"Mistress Rosalba! You are to come at once."
A strange, disheveled man had rushed into the kitchen at St. Martin’s. He wore a filthy cloak, the kind that has seen better days on the back of a gentleman.
"Gather your medicine!"
How he'd come within the sacred precinct was anybody's guess. He grabbed my wrist and held up his token: Isabel of Castile's ancient ring.
In this unlikely garb came Richard's surrogate, from his mouth, the command. Although I did not know him, I certainly knew the ring. My heart skipped a beat,
Reaching beneath the table, pulse pounding, I seized the basket I had so carefully prepared. It was heavy, containing everything for which I could imagine a use.
"Who is this?" The cook stepped up, his enormous arms bare. "What do you want, Rags, here in my kitchen?" He hefted a meat chopper from the block.
"It's right, Master Clipsham. He comes from my Lord of Gloucester."
Unconvinced, Clipsham stood like a statue. How this garish beggar could belong to a lord was a monstrous puzzle. Ignoring him, I dropped the basket on the counter and swiftly checked the contents one last time. Bandages, clean wool, burnt wine, an expensive vial of poppy, powders that would break fever, honey, camphor and ground pepper.
Clipsham the cook stuck his blade into the greasy block with a chunk. The buzzing kitchen fell silent. Without another word, I picked up my basket and headed for the door. As the beggar held it open for me, quiet reigned.
Once beyond the sacred walls, in the rutted, muddy alley, he took the basket and swung it into a waiting cart. Then, taking my hand, he helped me step from the stairs to the wheel, and onward, into the seat. The waiting driver flipped his reins and the shaggy pony moved off with a jerk. Like a bundle of tossed garbage, the “beggar” flung himself in behind.
We trotted from St. Martin Le Grand straight to a river wharf, where the well-mannered beggar helped me down. A boat waited. Stepping aboard, we were rowed at a great rate, with the current, down river. Here, in the hazy summer light, I had a chance to study my companion.
He was tall and strong, saturnine and sensual, with full lips and large eyes, like a Frenchman, or that yet rarer kind of foreign beast—an Italian. On close inspection, his disarray smacked of art. I noticed that while his clothes were smoky, filthy and ripped, he did not have the foul, rotten cheese body smell of a genuine beggar.
Viewed from a distance, the Thames glinted magically. Up close, it was dark, muddy, and odorous. All manner of offal floated by, thickening as we rowed deeper into the city. On shore, the world went on, the cries of hawkers sounding as we sailed beneath bridges upon which shops crowded. Wagons, throngs of folk, curtained litters—the city pushed, shoved, and shouted from the banks. Slops came showering from a window overhanging the water, nearly landing in our boat.
In Yorkshire, the rivers were rapid and bright. They sang, merrily begging you to trail your fingers. Here, just looking into that syrupy darkness seemed to pose a threat. Digging in my pocket, I came up with a small sachet—rosemary, cloves, and scented geranium—which I held to my nose.
"Stinks today," observed the beggar. His phrase was colored by an unfamiliar accent.
"Yes. It is horrible."
He gave me a sly smile, which set off a distant tingle of alarm. What if he came—somehow—from George? If so, I would soon meet fate in those dirty depths, of that I had not the smallest doubt.
"You are from the north country?"
I nodded, kept my nose against the sachet. The stench around us grew as a bloated dead dog floated past.
"Pink cheeks do not come from this air." He waved a dirty paw, a strangely elegant gesture. I did not reply, just gripped the handle of my basket. We were approaching Southwark, the opposite side—the bad side—of the river. Here were the notorious stews and houses of ill-repute.
The boatman steered toward a dilapidated dock. I was beyond grateful to disembark. Handed to the wharf, basket in hand, I was glad to leave the narrow, rocking boat, and close confine with this queer person. Once on land, however, gazing at the buildings that leaned over the stale water, I had a moment of hesitation.
