Chapter Twelve

Autumn 1467

Richard’s wish was answered as though he had a direct line to God. Edward summoned him to London in September, and Rob Percy was given leave by Warwick to accompany Richard.

Warwick’s parting words to Richard were curt. “Convey God’s greetings to my cousin. Tell the king that I keep the north safe for him, but there are many disloyal to His Grace, as he well knows, including those Percies. Here is a letter I would have you deliver.” He lowered his voice that now had a bitter edge. “I pray your brother heeds my warnings that by dealing with Burgundy and treating with Brittany, he may have trouble from Louis. He did not listen to me earlier this year, but perhaps he summons you to discover what the way of it is with me. Tell him the truth: I am his loyal subject.” He paused and gripped Richard’s arm. “And remember, you are mine.”

“Your servant, my lord,” Richard replied, bowing. “I will be honored to do your bidding.” His face gave away nothing, but the unpleasant knot of conflict gripped his heart once more. Taking the letter, he stowed it in his saddlebag next to one Isabel had begged him to give to George.

Petite Anne stood holding the leading rein of Richard’s horse, and as soon as her father mounted the steps to the hall, she braved: “You will be missed, Richard. When will you be back?”

“I know not, little mouse,” he said kindly. “In truth, I do not know what my mission is with Edward. But when the king commands, I must go.”

“I understand. And I suppose you must take Traveller, too.” Anne stroked the dog’s head, and Richard was amused that she stood not much higher than the seated wolfhound. He still saw a little girl, although Anne, who would never eclipse Isabel’s beauty, was losing her baby face and becoming passably pretty. He bent and kissed her cheek. “I shall be back, never fear.”

Besides Traveller, the only luxury Richard took with him was safely hooded and enclosed in a cage carried behind his groom. He hoped he could show George how well he had trained his hawk Phoenix when they had time to hunt outside London; besting George at something was a priority.

Once again, on the long road south, Richard observed with compassion the lot of the common folk. Villages with mud or wooden hovels disgorged ragged barefoot children eager for a glimpse of the finely arrayed horsemen bearing the ragged-staff badge of Warwick. Richard and Rob depleted their small coins before they were halfway to London, watching sadly as grubby fingers groveled in the dirt to find the treasure.

Richard could not help but wonder whether Edward was governing his people any better than good and saintly Henry, who had been removed from the throne because he had failed. It was the very same reason Richard’s father had chosen to lay claim to the throne. “We did not depose a mad king to put a profligate on the throne,” Warwick had said in a recent conversation, and Richard could not shake that thought from his head: his profligate brother. How could Edward not want to help his unfortunate subjects, Richard questioned. If I were king, I would want all my subjects to have food, shelter and good laws. I would want them to know I cared for them.

As they rode through St. Albans, the scene of two bloody battles in what was now being dubbed the “cousins’ war,” a woman—a merchant’s wife, by the cut of her clothes—threw herself in front of Richard’s horse, causing the animal to shy.

“Gently, Strider,” Richard soothed his palfrey before calling out, “What does this mean, mistress? Are you hurt?”

“Nay, sir,” the woman said, but she did not move.

One of the escorts dismounted and roughly pulled the frightened goodwife to her feet. “Be off with you,” he hissed. “This is His Grace, the duke of Gloucester, now let us pass.”

Richard heard the whispers of “’Tis the king’s brother,” and was dismayed by the scowls his name evoked. He was not exactly afraid, but his hand crept to the hilt of his shortsword as he addressed the soldier. “Leave her, sirrah!” More gently to the woman, he said. “We wish you no harm, mistress. I pray you, allow us to pass.”

Seizing her chance, the goodwife ran to Richard’s side and kissed his foot. “Help me, my lord,” she begged, “please help me.”

Richard frowned. He was not sure how to proceed; this was the first of such encounters for him. Protective Rob urged his horse forward. “Petition your own lord, mistress. His Grace is on the king’s urgent business and cannot help you.” He jerked his head to Richard to walk on, but Richard did not move. He looked down into the sorrowful face of the petitioner and was moved.

“What is your trouble? Has someone robbed you?”

The woman let go of Richard’s foot and wrung her hands in her dirty apron. “My husband is awaiting trial for cheating a customer,” she blurted. “He is in gaol and I am alone. My neighbors came and stole everything from us. There was nothing I could do. It was their right because my husband is accused.”

Richard blinked. “It is their right to steal what is yours? I don’t understand.” He looked around at the now gathering crowd. “Where is your bailiff or alderman? Who is in charge here?”

A stocky, bald man with an enormous nose stepped forward and effected an awkward bow. “I be the constable, my lord. What Goody Wainwright says is true. If a man is accused but not yet indicted, his goods can be forfeit because there is no bail.”

