White Boar and the Red Dragon, The (2 page)

‘Aye, my lord. We will willingly die first before they touch a hair of your head!’

‘But I am worried that they may abduct Henry as a hostage or even kill him—though I assured him he would be safe in Pembroke Castle with the servants! After all, he has a claim to the throne! I know it is a distant one—but it exists!’

‘Surely they would not stoop so low as to harm so young and innocent a child? Lancastrian or not?’

‘Who knows?’

‘You must pray that even they would not be tempted to such an evil deed!’

‘Aye, what have little children got to do with this endless bloody struggle between Lancastrians and Yorkists which has gone on far too long already? But it is Henry’s ancestry which puts him in such deadly danger!’

‘Put it out of your mind, my lord. Concentrate on saving yourself. That is the urgent matter now! The quicker we get to the mountains of North Wales, the better. They will never find you in those fastnesses!’

‘You are right. I know them like the back of my hand! And all the best hiding places where I can hole myself up for as long as I need to!’

Earl Jasper turns round one last time to gaze regretfully at his castle—where his beloved nephew, Henry Tudor, will be safe, hopefully, until he returns—if he ever does. He shakes his head and turns determinedly northwards.

Nurse Bethan also shakes her head as she goes to follow her charge into the castle and up the stone steps to the nursery quarters which Henry still occupies. She does not truly believe her reassurances to the little boy, nor Earl Jasper’s, that he will return soon. She knows the true situation—which must be kept from Henry at all costs. He must have hope kept alive in him. It is her job to keep him healthy and happy—even if it means not being truthful to him.

Her thoughts give her no peace while she watches Henry go up to enjoy his tea, his tears soon forgotten.

A castle guard, her friend, stops to inquire at her long face.

‘Cheer up, Bethan! There is nothing you can do about the situation, whatever, except protect the boy as well as you can!’

‘But if something awful does happen to the earl, the child will be inconsolable! And it would be my job to break it to him! I dread that.’

‘Well, you will have to deal with that if and when it happens! No good moping about it now! The earl can look after himself and has a good bodyguard.’

‘Yes, but the little one would be devastated! Henry is self-willed and difficult to control at the best of times, and he adores his uncle! He would run wild completely, I am sure, if the worst comes to the worst!’

‘But think, he would have you to comfort and console him!’

‘At least, I suppose, I will have him to myself now, at least for a while—perhaps he will listen to me more and do as he is told, instead of constantly running off to find his uncle. The earl has been too easy on the boy. He needs discipline.’

‘I expect he is sorry for the child, having no mother or father, and tries to take their place as much as he can by lavishing love and attention on him constantly!’

‘That is true. But I am sure he is still better off without that awful Lady Margaret Beaufort! She could not have cared for him much, running off like that last year to marry the Earl of Stafford—but then the king would not let her have her child, and she was a good disciplinarian—unlike Lord Jasper!’

At that moment, Henry comes running down the stairs again, calling, ‘Nurse Bethan! Aren’t you coming to have some of this laver bread? It’s lovely!’

He suddenly wraps his arms around her and buries his head in her ample bosom.

‘I love you too, Nurse Bethan. You won’t go away and leave me as well, will you, as Mother and Uncle Jasper have? I miss Mother too, though she was not so kind to me as Uncle and you. Why does everyone I care about go away and leave me?’

He bursts into tears again, soaking the front of her kirtle. She smiles ruefully over the child’s head at her friend and hugs the little boy tight.

‘No, I will not leave you, Henry! I will care for you as long as you need me!’

Middleham Castle, Yorkshire, Late Summer, 1461

Cecily, Duchess of York, was watching her two sons, George and Richard, on the green before Middleham Castle, training in martial arts with their friends, Francis Lovell and Robert Percy. All four boys were under the mentorship of the Earl of Warwick here at the castle, learning to be knights.

She observed them through a large window in the Solar in a rather detached fashion, as she was really more interested in her companion. This was her handsome nephew, Richard Neville, the earl, who was watching the boys with her and calling out encouragement to the youngest one, Richard, every now and then. The boy was fighting valiantly and with much determination for one so young.

Tall and athletic, his body strong and supple, Neville was everything a man in his prime should be.

