Wars of the Roses: Bloodline: Book 3 (The Wars of the Roses) (26 page)

His daughter was beautiful, Warwick was certain, long-necked and bright of cheek, with teeth white and even, sharpened on the apples she adored. She had grown up at Middleham, just as he had, though most of her year was in the company of his mother and her own, three
women fussing around the estate together and, to his everlasting gratitude, getting on well almost as sisters or friends. His brother John had made a comment about the three ages of women that he had come to regret, but Isabel was every inch the virgin, just as his wife Anne was the mother and his mother Alice had become a crone, withered by the death of his father, as if the old man had taken some vital part of her to his grave.

Whenever Isabel awoke each morning, she looked for some letter that might have arrived in the night. Each time it broke Warwick’s heart anew to see her disappointment when there was none. It had been hard enough when he spent his days in London with the king. At least then his returns had been accompanied by news and odd sweets or gifts from the city.

He had not left Middleham for three months, not since the autumn. The late sun had given them so much fruit that drunken wasps plagued the house, wandering along the inside of every window for weeks. All that time, Warwick had stalked the estate grounds, losing himself on long walks and yet returning with an even deeper glower. Letters came for him from London, some with the Privy Seal of King Edward. Not one had contained the king’s permission for Isabel to marry Clarence, or any mention of the subject at all.

Though Warwick did not know it, Isabel was watching him carefully, judging his mood and his unhappiness. She had heard him rage about his brother losing the Great Seal and, worse, her uncle John’s title being taken from him. In private with his wife, Warwick gave vent to outrage and disappointment, unaware or uncaring that his daughters heard.

The sky was a sharp blue, with no sign of rain. The world was touched with frost and the coldness of the air made both father and daughter aware of their breaths, the winter cutting into them. Isabel chose her moment.

‘Do you think the king will ever respond to his brother?’ she said. ‘George has not paid me a visit here since the harvest and his letters make no mention of the suit, as if there is no chance at all. It has been so very long now and I confess I lose hope.’

Her father looked down at her, seeing the quiver at her mouth where she struggled to hide just how much his answer meant. His fist gripped hard on the icy wood of the post, the knuckles showing.

‘No, Isabel, I am sorry. I have waited for six months, longer. All my letters have gone without answer. I do not believe King Edward will grant his permission, not now.’

‘But he has sent for you, has he not? The messenger I saw? Perhaps King Edward has agreed to the marriage and all it would take is for you to go to London.’

‘Isabel, every time I enter his presence, he finds some new way to take something I prize. It is as if there is some spite in him against me. Undeserved by any measure, I swear it. I do not know whether that great clod of a man is jealous of me or afraid of me, or just the plaything of his wife, but these last few years have been a trial. It is … better for me to remain on my estates, to tend them and the people on them, away from the intrigues of the court.’ He took a huge breath of air that scoured out his lungs. ‘There! That is what I need, not whispers and lies.’

His face fell as he saw her grief and he stepped closer so that he could put his arms around her.

‘I am sorry. I know this is harder on you than me. I have lost a king’s trust, while you have lost your first suitor.’

‘My first love,’ she said, her voice muffled. ‘There will not be another.’

‘Oh, Isabel,’ he said sadly into her hair.

‘Will you ask again for me?’ Isabel said. ‘I know that George is meant to be the one to speak to the king, but I don’t know if he has. If you ask, I will have an answer – though if it is no, I don’t, I can’t …’ She sobbed, burying her head in her father’s coat.

Warwick made his decision, long unable to resist her entreaties.

‘I will ask, of course. I can be there and back in a week. As you say, it is better to know for certain.’

He stroked her hair as she leaned on him. Christmas was almost upon them and a trip to London would help make it a more festive occasion at Middleham, with market hams spiked with cloves, roast geese and roaring fires.

Warwick rode out to London with Richard of Gloucester riding alongside and Isabel’s fears and hopes weighing him down. The young duke often accompanied him to the capital, more so perhaps as they both realized his time at Middleham was coming to an end. They wore leather coats over mail and thick hose, with swords on their hips and enough dust kicked up from the road to make it look as if they wore masks.