Richard glared at the man. “Do you know who took them?”

The constable shrugged, “Aye, but ’twere their right. ’Tis the law. Nowt I could do.”

“Let us leave, Richard,” Rob pleaded, noting the surly expressions on the restless villagers. “There’s nothing we can do here. You heard the man, ’tis the law.”

Observing Rob was right, Richard sighed. “Very well, but I shall look into this.” He fingered a rose noble in the pouch at his waist, leaned over and surreptitiously pressed it into the woman’s hand. “Hide this well, mistress. ’Tis all I can do…for the time being.”

“G…God bless you, young lord,” the woman stammered as the coin disappeared somewhere into the folds of her voluminous skirts. “I shall never forget this day. May the sweet Virgin watch over you, Richard of Gloucester.” She backed away not taking her eyes off Richard as he clicked his tongue and Strider took his cue.

It was then Richard caught sight of a young man bent almost double over a crutch. His back was misshapen and his face twisted in pain. Richard noticed he was shunned by the rest of the villagers, and understanding that the Devil must have somehow touched the poor cripple, he crossed himself. He shifted in his saddle, his own back acknowledging the same dull ache that was becoming his constant companion. He vowed to double his prayers every night so that whatever was causing his discomfort never reached the level of this poor fellow’s malady. He threw the man a coin and spurred on his horse.

“I am too busy putting down rebellions to worry about changing laws for the peasantry.” Edward was condescending, dismissing Richard’s plea and stinging the youth. “Mayhap you do not realize that my arse is not yet safe upon the throne, little brother. When I know my enemies are truly vanquished, I can look at the law.” He took up his cup and swallowed the tawny contents.

Taciturn, Richard bowed his head and went to stare out of the window at the boatmen ferrying passengers back and forth across the Thames. He had been so full of righteous indignation when he arrived and sure that Edward would ease his people’s lot, he could not now conceal his disappointment that his brother had not been moved by his example of injustice and sworn to act then and there. He would not dare suggest to this imposing king—brother or no—that perhaps it was precisely because Edward’s subjects were unjustly treated by the law that they were rebelling. Could Edward not see that correlation for himself? But Richard was not king, and, young as he was, he could not imagine the weight of responsibility that hung on Edward’s shoulders, however brawny.

The king fingered one of the pea-sized pearl buttons on his jacket and contemplated his young brother’s back. Such an enigma, he thought, and though he had brushed aside Richard’s ardent plea, he did admire that ardor. He coaxed the dejected Richard to face him.

“Do not think I did not hear you, brother. I did—and I do. But I am certain you are curious about my summons, are you not?” He was pleased to see Richard turn, his expression eased. “Let me be plain. I have called you south on your own to ask what you can tell me about my lord of Warwick’s plans. He removed himself from London so quickly, I suspected he was fomenting a rebellion of his own.” Edward grinned. “I am jesting, in truth. ’Tis not that bad, I trust?” But the lack of an immediate response claimed Edward’s attention. “Is it that bad?”

Richard shook his head. “He is your loyal subject,” he said, fulfilling Warwick’s command. He was relieved that the summons was for nothing that he had done wrong, but he was unsettled that Edward expect him to act as his spy. While he was under Warwick’s patronage, surely Edward knew that Richard owed some loyalty to the earl. What really confounded him was whether he should reveal Warwick’s marriage plans for George and Isabel. What if Anne were wrong? Richard might look foolish to have listened to her; after all she was only eleven. Nay, he would hold his tongue until such time as he could verify the information. “He still believes you are wrong to treat with Burgundy and not with France,” Richard offered.

Edward snorted. “Aye, that is the gist of his letter to me,” he said, slapping the parchment on his lap. “Warwick does not see that he is but a fly in Louis’ web. I refuse to be drawn in, especially when I heard the Spider was entertaining the She-wolf at the same time as the earl was supposed to be doing my business in Normandy. Did he tell you that?” He unfurled his long legs and rose to his feet. “I cannot believe that was a coincidence.”

Richard was shocked. “Warwick and Queen Margaret? You must have it wrong, Your Grace. Warwick may feel slighted but he is still a staunch Yorkist. As is his brother, Northumberland.”

“My lord of Gloucester is right.” Will Hastings had entered the room unannounced, startling Richard. Richard was surprised how free and easy the chamberlain was with his king, although he knew Will was Ned’s confidant. Richard had seen Will several times in the king’s presence, but always in public. This was the first time he was witnessing the camaraderie between king and servant in private. “They are loyal to York, especially Northumberland,” Will continued. “We would have lost much on the northern borders if not for John Neville.”

“And yet another Neville turned his back on me last summer, and I had to remove the Great Seal from him, remember?” Edward snapped back. “That Neville blood is as thick as the heather that covers their damned moors. I have no doubt that if Warwick turns, the others will follow.”