She bit her lip as she looked at her youngest son, Richard—such a contrast.

She had always had an eye for a handsome man. Her husband, Richard, Duke of York, whom she had loved devotedly until he was murdered by the Lancastrians, was one such. She had never left his side, even on campaigns—even when she was heavily pregnant.

She sighed and shook her head doubtfully. ‘What is to become of him? However long or hard he trains, he will never grow big enough or strong enough to be a knight!’

‘Don’t you believe it, Aunt. He is very ambitious and cannot wait to grow up and go into battle against the Lancastrians! He is always talking about it, you know! Sometimes, I believe he thinks of little else! He badly wants to avenge his father’s and Edmund’s deaths! In that small frame burns a most determined spirit!’

‘Really? Well I fear his ambitions are doomed not to be realised, though seeing the heads of my poor husband and Edmund on the Micklegate did affect him deeply, I know. The desire may be there—which is commendable—but as for him actually being able to do anything about it, that is very doubtful. However hard we may wish for something, it does not necessarily come to pass. One learns that bitter fact soon in life. I have been praying for years—nay willing—the Lancastrians’ downfall! And especially since this King, Henry VI, has proved so ineffectual—even pathetic! He is completely under the thumb of that French bitch, Queen Margaret, who seems to make all the decisions, and he gives in to her every whim—just for a quiet life, it seems! A weakling for a king, pah! Now my husband would have been splendid as king, if only he had got the chance. He was meant to be!’

‘I agree about Henry. He is really quite inadequate, in body, mind, and character! He seems to hate most usual male pastimes, except hunting occasionally, and prefers to spend his time praying and studying theology with his priests. I think he would have been far happier as a monk than as a king! He is certainly more at ease with a book in his hand than a sword!’

‘There is nothing wrong with devotion to God and his Word, nephew. I have always tried to live by God’s Commandments, to instil awareness of him in my children and to bring them up in fear of him! It is a mother’s duty to lead her children in the right Christian way. But I doubt if they have listened to half I have said. They are all self-willed and self-centred—especially Edward! Their church attendance is only lip service most of the time, I feel.’

‘Richard, Aunt, is most devout, though I cannot say the same about George, I am afraid! The lad seems to really enjoy the chapel services here and attends Mass at least twice on Sundays and at least once every weekday—even when you are not here. He is also physically determined and active. I am sure he will grow into a fine man you can be proud of, in spite of his frailty of which you despair and his poor health as an infant!’

As if to back up his words, there was a gleeful shout from Richard down below, as a particularly strong blow of his knocked his elder brother George’s wooden sword right out of his hand! Anne Neville, the Earl’s youngest daughter, who had been running round and round cheering Richard during the mock fight, clapped loudly. She was Richard’s shadow, being quite devoted to him—and he to her.

‘A point for me, I think, sirrah!’ exulted Richard, wiping his hand across his brow where the sweat dripped continually into his eyes despite his efforts. It was an exceptionally hot day—even for August.

A young page ran forward with a tray on which were several beakers of small ale chilled in the castle cellars. Richard grabbed one, downed it in one go, then started on another, drinking in long, deep swallows, almost without a breath.

‘That’s better!’ he cried. ‘Now I’ll take you on, Francis!’ He brandished his small sword and advanced towards his best friend with determination, his face screwed up against the sun and with his effort.

Richard Neville leant through the large Solar window and called, ‘No, boys. I think that is enough for today. Come indoors. It is cool here and you must rest. Anne, you come too. You will get ill if you become overheated!’

Richard groaned but resigned himself to Warwick’s command and walked in slowly with the others, dragging his sword by his side as they climbed the stairs breathlessly. A few moments later, they all stood before the Duchess Cecily and Neville, covered in dust and sweat but excited and happy.

‘I won, Mother. I beat George! I would have beaten Francis and Robert too if you had let me go on!’

‘As Lord Neville said, Richard, that is quite enough for today! Your face is purple, boy! Don’t you know when enough is enough? Go now, all of you, and wash and change.’

At her words, an old maidservant, the Neville children’s nurse from babyhood, whom they rather resented now, feeling themselves too old for her ministrations, no doubt, came forward and shepherded the children out of the Solar.