The first day south was spent in near silence, with Warwick settling into a grim anticipation of what he would find in London. He ate some poor stew in a roadside inn and muttered a goodnight to his ward as they found rooms. Both of them missed the light heart and chatter of Henry
Percy that had made conversations flow easily between them. Without Henry, both Warwick and Richard felt the silence was oppressive.

In the morning, Warwick woke with an aching head, though he had drunk only a cup of wine. He growled and grunted his way through a bowl of hot oats and honey, snapping at the inn servants and then growing angry at his own lack of control. He found that Richard had saddled his horse and brushed the animal down, so that it gleamed once more. Warwick stepped on to the mounting block and swung over his leg.

‘Thank you, lad,’ he said. ‘I have a great deal on my mind today. I fear I am a poor companion.’

‘I understand, sir. You fear my brother will refuse you.’

Warwick looked up, caught between surprise and worry.

‘What do you know about it?’

Richard smiled weakly, sensing the anger in a man he wanted to impress.

‘Isabel has talked of little else these past months. And George is my brother, sir. He writes to me.’

Warwick blinked, closing his mouth over the desire to ask for the young man’s opinion. It would not do. Instead, he tugged the reins and turned his horse to face the gate of the inn yard, where the London road ran alongside, some thirty yards away.

‘I hope the king grants the petition, sir. I would like to see Isabel made happy.’

‘So would I,’ Warwick muttered.

He cracked his neck back and forth and trotted out on to the road. Richard followed, wishing he could give something back to the man who had been so kind to him.

Warwick was granted an audience with the king without any delay. He rode from private lodgings to the Palace of Westminster along the river. Richard of Gloucester stayed with him as far as the doors to the king’s own apartments. They stood side by side there, waiting to be admitted. Warwick took a moment to look the young man over and brush dust from his coat. The gesture made the king’s brother smile as the doors swept open and they went in.

Warwick’s expression tightened as he saw Edward and Elizabeth seated together, with their children around them. It was an intimate family scene and it somehow rang a false note. Warwick wanted Edward to consider his petition as a king, not as a husband and father. In that place, with a doting wife and gurgling little girls at his feet, he could not be both.

Warwick and Gloucester each went down on one knee before the royal family, rising as Edward stepped forward to greet them. He embraced his brother hard enough to make him gasp.

‘You look strong!’ Edward said, reaching out to squeeze his brother’s right arm like a prize calf. ‘I have you to thank for it,’ Edward went on, nodding to Warwick.

Warwick shook his head, still tense.

‘He has worked hard, Your Highness. Sword, lance and pollaxe, horsemanship, Latin, French …’ He trailed away and Edward’s brother broke in.

‘Law and tactics, too Edward. It is my desire to be useful to you.’

‘You will be, I do not doubt it,’ Edward replied. ‘My mother asks after my brother, Warwick. Will you release him to me now, as your ward?’

Warwick blinked and cleared his throat, buying time.

‘Your Highness, I had not thought … I did not plan to excuse him from his duties today.’

‘Still, I am pleased at what I see in him. You have my thanks. Wardships come to an end, Warwick, and you have done well.’

Embarrassed under the stares of the king and queen, Warwick and Gloucester shook hands and embraced awkwardly and briefly. Warwick opened his mouth to say something to mark the years, but the young man bowed stiffly to the king, turned on his heel and left the room.

Warwick turned back to feel their eyes still on him. Only the young children were oblivious, gathered up by a nursemaid when they wandered too far. His breath shuddered in his chest as he realized the moment was upon him and would no longer be denied.

‘Your Highness, it has been many months since I petitioned for my daughter to marry your brother, George of Clarence. As we are friends, may I have an answer?’

‘I have given it much thought, Richard,’ Edward said. ‘My brother George is just nineteen. I do not doubt he believes he is in love, but I will choose a wife for him in a few years. My answer is no, to your petition.’

Warwick stood still. Though the arrangement of his expression changed hardly at all, his anger was written as clearly as his control. Behind Edward, Elizabeth sat forward a fraction, fascinated. Her mouth was slightly open, the edges rising as if she drank in his discomfort.

‘Thank you, Edward. Your Highness,’ Warwick said with perfect courtesy. ‘I would rather know, and be disappointed, than not know. Now, if I could be dismissed, I would like to visit the London fairs and purchase geese for Christmas at Middleham.’

‘Of course. I
am
sorry, Richard,’ Edward said.