“If I may say again, Your Grace,” Will soothed, pouring his friend some wine, “my lord of Warwick is your loyal councilor; he is a proud man ’tis true, but he will do what is right for England.”

Edward shrugged. “Aye, I believe he is loyal to England. In truth, possibly more loyal than my ambitious brother, George. I am not sure I trust that boy as far as Richard here could throw him.”

Richard started. “George? He may be vain but surely he’s no dissembler,” he offered, feebly. He wanted to be fair, but even if he could forget the many slights and betrayals he had suffered at George’s hands in their childhood, should he betray his brother now? What of the meetings he knew had taken place between the earl and George? And the secret letters between Isabel and George—one he was keeping inside his tunic at that very moment? This was more serious, and he had no proof. The imaginary scales in Richard’s head teetered from one side to the other before he chose to hold his tongue for the second time in the meeting.

“I hope you are right,” Edward mumbled into his well-padded jacket and, disappointed that Richard had no private information to share about Warwick’s plans, he took a swig of wine and changed the subject. “How do you find my baby brother after three years in the Yorkshire dales, Will? Has he not become quite the handsome young man?” His lazy blue eyes smiled at Richard. “Have you discovered the joys of the fairer sex yet? You are not a man until you have, dear boy. Aha,” he said, chuckling. “Look at those rosy cheeks; I warrant you have tasted such joys. Who is she, Richard? Your king wants to know.”

“I thank you for your interest, but your brother does not wish to reveal the lady. ’Tis unchivalrous.”

Will and Edward laughed heartily but wisely chose not to embarrass the lad further. When Richard’s mouth was set in a line with his creased chin jutting out farther than usual, it was pointless to persist. “Stubborn,” Edward had told his queen more than once, “Richard of Gloucester is stubborn.” But Edward liked what he saw in the fifteen-year-old youth. He was growing into a man. The gray eyes were intelligent, steady and looked at him almost with adoration; the nose had grown with the man and was unremarkable; the mouth was a little thin and straight, giving its owner a sober mien; his hair had lost its childish blond and was now a rich brown, curling below his ears. He is passably good looking, Edward decided, especially when he smiles. He would never stand as high as he, Edward, or as Edmund, but he might surpass George. He felt at ease in Richard’s presence, and he felt that he could trust this youngest York. In truth, the king was pleased to have his brother home. Edward would win him over into keeping an eye on Warwick, he was certain.

“Speaking of George, where is he?” Richard asked. “I thought he would be with you.”

“He is probably consoling Meg at Greenwich. She is desolate that she cannot marry Anthony Woodville.” Edward chuckled at Richard’s startled, “Oh!” “She seems to have developed an infatuation for my striking, book-loving brother-in-law, who is, fortunately for England, married. She will have to marry Charles of Burgundy and seal that important alliance, and there is an end to it.” He winked at Will and said behind his hand, “’Tis rumored Charles likes soldiering more than wenching. Spends nights in tents with his men. Poor Meggie.”

Sir John Howard was announced, and Edward rose and went to greet the older man, an experienced soldier, king’s councilor and one of Edward’s knights of the body. He clapped Howard on the shoulder, a startling gesture for a king but Edward had won people to his side with it. “Sir John, I give you God’s greeting. What brings you from your new wife’s bed?”

Richard was embarrassed for the man, but Sir John merely chuckled.

“You sent for me, Your Grace,” the stocky Howard reminded the king.

Edward pulled Richard forward. “So I did. Richard, do you know Sir John? He’s too modest to say, but he is a distant cousin of ours (albeit on the bastard side).” Edward guffawed, and the councilor’s mustachioed face broke into a grin of its own. “He tends to enjoy his Suffolk estates more than I would like, but when he is with me, he is one of my most trusted advisors, and you could do worse than be mentored by him.”

Richard was puzzled; was he not already mentored by a far more powerful noble?

Jack Howard bowed low over Richard’s hand. “It gives me great pleasure to meet you, my lord duke,” he said. “Your brother thinks highly of you.”

If Richard’s cheeks had been rosy earlier, they grew fiery now. “I am flattered, Sir John,” he answered. “I shall heed his grace’s advice and learn what I can from you.”

Anticipating his sovereign’s every wish, Will handed Edward a goblet of wine just as the king said, “Christ’s bones, but I need a drink. Come Jack, sit with us. I would ask that you take young Richard under your wing while he is in the south and see that he gets into no mischief. Then I will send him north again to see which way the wind blows, if you get my meaning.”

Jack acknowledged with a nod. “With pleasure, Your Grace. I will be leaving Stepney—my London residence,” he informed Richard, “for Suffolk on the morrow. Perhaps it would amuse Lord Richard to accompany Lady Howard and me. We could do some hunting.”