The sign of the house upon whose dock we landed dangled from a lopsided, sinking post, as off kilter as the neighborhood. Of flexible daub and wattle, the buildings seemed caught in the act of sliding down the bank. The advertisement showed a naked woman mounted upon a monstrous chimera, a cock's head upon the body of a horse. Ride a cock horse! Pagan fancy was not my first notion.
Plain enough what kind of establishment we were about to enter. I would not have taken a step further, if John A'Parr hadn't suddenly appeared, loping toward me, hands extended. His long pale face held, perhaps for the first time ever, a bright flush.
"This way! Hurry! The Duke awaits."
We entered by the river door, guarded by a familiar pair of men-at-arms. Inside, the place was occupied by others, all wearing Blanc Sanglier, the duke’s badge. There was no one else. A malefactor with branded cheek and a huge girth leaned sullenly upon the bar. His face was bleeding and raw-meat red. A blousy woman stepped up, made a trembling, submissive curtsy, and then asked, "Milord's midwife?"
I could feel the blood drain from my face, but John said, "Lead on!"
Ducking beneath a low doorway, I followed as she waddled along the curving, sagging corridor. The house had drifted so far out of plumb you couldn't see one end from the other.
Windows had been cut in the inside walls. The views were rooms of such squalor and disarray they would have shamed the meanest hut on Wenslydale.
We paused at a door, while the woman nervously fumbled with the latch. As it opened, a small candle appeared, held in a hand I knew was Richard’s. At once I scented the reek of a woman with the moon heavily upon her. Without so much as a by-your-leave, I rushed past him, gripping my basket.
There Anne sat, knees curled under her chin, upon a sheeted pallet. She and the bed were the only white things in the room. A fine cloak was wrapped around her, but she started as I appeared, and I saw she was stripped to her kirtle and her head was wrapped in a linen turban. Only her eyes, that incredible robin's egg blue, were exactly as I remembered.
"Rosalba!" Anne stretched out a piteous hand.
I dropped the basket and threw my arms around her. I could tell she was feverish, and the smell of blood strong. She began to weep against me and I could feel her narrow shoulders shaking.
The door closed. Richard was gone. Only the candle, placed in a wall sconce, remained.
I rocked Anne against me and let her cry. The Duke must have stayed with her, but she had waited to cry her heart out until she found my arms.
"My Lord has you safe at last." What a blaze of feeling! Joy at finding her alive, joy at holding my sweet friend! At the same time, a spinning, shrinking figure that was my Dickon went whirling away from me forever. "You are safe now, Milady! Safe!"
Anne cried as if she would never stop. I rocked her, remembering the croup, when I'd been a green ten-year-old, mothering a sickly noble child. While she soaked my shoulder with tears and snot, I kept repeating that she was safe, that I would never leave her again. At last, she quieted a little.
"Are you injured, Milady?" I was weeping myself. "Have they—they—abused you?"
I prayed the question would not start those sobs again, but I had to know. There were medicines she must have, and quickly, if those vermin had dared to so insult my precious Lady!
She understood what I was asking. That she did not at once answer, but only began that hopeless weeping made my blood run cold.
"You are safe." I retreated to that, stroking her poor shuddering back, "Safe—safe—safe."
"I will never be safe." Anne’s voice was low and desperate. "For when I sleep—oh, dearest friend! Of what shall I dream?” When she had calmed a little, I got a valerian tincture mixed with brandy into her. There was a good supply of bandage, so, as soon as she'd swallowed her medicine, we discarded the bloody rags and fixed on new. She would feel a little better simply by being cleaner.
Ready now, I opened the door. Richard was there, standing like a black statue. He came in and settled the cloak once more around Anne's thin shoulders. Like a parent dressing a child, he tied the cord beneath her chin. She stood, accepting his service, face glazed with tears, eyes lowered. I could feel her humiliation rise like a fog.
Richard did not address her. He did not even seem to be seeing her, but, like a good servant, he did what was needed, then picked her up. One bare white arm encircled his shoulder and she hid her face against his chest.