In response, Warwick inclined his head, his eyes tight with pain.

Isabel waited for Warwick on the road, taking up a spot each morning and evening and standing there for hours, desperate for news. When she saw him, she knew from his face, before her father could say a single word. She retired to her room for three days then, weeping for the young man she loved and could never have.

Warwick spent that time in private discussion with a stream of visitors, all riding to Middleham to pay their respects to the head of the Neville clan. For an age, the Nevilles had suffered reverse upon reverse. They had lost land, fortunes, titles and vital influence. For all that time, Warwick had insisted they endure and stay silent, without one cry or murmur against the king. He had changed his mind. As January was born in darkness and cold, he decided to let them rise.

Winter was a time of darkness and of death. In any house, a fine, frosty morning could reveal the stiff body of an old man, or a child too young to survive a fever. The bitter season meant stews of blood in oats and the earthy taste of old vegetables, months or years after they had been picked. Carrots and onions and turnips and old potatoes all went into broths with hard blue cheese or curds of lard to help keep out the cold. With bread and eggs and ale, the king’s subjects endured, waking halfway through the night to talk or mend, then sleeping again until the sun brought the return of the day.

Spring meant far more than green shoots and snowdrops in the hedgerows. The rebirth showed in a sense of purpose, in the waking from slumber with new life in the veins. There was laughter to be heard, and the last of the preserved food could be devoured now that they had reached the end of another winter. Fresh meat and greens appeared again in the town markets. Graves were dug in softening ground, small or long, with bodies carried out from where they had lain in barns and cool cellars. Men and women who might want to find a husband or bride greeted the season with clean clothes and a bath. They broke their first sweat with a day’s labour, making things to sell or preparing the ground for the first planting.

Edward Plantagenet could feel the sap rising with the dawn light. Spring meant the first hunt since riding out
at New Year, with hot blood and breathless speed and drunken revelry far from towns and villages. The hunt brought anger and fear to the surface, revealing the man. Edward smiled to himself as he watched his horse being saddled in the royal stables at Windsor. The hunter’s coat had been brushed, but it was still shaggy with winter growth. He patted a flank and grinned at the cloud of hair and dust that lifted into the air.

Around him, the stables were busy and loud with squires rushing to prepare their masters for the royal hunt. Thirty knights and the same number of servants would ride out to beat game for the dogs and birds. Edward smiled at the energy of it, scratching his horse’s neck and making the big stallion snort and flick its tail at him.

Over the years of his reign, he had assembled a group of stalwarts to accompany him on such days when the sun held a little warmth and the sky was clear. Men like Anthony and John Woodville, who could match him for recklessness, if not the king’s skill with his falcon.

Edward’s great bird sat hooded on an ornate stand, turning its head to every sound. He heard it make a chirrup and reached out to stroke the dark wings, more for his own pleasure than any sense that the bird enjoyed his touch. Gyrfalcons were savage killers, taking what looked very much like delight in their ability to dominate and terrify ducks, grouse or hares, stooping from a thousand feet up, smashing into running prey at incredible speed, then ripping through flesh with a razor beak. Edward murmured a greeting to the bird. She had hunted with him for six years and turned to his voice instantly, recognizing it. It amused him that she could turn to face him wherever he was, even in the hood. As he watched, the bird clacked her
beak and made a questioning sound. The falcon was hungry and Edward felt his heart beat faster at the thought of sending her into the air.

He looked up at a clatter of hooves as a horse came crabbing down the length of the stables, held on a tight rein but still trotting almost sideways with rolling eyes. The animal had been startled by something and it made the others whinny and stamp, reminding them of predators attacking the herd.

Edward stared in irritation at the wiry fellow who had brought the gelding in to unsettle the rest. He did not know him, though it was not possible for a stranger to reach the stables and the person of the king without having been challenged. Edward liked to pretend he had no interest in the care his guards took, but as he eyed him, he was still pleased to know the man had been searched. Edward watched, frowning, as the stranger dismounted and went down on to one knee. He wore mail and a tabard over leather and wool, all well worn and about as dusty as the horses. Edward guessed he had come a long way and was not surprised when the man spoke with a rolling accent of the north.