Like it or not, Richard had to obey the king. He had hoped to spend time with George and Meg. Instead, applying diplomacy of his own, he smiled. “I should like it of all things, sir.”

And so, the very next day, Richard set out with Rob and the Howards on a journey to Stoke by Nayland in the bucolic, wooded county of Suffolk, ostensibly to enjoy the hunt with his host. It would prove to be one of the most significant journeys of his life so far.

Compared with the formality of the Warwick household, Jack and Margaret Howard entertained the royal guest and his friend comfortably and with the friendliness of a host and hostess who treated the youths as they would their own sons. On the third day of Richard and Rob’s visit, the boys were left to their own devices while Jack Howard went to Ipswich on business.

After enquiring of Lady Margaret if they might hunt, they set out early that morning, making for the extensive forest to the north of the Howard’s residence of Tendring Hall, with their two grooms and several hare hounds from the Howard kennels. Richard stroked Phoenix’s lustrous plumage as they bade Margaret farewell.

“We shall bring back something for the larder, madam, I promise. Wish us good hunting,” Richard called, waving.

“Go north and keep to the main path, or you might get lost,” Lady Margaret warned them, pushing a wayward strand of hair under her coif. How happy Jack had made her when he had taken her to wife after two miserable marriages, and now she was expecting his child. “Why do you not take Jack’s groom, Wat, with you? He knows the forest.” But being as headstrong and fearless as young men were, they waved off her offer, grinned at her motherly advice, and cantered up the drive. It would come as no surprise to Lady Margaret that by early afternoon, they had strayed from the path and lost their way.

At first Richard was unaware of their wandering for several miles, because the game was so bountiful. Rob felled a deer with his crossbow, a weapon he had become renowned for at Middleham, and Phoenix had delighted Richard by taking a hare the first time the bird was sent aloft, and an hour later the raptor had surprised an unlucky quail.

The huntsmen had ridden through several copses and crossed several clearings following another deer, but it was when they entered a particularly dense grove of trees that the two friends had to admit they were lost.

“’Tis Suffolk, not the wilds of Scotland,” Rob said cheerily, “I shall go this way and find a path, never fear. You stay here and listen for my horn.” A hare skittered out of the underbrush and, without thinking, Richard snatched the hood from Phoenix’s head. Immediately seeing its prey, Phoenix began bating, impatient to be off Richard’s wrist. Untying the jesses and flinging the bird aloft, Richard watched the elegant bird soar high above the tree tops, the telltale tinkling bell dangling from its leg.

“Christ’s nails! What a fool,” he muttered to himself. Had he not been taught that one should only release a hawk out in the open?

“Ho, Rob! Where are you?” he shouted. A wail from Rob’s horn gave Richard a clue, and the dogs began barking and running in its direction. Twenty yards farther, Richard bent over his horse’s neck to avoid a low branch and found himself in a clearing, unaware Rob and his groom were already there staring at a young woman attempting to hide behind her flaxen-colored horse.

Intent on reclaiming his falcon, Richard had eyes only for Phoenix, who had snared and dispatched the hare in its powerful talons, daring the dogs to come a beak’s length closer. Richard whistled the bird back onto his wrist, hooded him and praised him before realizing he was not alone.

“There you are,” he said, nudging his mount to join Rob.

It was then he saw her.

“Who is this?” Rob preempted Richard’s own question and moved his horse closer, forcing the lovely young woman to back up into the woods, pulling her horse with her.

Richard sidled his mount between Rob and the anxious girl and assured her they would not harm her. Huge amber eyes gazed up at him with an intriguing mixture of fear and defiance, and he felt a strange jolt of recognition. Or was it something else? It was similar to the pleasurable rush of blood he used to experience when he looked at Isabel, but this seemed to take the wind from him. He drank in the wild mass of bronze hair, the freckles on her straight nose, the generous mouth, and the long fingers clutching her jennet’s leading rein, and he was entranced. He had thought Isabel beautiful, but she was but a spring windflower to this summer rose.

He found his voice again, telling Rob, “Leave her be. Maybe she knows the road to Stoke.”

It seemed Richard’s calm reply quelled her fear for she suddenly smiled at him. Again a flash of recognition allowed him to smile in return. “Do I know you, mistress? I am…” He was about to give his formal title when something made him hesitate. Would it make her uneasy or, worse, run away? He wanted to stay and take in the beauty of her for ever. However, sensing Rob was about to reveal his identity, he quickly introduced himself as Dickon, “and this is my friend Rob. I confess we are lost. Perhaps you can help us.”

He was right; plain “Dickon” unbound her tongue.