In a curtained litter, the duke conveyed my mistress to the sanctuary at St. Martin Le Grand. Although the nuns were shocked by my decision, as soon as hot water in quantity could be produced, I bathed her, sitting her in a wooden laundry tub lined with sheets. From my basket, I retrieved rose petals, geranium, powdered thyme and lavender. After steeping, as if for tea, I added this to the tub.
Once I had her comfortable, I washed the remains of her glorious hair, now short as a boy's, in Spanish soap. She told me it had been cut and sold to a wig maker the day she'd been taken to the Cock Horse.
Last, I wrapped her in dry sheeting, and, sitting where the sun came in, I cleaned her head of lice. Her fair skin was almost blue-white. Her ribs rose so you could count them. And, the pain in her eyes—I could hardly bear it! My sweet Anne looked even more ill and frail than the summer she'd caught the French flux.
A few days later, squatting on the pot, sobbing, near to fainting, she gushed blood and clots. She said she’d never bled once in the four months since her abduction. Outside, in a hidden spot in the garden, I crouched over what she'd passed, using a twig to search, looking for the tailed creature, first sign of life. As it was my duty to care for her, I must know the truth, no matter how abhorrent.
If well formed, the miscarriage I suspected would be noble—last of the doomed House of Lancaster. Or—and, even more terrible—if it was small and gilled, the get of some unspeakable vermin….
It was several days before I dared to question her. Before it was all nursing, keeping her clean of the incapacitating menses, feeding and dosing her, holding her in my arms so my strength could enter her frail body, watching as she slept.
"How was it the duke found you?"
"I don't know how he ever did," Anne finally replied, "for they kept moving me. First, I was in a kitchen at the house of a man who was a dependent of George's, where they set me to scrubbing pots. Then, they took to me to another house, and then to another. Each place was meaner. Last," she shuddered all over, "to that—that—tavern."
"How long do you think?"
"A week, maybe. I'm not certain because I was locked into that room and there was no window. They told me a man would come, that if I wanted to see the sun again, I must submit to whatever he desired." She covered her face with long hands while her shoulders rose and fell.
"Every time I heard feet coming down the hall, I was afraid, so afraid!" She buried her face in her hands and it was a time before she could continue. "Oh, Rose! If I live to be a hundred I will never forget. Never!" Her eyes, when she lifted her head, were lost in memory. As I watched, her eyelids closed, fair lashes settling against alabaster.
"Then one day, I heard coins clink just outside the door. I heard the key scrape. I could not move, just curled into the corner and prayed to be struck dead. The room was so dark at first I only saw a hand holding the candle. There were many rings and I thought, 'twas a gentleman, so, perhaps, if I asked for his help, and he would not insult me." She paused and I took it for a good sign that even after all that had happened, she still didn't seem to completely understand that gentlemen could be brutes as easily as the rest of mankind.
"He was all covered in a dark cloak, but when I saw his face, I could not believe it. I thought I had finally gone mad. He didn't say anything, just set the candle in the sconce. I could not move, I could not speak. I just sat on that awful bed, shaking and hugging my knees. He told me not to be afraid. He took off his cloak and covered me, and then went to the door to speak to someone. I heard him say to fetch you. That's when I believed he wouldn't harm me, that it was all George's doing, every bit." Suddenly, she was sobbing again. "Oh! Mary Mother of God! Protect my poor sister from that wicked man!"
Great Warwick's folly….
"'Tis a hard fortune to be born, and hardest of all to have been born a woman." I quoted my mother. Not only poor women like those who had birthed me, but this lady, her sister and her mother, blown from England to France and back again, hunted, condemned, tormented, for no fault of their own, but as a result of the pride, the wrath, and the greed of their men folk.
I thought of Isabel, like to die upon that ship, of the dead baby we'd dropped into the waves. I thought of the Countess, trapped in sanctuary at Beaulieu, while the victorious king and his brothers quarreled over the spoil, as if the Countess of Warwick, an heiress in her own right, had died alongside her husband.