‘Your Royal Highness, my master Sir James Strangeways, sheriff of York, has sent me to you. I am to report an uprising among the weavers in villages around the city, with riots and alarums, my lord, too great in number for the sheriff’s men there to put down. Sir James asks for a few dozen men, sixty or eighty, no more, to ride north. In the king’s name, he would remind the weavers that they do not decide what taxes they will pay and what laws they will obey.’

Edward raised his eyebrows and rubbed the bristles on
his jaw. He no longer wore a beard, having shaved for spring. He had been cooped up in Windsor and Westminster for months of cold and darkness, eating and drinking too much, so that he had put on fat like a dormouse. He patted his stomach as he thought, while the messenger waited.

‘Go to the kitchens and tell them I said to feed you well,’ Edward said to the man.

As he bowed and hurried off, Edward stared out to the sunlight, past the horses and men and noise. He made his decision, chuckling to himself. The country was at peace. The winter had given way to spring, with all the promise it brought.

‘I believe I will go to York,’ Edward muttered to himself with a grin. He imagined the faces of the rebellious weavers when they saw no less a man than the king of England riding up with his men. He might have to hang the leaders or flog a few of them; that was often the case. He would match his falcon against the new goshawk the Woodville brothers had raised from a chick. Edward knew he would enjoy showing his wife’s brothers how fast a royal falcon could fly, once the weavers had slunk back to their homes.

‘Anthony!’ he called.

The knight looked up from where he was standing nearby, having watched the messenger enter and leave. The Woodville men were always quick to respond when Edward called.

‘Yes, Your Highness,’ Anthony Woodville said, as he halted and bowed. His right wrist and forearm was splinted and wrapped so tight the fingers were fat and red.

‘How is your hand?’ Edward asked.

‘Still broken, Your Highness. I believe it will mend well enough. Perhaps I will then be granted a chance to redeem my honour.’

‘If you wish,’ Edward said with a smile. As he was the one who had broken the man’s wrist in tourney practice, it was only fair to agree. ‘Though I am sorry you cannot accompany us today. Your brother can fly your hawk; it will make no difference in the end.’ He grinned as the other man raised his eyes in mock frustration. ‘I believe I will take the hunt out a little further than I had planned.’ Edward looked around him, counting under his breath. ‘Now, I will certainly need these fine fellows here, but then another forty knights ahorse … and a hundred or so of the best archers as well.’

‘There are only a few master bowmen in the barracks here, my lord,’ Sir Anthony replied. ‘I can find another dozen at Baynard’s, more from the archery school …’ He broke off at Edward’s impatient gesture. ‘Yes, Your Highness, I will have them assembled immediately.’

He clattered away, leaving Edward to tempt the gyrfalcon from the perch to his forearm. He could feel the bird’s claws flexing, even through thick layers of leather.

It was a pleasure to sense the growth and green all around him. Edward would leave Windsor and all the damp and chills of winter behind, to hunt, to seek, to punish, as he saw fit. It was a heady feeling and the falcon sensed it in him, flaring its wings and screeching out a call to hunt.

By noon, the whole town of Windsor knew the king was riding out. Anthony Woodville had run the king’s stewards ragged, seeking out archers from villages all around
Windsor and London. They had ridden as far as they dared and the results came in by threes and fours, adding to the number of bowmen with the king until there were two hundred of them with bows and quivers ready, bright-faced and beaming with the sense of adventure. It was an honour to accompany the king, and Edward could be seen at the stable yard, cheerfully bantering with his knights and squires. He would hunt as a king of England, with his falcon on his arm. At the last minute, he had decided to wear heavier plate and changed horses for his great destrier, now sixteen years old and in its prime.

In the same way that the number of archers had doubled, his hunting party had attracted any man who thought he might find advancement under the king’s sight. At least a hundred milled and curbed their mounts, while about as many dogs chased and barked. It was all clatter and shouting and laughter, and Edward was at the heart of it, content to shrug off the cobwebs.

‘Hold fast!’ Edward heard called. He turned his horse on the spot to witness his wife’s father come trotting out on a fine mare, wrapped in coats and cloaks, with a boar spear held high. Edward chuckled in amusement at Earl Rivers. He had grown to like the old fellow well enough, though he greeted him with a warning shake of his head.

‘These fine lads won’t hold back for age, my lord Rivers. Youth will prevail, once the horns are blown.’