“I am called Kate. Katherine Haute, an it please you, sirs.” More at ease now with the two young men, she chattered on about being new to the county, having recently arrived from Kent with her husband.

Husband? The word took Richard aback. Kate looked only about a year older than he was—about Isabel’s age, he thought, although her figure was more fully formed. It also meant she was spoken for. Spoken for? What am I thinking? Judging by her clothes and her lack of escort even by a groom, she was obviously beneath him socially, so why should her status matter? His mind was sorting out these details until Kate mentioned a name he recognized.

“Martin Haute? Is he not a retainer of Sir John Howard?”

Kate nodded eagerly, happy to have recognition from this kind, good-looking youth. Richard’s first instincts had been correct; he had encountered Kate Haute before somewhere, but he could not call it to mind. Kate, on the other hand could; she remembered he was not plain Dickon, but Richard, duke of Gloucester, who had heard her sing the night of King Edward’s coronation. She was not, however, about to spoil the excitement and confess. Agreeing to lead them back to her husband’s home in Chelsworth a mile from where they were standing, she assured the two young men her mother-in-law would put them on the right road to Stoke.

Richard was elated. The ride to Chelsworth would give him more time to observe this enticing creature, and, transferring Phoenix to his groom’s glove, he dismounted to help Kate back onto her horse. Before he could remount his own palfrey, Kate wheeled hers round, and plunged back into the woods.

It was all Richard and Rob could do to keep up with her, as she galloped across meadows, her mane of hair streaming behind her, until a modest manor house on the edge of a village emerged in the distance.

“I’d follow her anywhere, wouldn’t you Richard?” Rob said breathlessly, a gleam in his eye.

His friend nodded silently, and, as though in a daze, he muttered, “and I must.”

Although he did not yet know it, fifteen-year-old Richard Plantagenet had fallen in love.

Before dispatching Richard north again, Edward had signed a treaty of perpetual peace and league with Burgundy, lifting the trade restrictions on Burgundian goods coming to England, and signing Margaret of York’s marriage alliance with Charles the Bold. It was the most overt slap in the face to the mighty earl of Warwick Edward had yet dealt, and Richard did not relish facing his patron with this news.

Edward’s actions may have pleased Burgundy, but they incensed the London merchants. And when Duke Charles failed to revoke his father’s edict against the importation of English cloth, as Edward promised them Charles would, their faith in their king was lost.

Thus, it was an even more hostile countryside that Richard and Rob had to face on the road home. He was glad of the armed guard Edward had sent to accompany them.

Riding north through the gold and brown of autumn, Richard put the politics of London behind him and could not help but see Kate Haute in everything he observed. He likened her hair color to the bright auburn clouds of robin’s pincushions, her eyes to the amber beechnuts, her merry laughter to the many babbling brooks the riders forded, and her singing voice to the larks which rose high above the meadows. And he hadn’t, until then, even cared for poetry.

Rob was, at first, amused by his companion’s infatuation, but then he became weary of hearing the paragon’s name. “Aye, she is a beauty. Aye, she has a pleasant manner—although methinks she talks too much—and aye, I think she was taken with you, too, but I pray you, stop prattling on about her or I will continue north home to Scotton and leave you to ride to Sheriff Hutton alone. You cannot pursue her, so what is the point?” Seeing the expression of dejection, Rob, as he was always able to do, made Richard laugh then by recalling the moment when, back at Chelsworth Manor, they had eventually revealed their true identities to Philippa Haute, Kate’s mother-in-law. “Did you see her eyes? They were as big as communion plates,” Rob said, chuckling. Then poker-faced, he declared: “It was hearing that you were a duke and the king’s brother that made Kate turn her attention from me to you.”

Richard launched a glove at his friend, whose groom scrambled off his horse to retrieve it from the dirt. “Liar! She only had eyes for me from the first moment,” he retorted. “But I promise to stop talking about her—at least for five minutes.”

They shared a laugh and urged their mounts into a faster canter. The long ride was getting tedious, and they longed for strong Yorkshire ale, some deliciously smelly cheese, and a soft bed. Hardy northerners were wont to sleep under hedgerows when on the road, using their saddlebags for pillows, and although Richard now looked on himself as a man of the north, tomorrow night, God willing, they would find themselves in the luxury of Sheriff Hutton castle.

“What do you think Warwick is hatching?” Rob asked later, when they had slowed to climb a steep hill, jarring Richard out of his reverie about Kate. “I heard it said at Westminster that he had had audience with exiled Queen Margaret in Rouen. Is it true, do you know?”