I wondered, as I held Anne, what else she and the Duke of Gloucester had said to each other. Perhaps nothing, in such a sink of shame.
Richard sent messages daily, but until many weeks passed, Anne would not see him. She had a hundred reasons. First, she was too ill. Next, she said she was mortified to her soul by the wretched state in which he, her noble cousin, had found her. Then, she said she was such a fool to have believed George when he'd claimed to be sending her to the king. She could not bear to face Richard, now that he’d seen her folly and weak-mindedness. Last of all, she told me the truth, which was she feared what he must imagine.
"I have been Edward's wife and thereby broke the promise I made to the Duke of Gloucester. But, dear Rose, please believe me, those blackguards did not befoul me. If they had—if they had—I would have asked him, my kinsman and cousin, to drive his dagger into my heart—and, then—then—if he refused to end my dishonor—I would have begged you for the same mercy."
I began to believe her. She passed no sign of life. Except for bruises and sickness, she bore no other marks of violence. She had been terrorized, oh, yes, but the kingmaker's daughter would have resisted rape tooth and nail, and in consequence would have received terrible injuries.
I think the moon saved her, coming when it did. Fear, and her lack of flesh, might have continued to deprive her of the flow, but she was so overdue—six months—that it had broken through at last. Fortunately, there is a deep repulsion in most men for a woman flooding in blood.
If she was not able to speak to Richard, I was. Anne did not forbid me, and so I related each of these excuses and what little else I was able to learn. He was all business, Master to servant, but, sometimes, when he was close, I'd catch the scent of him, and feel a stab of yearning. There would be an ache, a desperate longing, but I'd force it away.
We were done.
I had my lady to care for. She needed my help, my undivided attention, my perfect loyalty, and she would have it.
* * *
In every house, Anne had been told it was "King Edward's Pleasure," that she "entirely disappear." At the Cock Horse, they suggested she must do more to earn her keep. They had introduced her to the sights of the house, just as they would any girl they'd picked up on the streets.
Richard asked but once about what had happened to his cousin in that terrible place, and when I did not answer, saying only that I did not know—which was the truth at the time—he never spoke of it again. His face hardened; his eyes froze. I knew he would make them pay.
Hugh told me, many months later, that he and some other picked men had burnt the tavern to the ground. Further, they were ordered to "cut the throat of every rat which runs out." Even common folk who had frequented that house were tracked and put to silence. Vengeance was also visited upon certain men belonging to Clarence, those believed to be directly culpable.
No civil authority remarked upon these events. Neither did George of Clarence.
"Clarence is faithless to his own blood." Hugh asserted. "Why should he bother keeping faith with those who merely do his bidding?"
As for me, I wasted no pity on any who had bullied and terrorized my poor, innocent lady. A knife across the throat was, indeed, too easy an end for such abominable creatures.
At last, Anne did tell me a little. She spoke of her brief servant's life, of how hard the work was and how they'd mocked her with "useless" and "stupid," how they’d struck her and laughed. Then had come the finality of the Cock Horse. Here, she'd been taken to peepholes to watch loutish patrons, lunging and grunting between fat, quivering thighs. The heavy bleeding she'd started had embarrassed her, but the onset perhaps spared her an immediate introduction to a customer of the kind who would pay well to brutalize a lady.
Within the holy precincts of St. Martin, sounding only of bells, birds and chants, she became calm again, but I knew it would be a long time before I heard my little lady laugh. As she recovered, we followed the nuns on their daily round of prayers, the exception being those two sung in the dead of night. Anne was of a mind to attend these as well, but I put my foot down, saying she needed to be asleep more than she needed to pray.
Spooned against me, she did sleep, too, with an ever-lessening supply of bad dreams. Having me with her, the way it had been, skin to skin, was a better charm than any sleeping draught I could make.
As for her slain husband, Prince-Chop-Off-Their-Heads, she did not speak of him. I comforted her, but in my heart of hearts, I was heartily glad he was gone.