‘You see what I mean about determination and ambition, Aunt? He will not give up easily and likes to beat everyone! Surely he will succeed in life, at whatever he makes up his mind to do?’

‘You may have convinced me a little!’ Cecily nodded, smiling one of her rare, tight smiles, so brief they seemed grudging. ‘But we shall see. I think he may overtax his strength trying to prove he is as good as everyone else.’

‘Not only as good as, Aunt, but better than! I agree though. We should not let him overdo things! I know all about delicate children, none better. Both Isabel and Anne have been so from birth, no one knows why, for I have a strong constitution, my wife likewise.’

They had good cause to worry, for by that evening, Richard had lost his bravura; wanted nothing to eat, and was running a high fever. He still objected to being made to go to bed early, even though he ached all over. By morning, his nose was running and he sneezed continually. His throat was so closed up and painful he could hardly swallow and his body felt on fire.

‘‘Tis only another of his summer colds, my lady, I am sure. Nothing to be afraid about!’ the old nurse assured Duchess Cecily.

But in a day or two, their mild anxiety turned to real concern. The boy was unable to get out of bed and was having great difficulty breathing.

‘My right shoulder and arm won’t work,’ he croaked. ‘They feel dead!’

‘It’s all right, lad,’ comforted the nurse. ‘You just overdid the sword-fighting the other day in all that heat. ‘Tis exhaustion. You’ll be fine in a day or so!’

But Richard was not. Nor for many days and weeks afterwards.

The best doctors were summoned, even the king’s own physician, Dr Hobbes, whom he trusted implicitly. Hobbes came all the way from London at once when summoned by Lord Neville. King Edward also sent urgent messages asking to be informed of Richard’s daily condition. He loved his young brother dearly; no one could deny that. He wished he was able to leave affairs of state and come up to Yorkshire at once to be by Richard’s bedside.

The doctors just shook their heads in consternation after examining him many times. They took samples of his urine, bled him daily, and also obtained samples of faeces, which they pondered over and discussed lengthily. They made him stick out his tongue whilst they observed it from all angles and peered down his throat inquiringly. They poked and prodded his arms and legs and moved them around in different directions until he cried out with pain. But it was obvious they were completely baffled by his illness.

‘It is a mystery to us,’ Dr Hobbes hesitantly confided at last, not wanting to admit their inadequacy in the situation, but forced to. ‘The sore throat and the streaming cold seem to have abated, and he can now breathe almost normally—God be praised—but the paralysis—it may persist!’

The other doctors nodded sagely, afraid to impart this grave news but impelled to and feeling foolish, no doubt in the duchess’s rather forbidding presence.

‘His shoulder, arm, and leg may never properly recover, if at all! We think he has had a rare case of what is known as infantile paralysis. He has, in fact, escaped lightly, Madam, if it is that dreaded childhood disease!’

‘He will certainly live now, of that we can be sure! Most die of it. I have heard of cases in Italy recently where death has occurred quickly, because the chest muscles were affected so badly the patients could not breathe—’

‘Yes, yes!’ interrupted the Duchess impatiently. ‘Are you trying to tell me that he is to be a cripple then?’ she cried horrified. ‘Is there nothing more you can do for him?’

‘Nothing, my lady, we freely admit it. His recovery is in God’s hands now. We can only pray. We advise you to do likewise.’

They withdrew, rubbing their hands together and shaking their heads in a futile fashion.

But Richard did improve, slowly, it was true, for he had made up his mind to recover completely. This was not going to beat him! He could not wait to get outside and start his training again to be a knight. His whole being was focused on just that.

His mother prayed daily for him in Middleham Castle Chapel, as did Lord Neville and his entire family, and the villagers prayed in the local church. Richard was popular with them, always engaging them in conversation when he was well; asking about their work, their families, and their problems.

Lord Neville came to see him every day as well, to cheer and encourage him, as did Francis Lovell and Robert Percy, his friends, also Anne, Isabel, and Lord Neville’s wife, the Lady Ann. Little Anne in particular was always by his side. She seemed to spend most of her time with him, chattering away and plumping up his pillows—also dosing him with the obnoxious mixtures the doctors had prescribed to build up his strength again. He much preferred her company to the fussy old nurse, though he knew she tried to do her best to care for him.