Richard stretched out his aching back, dismayed by the increasing discomfort. “’Tis true that she was in Rouen as Louis’s guest, but I could not say if Warwick actually spoke to her,” he hedged. Edward had made it clear that no one outside the privy chamber must know that the two had met and talked. Richard had been so honored to have been included in the private conversation with Hastings and Bishop Stillington, the new lord chancellor, that he would never divulge this information, not even to his closest friend. Richard was learning not to trust anyone in this world of politics and power. Later in his life, breaking this rule would have disastrous consequences.

He frowned now when he thought of Edward’s parting words: “I would that you return to my lord of Warwick, say nothing of why I summoned you, and report to me anything that even hints at disloyalty. Will you uphold me in this, brother?” Richard had nodded and placed a hand on his heavy heart. “I will.”

Richard shook off the memory as his eye was drawn to something metallic in the hedgerow. “Look yonder,” he said pointing. “What is it?” He signaled to one of the escorts to fetch the object, and they all recognized a half-rusted sallet. The man also found a broken sword and, buried in the grass and earth, a halberd, its wooden pole so rotten, it fell apart in the soldier’s hand.

“Good Christ,” Richard exclaimed, watching Traveller disappear through the hedge. “What is this place?”

“Towton,” Rob shouted from farther down the road, where a crude sign pointed the way to the village. “We are at Towton field.”

They all crossed themselves, and Richard dismounted and walked to a gap in the wall and stared down the long, steep field to the beck at the bottom, where more than five and twenty thousand Englishmen had given their lives six years before. He whistled to Traveller, not wanting the dog to disturb the dead.

It seemed to Richard that the earth might suddenly erupt and disgorge the uncomfortable, telltale mounds of buried bones and armor, the newly sprouting grass on top like whiskers on a young man’s chin. He shaded his eyes and imagined his golden warrior brother on the other hill across the little stream shouting orders to his army as the flying snow blinded them all. He fancied he could hear the whirring sounds of arrows shot from lovingly crafted longbows, the mainstay of the English foot soldier, and remembered now that the strong blizzard had cut short the Lancastrian arrows’ flight, allowing the Yorkists to collect and redirect them back, slaying the bowmen on Henry’s side of the hill with their own shafts. He thought he could hear the agonized cries of men dying, see the blood-red beck filled with bodies that their comrades used to ford the flooded stream and flee the field. Like other soldiers from time immemorial, something in his blood stirred, and he found the handle of his shortsword and gripped it instinctively. When would he see battle? Part of him longed for it, longed to show what he had learned in three years under Master Lacey, longed to right a wrong, fight on the side of God, Edward and England, and taste the thrill of victory. But part of him did not blame those poor yeomen on Towton Field who had turned and fled instead of standing only to be cut down by the enemy. Which way would he turn? Was he old enough to fight like a man, he wondered? How old must one be?

“Sweet Jesu,” he said out loud to the now silent, empty field. “I am fifteen today!”

“Are you, by God!” Rob’s voice startled him. “And you still have never felt the joy to be had between a woman’s legs. We must do something about that, my friend.”

Richard grinned, slapping Rob with his glove. “You, Sir Robert, are naught but a libertine!”

The bigger of the two, Rob laughingly wrestled his friend easily to the ground. “Bite your tongue, my lord,” he mocked, and balling up his wool liripipe, he covered Richard’s mouth with it. At once, Richard was transported back to the most frightening scene of his boyhood, and a surprised Rob was thrown several feet to his left with tremendous force. Richard now knelt astride him and, with his grim face two inches from Rob’s, he snapped, “Never do that again, do you understand. Never!” Puzzled, Rob nodded.

Standing, Richard suddenly winced in pain and fell to his knees. His squire quickly helped him up again, while Rob brushed himself off, looking askance at his friend.

“Too many days in the saddle,” Richard muttered by way of explanation. “Let us not waste time in this unhappy place.”

The specter of the Towton battlefield clung to Richard as they approached York, the massive Minster dedicated to St. Peter dominating the skyline behind the gleaming city walls that, for two miles, encircled the castle, town, and its many churches. He had often passed under the Micklegate during his time in the north, but today, he could not help but look up at the barbican and imagine his father’s bloody head, mockingly crowned with paper, atop a spike. He crossed himself and offered up a prayer for his namesake, whose face had all but faded from his memory. He only remembered the voice, the kindness with which he would speak to his youngest son, and his loud, neighing laugh. “Loyalty above all else should be your watchword,” Richard could hear his father say now. “Most of all to family, king, and God.” Aye, Father, but at what cost?

“We have time to make confession at St. Peter’s,” Richard suddenly decided. Rob, sensible to his friend’s mood since leaving the battlefield site, had refrained from speaking along the way. Now he bowed his head respectfully. “As you wish, my lord.” It was time he atoned for the maid he had enjoyed during their brief stay in London anyway, Rob admitted to himself.