Meanwhile, the news from court, which came to me through A'Parr, was that George continued to wrangle with Richard over Anne, and that he continued to demand the whole of the combined Neville and Beauchamp lands as Isabel's right.
"He says my Lord of Gloucester may have his lady sister-in-law, but he and his wife agree, they shall part no lyvelode."
Richard argued he had served the king faithfully and that half of the great spoil should to be his. Gloucester intended to have Anne and he intended to have her inheritance, too.
Never mind that both dukes were in the wrong. The Beauchamp lands belonged to the Countess, who was still very much alive down at Beaulieu. King Edward, however, soon devised a way around that problem. His new parliament was instructed to simply declare the Countess of Warwick officially “dead.”
After robbing the mother, those great tracts of land could be split more or less evenly between Isabel and Anne, and, of course, their respective husbands. King Edward, wanting only to keep George quiet, was no help at all to his loyal brother. At his Court the Woodvilles reigned supreme, even more thrust forward than before Warwick's rebellion. You would think our handsome king might have learned something on that score, however, while in sanctuary at Westminster, his queen had at last given birth to a son, the longed for male heir of the House of York. Elizabeth Woodville’s star had risen high.
Once home in London, with a sturdy new son, the king returned to his old pleasures. He chased the wives of burghers, hunted and feasted, all while handing over titles, royal wards and treasure to his wife's relatives. There were plenty of them, too. The queen had four brothers, two sons by her first marriage and seven sisters, and all needing to be matched with the first peers of the land. Perhaps the King thought by this to create a power in the kingdom to use against his dangerous noble cousins, a counter power that was loyal to him alone.
* * *
"It was horrible to have him see me like that." Anne repeated it again and again. "Blubbering like a baby, naked to my shift, in that low, filthy place."
We had been in St. Martin's for almost five weeks. She sat beside a pool in the courtyard, studying her reflection as it floated above the pond fish. Pale and languid, carp lifted their round mouths and nibbled the surface of the water, hoping this visitor might have a treat. Anne obliged, scattering crumbs.
The fish took them. Above our heads, bells stirred, sending a blur of notes into the breeze. It was clear who "him" was, so I simply nodded.
"The duke would like to see you, all the same."
"It is hard." She set her jaw in a way which reminded me of her mother. "So many terrible deeds now lie between us."
"Nothing can be undone, My Lady, so it must be water under the bridge."
Truth to tell, I was weary of St. Martin Le Grand, of the nuns and their prayers, of the sameness of every day walled about, first by the confines of the church, and, beyond, by the dirty city. This could end but one way—with the two of them married and home to Middleham.
Richard wanted it. Anne—if she could just see clear—wanted it, too. I, though of no importance at all, would have sold my soul to see home again.
Oh, to be back on the dales, to smell fresh air, to feel the bracing wind, hard and strong as boar's bristle, scouring us clean of the ugly past! For my part, I was foolish enough to imagine things would return to a semblance of earlier, happier times.
With a finger, Anne skimmed the surface of the greenish water, pushing crumbs here and there. The fish followed, their great eyes and broad fins swiveling.
"Do you know when he will visit again?"
"The duke said tomorrow afternoon, Milady."
After another moment's consideration, Anne turned her big blue eyes toward me.
"Let the duke know I will speak with him."
"At once, My Lady!"
It was the end of her self-imposed exile. She'd been pushed by everyone, by her beloved parents, treated as a despised necessity and then as a bedroom toy by the fickle prince, and, finally, cast into the pit by George. Even Isabel had abandoned her, not offering Anne protection or forewarning of what Clarence had planned.
Richard and I were the only two constants. Of course—terrible to remember—we, too, had betrayed her, but this could not be undone, so it must be forgotten.
Richard, alone in her world, had not demanded, had not forced. He had rescued, placed her in sanctuary and waited politely. Even if his motives were not unmixed, patience was the honorable course. I gave him credit for respecting her fears, but, in truth, my lady had nowhere else to go—except to a nunnery! The duke, however, was sufficiently tender of my lady's feelings to present himself as a suitor.
