribly disturbed she had been when the rift with Edward had occurred. She had understood his anger when the king had married Elizabeth Woodville, but had realized that he had miscalculated when he refused to accept the marriage.

“Your father was right, of course,” she said. “That is, about the marriage. Trouble would certainly be the result—not so much because of the marriage itself, but because of her ambitious relations. Who would have thought that a marriage could have had such an effect on us all?”

“Dear Mother,” I said, “marriages are important. If my father had not married you, he would not have wielded the power he did. His wealth and titles came from you and therein lay his ability to make and unmake kings. Who can say what is the greatest cause of the troubles that have beset our country? We have to accept what is and when we are happy rejoice in it, for it may not endure.”

“How wise you have become, little daughter,” she said.

“I have seen something of the world now. I have seen how people live in the lowest places—something most people born as I was never see. I think it may have taught me a little.”

“Then let us not repine for what has happened. Let us be glad that we are together. But how I wish Isabel could be with us! I should love to see her with my little granddaughter.”

“At least we are together, Mother.”

“I shall be forever grateful to Richard,” said my mother.

“And I, too,” I assured her.

         

We had news from Isabel. To her delight she was once more pregnant. My mother fervently wished that she could go to her, but I pointed out that even if that were possible, she would come into the clutches of the Duke of Clarence, who had done all in his power to keep her confined at Beaulieu. I could see that she did not entirely believe this. She, too, had been a victim of George's charm. It amazed me how that man could perpetrate the most atrocious crimes and with a smile shrug them aside with an air of “let us be friends” and all seemed to be forgiven.

Richard had once said he hoped that would not always be so, and there would come a time when his brother the king would see George for what he was.

However, though my mother could not go to Isabel, we could talk about her, which we did at great length. I was secretly envious that I was not in like state, and I hoped that this time Isabel would be blessed with the boy for which she so fervently longed.

There was a further summons for Richard. The king wanted his presence in London. It was sad saying farewell to him, but he hoped he would not be long, and he assured me that he would be back at Middleham at the earliest possible moment.

The days passed pleasantly with my mother, and we had little Edward with us whenever possible. He was now beginning to take notice; he could crawl around and was learning to stand up. He smiled to show his pleasure to see us and I was gratified that the pleasure was clearly the greater for me. He was adorable.

Richard returned and with him, my son, and my mother safely at Middleham, I was deeply content.

There was good news from Isabel. She had a boy—another Edward. A compliment to the king, of course. Isabel wrote that the boy was strong and handsome and that Margaret was a beautiful child.

I rejoiced for Isabel and the talk at that time was almost always of babies, for my mother took great pleasure in recalling incidents from my and Isabel's childhood.

But it was inevitable that there should be another call for Richard. He was too important to be left entirely in the north when he had succeeded in bringing order there so that it was the least troublesome zone in the kingdom.

This time it was to London he must go. We said a reluctant good-bye and he went with the usual promise to return as soon as possible.

After he had ridden away, life went on as before and every day I watched for Richard's return.

It seemed long before he came and when he did I realized he had some weighty matter on his mind, and I could not restrain my impatience to hear what it was. He was a little secretive at first, but he soon realized that I should have to know.

“The king is contemplating going to war with France,” he told me. “He suspects Louis of offering help to de Vere and, as you know, George may have been concerned in this.”

“If he goes to war that will mean…”

“…that I go with him. And, of course, George also.”

“Surely he cannot trust George!”

“He cannot do anything else. George would hardly fight on the side of the French.”

“He would if he were offered a big enough bribe.”

“Suffice it that both George and I have promised to take one hundred and twenty men at arms and a thousand archers into the field with him. Edward has made Parliament give him large sums of money: he is going around the country getting what he calls benevolences from the people. He is doing very well. You know how popular he is. People can't resist him. With his good looks and graces, he is charming the money out of their pockets, and he will soon be able to equip himself in the necessary manner.”

“And so…,” I said mournfully, “you will go to France with him.”

“I must,” said Richard. “He is my brother and it is at the king's command.”

“But why should he want to go to war? I thought he was eager for peace.”

“He thinks this is the best way to get it. Louis is interfering and you know he is Edward's enemy because of his connections with Burgundy.”

“I do not see why we should be concerned with the quarrels between Frenchmen. Why cannot France and Burgundy settle their own problems?”

“They are our problems, too.”

“I hate the thought of war.”

“It may not come.”

“But you say you promised to go and the king is collecting this money.”

“Let us wait and see. But…I had to tell you.”

“Yes. I would rather be prepared.”

“Anne, there is something else I must tell you.”

“Yes?”

“I love you, Anne. I have always loved you. You were always in my thoughts…always.”

“And you in mine, Richard,” I replied.

“Those other things…they were not important in the way you were. You must understand…and it is for you now to say yes or no and, of course, I shall understand.”

“What is it, Richard? It is unlike you not to come straight out with what you want to say.”

“While I was in London I had news…”

“News? What news?”

“You know of the children…John and Katharine?”

“Yes,” I said slowly. “You did tell me.”

“It is their mother. She is dead. And the children…they are in the care of a family. They could, of course, stay there, but…”

I was aghast. I said, “You want them to come here?”

He looked at me almost pleadingly. “It is for you to say.”

I was silent. I felt a slight tinge of anger. I wanted to shout: No! I will not have them here. I know it happened. It was before we were betrothed, and I was to marry the Prince of Wales. You had this mistress. She was dear to you. She must have been. There are two children and now she is dead you want them to come here…to be brought up with Edward. I will not have it.