“Father forgive me for I have sinned,” Richard began the rote prayer to the shadowy figure on the other side of the grille. The detour had been a spontaneous decision brought on by a jumble of guilty thoughts of the thousands of deaths his father’s fight for the crown had wrought; his disloyal censure of his brother’s failure to bring about peace and justice to the kingdom since winning that crown; and the knowledge that he was about to spy on the man who had treated him like a son for the past three years. So many problems to worry about, none of which was in his control to change. At these moments, only God could alleviate his anxiety.

“Bless you, my son. Confess, and your sins shall be forgiven.”

But when Richard opened his mouth, the previous thoughts were pushed aside as he surprised even himself with his guilty admission.

“I have lusted after another man’s wife.” Surely that was not his feeble voice? “I covet my neighbor’s wife.”

The priest allowed himself an indulgent smile. He had seen the serious young man on his knees in front of an alabaster figure of the Virgin Mary, and Richard’s very youth led the cleric to believe the lad had not yet seen enough of life to have sinned too greatly. He wanted to simply tell his supplicant that all boys of his age lusted—usually after an older woman who was inaccessible—and it was perfectly natural. But his faith and responsibility as confessor instead gave the stock pronouncement: “You must resist temptation, my child, and turn towards the Lord our God for temperance. He will guide you from the path of sin and one day He will bless your marriage bed. Fornication is a mortal sin, as I am sure you know.”

“I do, Father. How can I atone for my transgression?”

“Remember the scriptures: He that hideth his sins shall not prosper, but he that shall confess and forsake them shall obtain mercy. If you are truly penitent, by the power invested in me, I can forgive you.”

“O God, be merciful to me the sinner,” Richard muttered, and after receiving his penance, he thanked the good father and returned to kneel in front of the Virgin. Being in God’s presence never failed to move Richard and restore order. Thus, he resolved to put Katherine Haute from his mind.

It would prove an impossible task.

During the hour Richard and Rob had tarried at the Minster, a small group of armed men in the king’s livery must have overtaken them, as Richard’s meinie soon caught them up on the road to Sheriff Hutton. Observing that one soldier was leading a horse on which a sorry-looking fellow sat with wrists bound and tied to his pommel, Richard slowed his group and rode forward.

“Good day, captain,” he addressed the lead rider. “I am Richard of Gloucester, the king’s brother. May I know your destination and the prisoner’s crime?”

The captain thumped his chest with his fist. “God’s greeting, my lord duke. I am taking this measle to my lord of Warwick on command of our gracious sovereign lord, the king. As for his crime, I regret I am ignorant.” He slapped his saddlebag. “I have letters from his grace to the earl.”

Richard rode closer to the scruffy, terrified prisoner. Judging from the broken nose, black eye and split lip, Edward had had the man roughed over for information.

“I’ve been wrongly accused, my lord,” the man objected. “I was just a messenger.”

“No doubt,” Richard said, skeptically. “But I will know your business shortly and judge for myself. If you are innocent, you will find Lord Warwick a fair-minded man.”

He turned his horse around and signaled to his group to pass the king’s men and take the last two miles at a canter. Richard wondered why Edward had sent a prisoner all that way to appear before Warwick, and he was determined to be at Warwick’s side when all was revealed. He grimaced. Something else to worry about, he mused.

“Me consorting with Margaret of Anjou?” Warwick bellowed, purple indignation matching his short houppelande. He was garbed to be as intimidating as possible, the baldric across his chest boasting his order of the garter and various precious jewels, and his enormous black felt chaperon and trailing liripipe framing his furious face. He glared at the kneeling messenger-prisoner, who, Richard learned, had been captured at Harlech castle purporting to have heard from French spies that Warwick was conspiring with the exiled Queen Margaret to incite rebellion against Edward.

The telltale marks of recent torture on the man’s bruised face did not move my lord of Warwick, the vibrations of fury emanating from the earl almost tangible. The anger felt genuine, Richard was bound to admit, for if Warwick were guilty, this playacting was brilliant. Although Richard pretended outrage at the accusation, and in truth he was inclined to think it was a lie, he knew this was not the first time Warwick’s name and the queen’s had been linked. Could there be any truth to this whey-face miscreant’s words? Or had Edward sent the messenger with false information to test Warwick? He had no time to answer his own questions, however, before Warwick raised his arm and struck the unfortunate messenger a blow to the head that toppled him sideways to the floor. Richard’s instinct was to help the man, but he resisted.

“How dare you accuse me, you odiferous, rumpfed villain! Who paid you to speak treason against me?” Warwick demanded of the trembling prisoner, now nursing an already bloodied nose.

“No one paid me,” he whimpered painfully, attempting to right himself. “’Twas but a rumor, my lord, whispered by sailors lately come from France, as I did tell the king.”