* * *
I settled a plain cap over her short hair and covered it with a linen gorget. Over this we placed a long veil, which hid her face when she looked down. I’d tried to persuade her into a blue dress from the trunk I'd packed that fateful spring day, the day intended to be the end of us both, but Anne would not have it. She donned the Lancastrian black slashed with red, the dress she'd worn at Tewkesbury.
"He wants to see you," I said, impatiently shifting the veil. "You look like a widow about to take holy orders."
She fixed me with those blue eyes and lifted her chin.
"It is a choice I yet may make, Rosalba."
"Rubbish," I muttered under my breath, drawing the veil back over her shoulders to make hiding behind it more difficult.
"I will wear this, or I will not see the duke at all." She tugged the veil impatiently out of my hand. Confronted by her haughtiest manner, I knew I had better hold my tongue.
Let her have her way. I'd leave it to Richard. He understood women well enough!
Still, it was hard to stay out of things entirely. I picked up a small nosegay of herbs and late blossoms which I'd fashioned and offered it.
"What is this?" Anne gazed down her long nose at my pretty handiwork, her expression as disdainful as if I were presenting her with something lifted from the chamber pot.
"I thought you might like to carry something sweet alongside your prayer book. The Duke of Gloucester has done you no harm, after all."
"Only killed my husband! Rosalba, many men say this, not only the Duke of Clarence."
"Men say?" I was quite out of patience. "Men say? Whose men? In which kitchen full of the Duke of Clarence's dependents did you hear it? You, Milady, owe the Duke of Gloucester your very life—and—and—he is still exactly who he was at Middleham—our very own Dickon!"
And, by the Black Virgin, so much more….
Unable to bear the memory—his kisses, his words, his wanting—I slapped the nosegay on the table, bobbed, and left the room.
Once in the gallery I spied him, a quick stride carrying him through the yellow and brown of an autumnal garden. Grasping my rosary to steady myself, I watched him approach. The Duke of Gloucester was elegant and somber today as well, in a knee-length black tunic with slashed burgundy sleeves and a hat with a badge jewel at the brim. His dark hair was shoulder length, a handsome frame for a thin face. No servant accompanied him, at least, none close enough to see.
Early and anxious bodes well!
Swallowing hard, I dropped a far deeper curtsy than the one I had just offered Anne.
"Your Grace! Milady will receive you."
"I have been looking forward to this moment since your message."
"Come into the gallery, Your Grace." There was a breezy length to walk, a view of the garden, and benches to rest upon beneath the ornamental arches.
As I walked along the gallery, heading to My Lady's room, I began to worry about quarreling with her so near the time of his arrival. What if she now refused to see him?
As I approached, however, Anne came through the door. She wore the veil, yes, but she had not waited to be called. Turning in her long fingers was my nosegay.
They bowed and curtsied, a formal greeting full of titles. Then, my most royal loves walked to and fro within the gallery, books of hours in their hands. The sun obligingly shone, and the cloister garden glowed like a many-faceted jewel. Golden leaves drifted past. As if it were still high summer, birds caroled in the windless warmth of the afternoon.
Richard did not touch her, even kiss her hand, which was wise, I think. Following at a discreet distance, I could not hear what they said. Although there were many long pauses, and, on her side, a few tears, these did not signal an end to the interview.
Anne's expression was solemn. I knew she was asking hard questions. Even though this would not assist a quick return to Middleham, I was proud of her. When she lifted her handkerchief, I told myself that this must be for her father. I could not bear to think of the prince, for thinking of him made me jealous, even though I now had pity for his wretched end.
Anne asked; Richard made spare answers. The intervals, I noted, were not on his side. They walked the square of the gallery around and around while I trailed in their footsteps.
In the garden, nuns in black robes and three servants in simple doublet and hose, labored to trim and weed the flowerbeds, now mostly marigolds. Orisons rose and fell from a side chantry as Mass was sung for some departed (and well-to-do) soul.