‘Your Highness, I am content just to ride out once more. After such a winter, it is good to feel the sun on my face once again. If I cannot stay with the main group, I will drift back and be tended by my servants. Have no fears for me, lad.’

Edward chuckled at being called ‘lad’ by his wife’s father,
though the man was sixty-four years old and a life of punishing the wine and ale had left him red-faced and bleary-eyed. Still, he was good company when the drink and wild tales began to flow.

The earl’s mention of servants had Edward frowning and looking over the assembly as it swirled around him. His original plan to bolster his hunting party had grown unrecognizably. With servants and knights and archers, he was looking at around four hundred men. He saw Anthony Woodville utterly forlorn at what he would miss. It was noisy, joyous chaos and Edward realized the numbers would only grow if he remained where he was. It was the power of a king once again – men wanted to follow him.

Edward raised his hunting horn from its cord around his neck and blew a long note. By the time he stopped, the men had fallen silent, though the dogs still yelped and snapped in excitement.

‘I am informed of unrest around the city of York,’ he called to them. ‘The weavers, gentlemen! They have forgotten they owe their livings to me. We will remind them of their duty. Away now! North and the hunt!’

The baying of the hounds rose in intensity, becoming an almost constant wail. Horns blew and hundreds moved off, trotting and laughing, waving to loved ones and those left behind. Spring had come.

Warwick strode through the great hall of Baynard’s Castle on the bank of the Thames in London. The last time he had passed that fireplace had been on the night Edward had declared himself king in Westminster Hall. Warwick shook his head at the memories, feeling no regret. It had been the right thing to do then, without a doubt. Edward
could never have triumphed at Towton without the peculiar aura of royalty. For all the young man’s talent, Edward could not have brought in enough men without the crown, not in the time they’d had. That had been Warwick’s great contribution.

His reward had been a series of assaults on his family’s holdings – and on its honour. It seemed Edward was willing to use the crown to act beyond the law, without thought to consequence. Warwick set his jaw as he walked. So be it. He might have endured all the disappointments if they had come from Edward himself, yet it was clear to Warwick that for the second time in his life, a queen’s spite was behind the reverse in his fortunes. Margaret of Anjou had been bad enough. It was too much to expect him to suffer it again!

George, Duke of Clarence, came into the hall, wiping his face with a steaming cloth as he had been called and interrupted while about to be shaved. He looked in astonishment at Richard Neville approaching.

‘My lord Warwick? What’s afoot, for you to seek me here?’ The young man suddenly grew pale. ‘Is it Isabel? My lord, is she unwell?’

Warwick halted, bowing to the man’s more senior rank.

‘Isabel is with me, George. Outside and full of life.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Clarence said, wiping his neck and tossing the cloth to a steward to snatch out of the air. ‘Shall I come with you, to see her? Sir, you have me at a loss.’

Warwick glanced at the servant, reminded that they were not alone. He gestured to a door he knew led to stairs up to the iron roof of the castle, where an observatory had been built. It would be quiet and protected from the ears of those who would report his words to the king.

‘What I have to say is for you alone, my lord Clarence. Come with me, if you please. I will make it clear.’

The young duke followed immediately, his face without a trace of suspicion as they ascended flights of iron stairs and shoved open the hatch to the open air. Anyone climbing to listen behind them would be heard and Warwick breathed more easily than he had in days, smelling the river and the city as gulls swooped and shrieked overhead.

‘Do you put your trust in me, George?’ Warwick said as the younger man came to stand by him.

‘Of course, sir. I know you supported my suit to the king. I know you argued for me and I am grateful, more than you know. I am only sorry it came to nothing in the end. Is Isabel well, sir? I have not dared to write to her these last months. May I see her at the carriage when you leave?’

‘That will be your choice, George,’ Warwick said, with an odd smile playing across his mouth. ‘I have come to take you to the coast, if you wish to come. I have a ship waiting there, a fine little cog to carry us to the fortress of Calais. From there, I have papers to go through the gates and into France.’

Clarence shook his head. ‘With Isabel, sir? I don’t understand your meaning.’

Warwick took a deep breath. This was the heart of it and part of what he had planned over the winter months.

‘Your brother cannot
unmarry
you, if you are bound, George. If you marry my daughter, there is nothing Edward can do to prevent it, not then. You are his own brother and it is my feeling that he will see it is the best thing for you.’