“Lies! All lies!” The earl swiveled, turning his fury on the king’s startled brother. “And what do you suppose my reward would be for treating with her, pray? Does Edward have some punishment in store for me? Is that what you have come to tell me, Gloucester?”

Richard could not restrain his own angry outburst. “How should I know, my Lord Warwick?” he lied, his fists clenched in the folds of his tunic. “As you know, I have been upon the road for the past sennight and have had no knowledge of this pitiful pumpion or his rumors until now.”

Both men stared each other down, but not wishing to give the king’s emissary fodder to take back to London, Warwick grunted an acknowledgement and then dismissed the captain and his prisoner. “You may tell his grace, the king, that I have not treated with Queen Margaret, nor would I have reason to. England’s interests—and thus mine—lie only with King Louis of France.”

When the two had gone, Warwick roamed around the hall in silence, leaving Richard to wonder if he, too, should leave. He longed to go straight to the chapel and ask God to forgive his lie, the first one he had spoken in his new role as spy. He did not care for the ease with which he had told it, and more unsettling was that it would likely be the first of many in the service of his brother.

But Warwick had not finished with him. “Were you privy to the summons the king sent me last week to attend him on this trumped-up charge of conspiring with the She-Wolf?” Seeing Richard shake his head, he continued: “I refused to take the accusation seriously and so made my excuses.” He jerked his head toward the door through which the prisoner had just exited. “Did Edward think that by sending me the man who had falsely denounced me I would change my story? How stupid does his grace think I am?”

“If your conscience is clear, my lord,” Richard replied, not fully understanding Edward’s motives either, “then you have nothing to fear.”

“Fear!” Warwick exploded again. “Fear! It is he who should fear me. I put him on the throne, but the young puppy ignores my experience and insults me with this feeble charade.”

“Edward is the king, my lord,” Richard said quietly. “He has not acted gracefully, but there is nothing any of us can do about that. He wears the crown and is our sovereign lord.”

Warwick stiffened, and Richard steeled himself for a roiling. Instead, the earl accepted the reasoned response with one of his own: “Certes, you are right.” His anger abating as quickly as it had arisen, Warwick appraised the young duke, liking his thoughtfulness and admiring his composure. “If I may say so, my dear Gloucester, you would make a far better king than your brother—as would the heir presumptive, Clarence. In fact, he and I spoke of Edward’s faults during our time together this summer hosting the French ambassadors. He, too, sees the wisdom of siding with France and eschewing the Lancaster-loving, self-interested Burgundy.”

Richard felt cold fear grip him. What was the earl insinuating, that Edward’s brothers might conspire to unthrone him? He blinked once or twice, but, not wanting to reveal his discomfort, he attempted a stoic stare. He could not wait to be dismissed.

Warwick quickly regretted his words and sought to diffuse the awkward silence. “Don’t look so serious, Richard. You know I was speaking in jest,” he said, gently grasping the youth’s shoulder. “You must be tired from your journey. Why not change out of your riding garb and join the countess and me for supper?”

“I thank you, my lord.” Richard bowed away from the unwelcome hand. “Until then.”

With a mixture of sorrow and unease, the earl watched his protégé leave the room. George might be easily swayed with the right incentives, but Richard was far more complex. What was more, Richard had integrity. He had to admire that, even if he could no longer count on the lad.

Richard was even more disturbed by a piece of information idly given by Isabel soon after his return.

“How long does it take to get to Rome from here?” she asked the Italian dance master, who was teaching the young apprentices the newest haute danse, which required the Neville daughters to participate. Richard observed that Isabel was in high spirits, her cheeks glowing, and her chattering excited. Anne was but a pale, mouse-like shadow beside her, although those, like Richard who knew her well, could see Isabel’s exuberance was trying the younger girl’s patience.

“La bella Madonna Isabella va a Roma?” Maestro Bassano enquired, lifting her lithe body off the floor for a beat of the music. “Perché? Why?”

“The Pope is there,” Isabel replied, landing like a feather. Seeing Richard watching her, she covered her indiscretion by laughing it off with a flippant, “Why does anyone want to go to Rome?”

As Richard circled Anne’s waist to emulate the movement so deftly executed by their teacher, his partner whispered: “My uncle, the archbishop, has sent a messenger to the Pope, and Isabel is certain ’tis about her and George. She is simply guessing,” she scoffed. As both girls grew older, Anne knew the time would soon come when they would be separated, and, despite occasionally squabbling with her older sister, she dreaded that time. “If the king has forbidden the marriage, Father would not disobey, would he? Isabel is being silly.”

But Richard did not think Isabel was silly at all. Was Warwick seeking dispensation? He decided he should pass on this tidbit to Edward, for what it was worth.