Finally, Anne paused. I, too, came to a halt. A swallow's mud nest filled the hollow of a stone trefoil. The last fledglings, with their tan throats, had come out to perch and exercise their wings. The fond parents hustled back and forth bringing bugs to stuff into those comic, eternally gaping, yellow-lined gullets. It was a tender show, beautiful blue-black feathers, swift flight and sweet cries of encouragement to their young. Such faithfulness to their duty! I confess to spending lazy moments every day watching these paragons, so hard at work raising their brood.
When I glanced back, I saw Anne offer Richard my little nosegay. She'd twisted it this way and that during their long tête-à-tête. Solemnly, he stood at attention while she pulled a pin from her dress and secured it to his shoulder. There was a momentary pang, but I swiftly buried it with an avalanche of common sense.
This is your way home.
Time for a kiss! Richard bowed over her white hand, today the graceful, trim image of a courtier. A brush of his lips followed, and a long, silent moment in which they held hands and gazed into each other's eyes. Gently a bell began to toll, signaling it was time to pray, to recite the Parvum Beatae Mariae Virginis in the chapel. In they went, most formally together.
After prayers, he departed. Nothing in his movement betrayed the emotion he certainly felt. The sight of his imperfection as he walked away returned the past. A small stubborn boy beaten almost to death at that mock tourney, and later, working his broken body relentlessly through the pain, walking up and down a thousand stairs at the castle, carrying trays heavy with golden service, lugging plate for the knights he tended. Never a whimper, never an excuse!
Master Grey and Mistress Ash had helped heal Richard, true, but if he had not worked, had not willed it, he would never have made such a recovery. I'd seen him now in full armor at Tewkesbury, covered in sweat, dirt and the blood of his enemies. I'd lain in those arms, muscle braided with steel. An ugly raised scar atop the high shoulder was all that remained his near fatal childhood injury.
Lady Anne stood quite still, watching his soldierly figure disappear into the shadows beneath the farthest arch. The dark veil fell around her shoulders. Poor little widow!
I approached, sensing stillness. After all she had suffered, she was as easily startled as a deer, but somehow I knew that what I desired—what the duke desired—had begun.
Life would return to the predestined path. Richard and Anne would marry and go home to Middleham.
I dropped a deep curtsy to her, but did not speak. Water was rising in the well. It would only take time to fill.
* * *
Thoughtfully her long fingers stroked the lute strings, releasing delicate chords, rainbows of harmony. She was dreaming. I knew the way of it, pretending to gaze at the strings, but actually examining her heart. Winding wool, I listened, heard phrases of songs I knew, songs Anne had once played because her Dickon loved them. As fate would have it, these had become the self-same songs she'd played at Prince Edward's request.
At first, her husband had asked for these sweet laments because he knew quite well they were for another. He'd wanted to cause her pain, but he’d changed. Gradually, they’d become Edward's songs, as well.
Two young men—one alive, one dead—I could almost see their shadows on either side of her. Memories were in those songs, many I could not share. As so often these days, I tasted bitterness. Anne and Richard! They were still so much of my world, but all the time I was less and less of theirs.
I remembered Hugh's taunt, that I was "old to still be so much in love with a mistress." Like a thorn which drives deep, his words festered.
* * *
The next visit they arranged to confess and hear Mass together. This they did at dawn, attending the chant of Prime. In court clothes and jewels, they walked hand in hand into the dark maw of St. Martin's with its hundreds of flickering votives, heavy incense, and glowing stained glass. Pale of face and hollow-eyed, they were a pair of royal penitents.
After, they broke their fast with solemn ceremony at a table specially laid in My Lady's receiving room and served by the duke's servants. They hardly spoke. Outside it was gray and cold, an echo of the mood. They did, however, exchange a three-fold cousin's kiss at parting, so I was encouraged.
Anne was quiet after he’d gone, but she seemed easier, as if some test had just been passed. She sat with lute in her lap, softly strumming, facing the gray rain.
A few weeks later, after Mass on the feast of Saint Michael, they sat beneath a little tree which was now shedding leaves. There was a carpet beneath their feet, and they drank wine and ate soft cheese and tart slices of late pears. We were in luck with another warm day, although autumn had deepened. I’d found treasure in the very bottom of a chest Duchess Isabel had belatedly sent. Without asking, I brought it forward.
"An excellent idea, Rose!" Richard's face brightened when he saw what I carried. Anne was surprised. When she recognized the small carved box, she shifted her gaze to me, suddenly anxious. She did not protest, however, so I beckoned to a servant and together we tidied their table. Then, between them, I unrolled a painted leather scroll of black and white checks and opened the carved wooden box which held the ivory and ebony chessmen.
"Do you still play to keep your horses, Lady Anne?" Richard flashed a smile.
A glow entered my lady’s cheeks. I saw her eyes soften.
"You will just have to find out, my Lord of Gloucester." Anne was as cool as those sanctuary fish.
At their request, I took pawns, one of each, and, hands behind my back, traded them. Then, fists over the board, I invited them to choose their color, just as we had done long ago. A jeweled index finger tapped my freckled fist. I opened my hand, so he could have the piece.
His skin and hers, so alike! So fair, so fine, while mine, mine….
* * *
Hugh stood by one of the gray arches, between the choir and the garden, a brown felt cap clutched in one broad hand. Anne leaned close to whisper, "Rose has a suitor."
I forced a smile in return and inwardly groaned.
"Go speak to him."
"I will with you to Compline."
"No. You will stay and speak to Master Fletcher."
"I am—am—afraid. Master Fletcher and I have quarreled."
"You are quite safe here. Besides, Rose, you are not afraid of anyone."
She left me, her rosary looped elegantly over one hand, veil floating behind her. Her sorrows, it was clear, were slipping into the past.
Mine, I thought with sudden insight, have just begun.
"Mistress Rosalba." Hugh bowed politely. His ruddy fair person looked well in blue and murray.
I folded my hands against my bosom, as my mother used to do before an unpleasant interview with Master Whitby. Remembering our last meeting in the garden at Crosby's Place, I couldn't imagine what brought him here. Had he come to shame me again? If so, it was just as well Anne had left the scene.
Well, if he was formal, I could be, too. I curtsied and said, "As you see, Master Fletcher."
"I have come to make amends for our last—conversation."
I lifted my chin and replied, "No need, sir. Truth is always best."
"Yes. Truth is best, but I was—uncharitable." He caught my arm. "But a man may be excused for some anger in such a case, I believe."
"A man may be excused for almost anything." I was tart as I dared. He was strong and had already demonstrated his temper.
"So you women will have it." He parried my thrust.
The courtyard here was full of dried leaves. In one slate-paved corner, a thin, lightly clad charity child slowly swept. We passed him by, me walking briskly, as if I had some place to go. Hugh kept pace at my elbow.
"Come, Mistress Rose. Let us forgive and forget."
"I am not angry," I said, turning on him. "Nor will I be, as long as you never dare to lay a hand on me."
"I was a fool. Beating is no good way to rule a woman."
"To rule a woman is no good way!" I snapped back, now tried beyond measure.
At this, he was at last provoked sufficiently to seize my arms at the elbows and hold me so that I had to face him. I rested my hands on his broad chest, feeling the uselessness of resistance. His sere, gray eyes flashed beneath shaggy brows.
"God's Blood! I never crossed swords with a creature stouter.” He only studied me, although what was in his eyes was almost as bad as kissing. “Nor saw anything in skirts I liked better. Damn it, Rose! Say you forgive, for I have come on purpose to ask pardon. We shall begin anew. Do I not have some claim, at least, upon your friendship?"
He had saved me from death. He was close, warm and capable. Admiration flowed from him like heat from a banked fire. Desire equals flattery; herein lies its power. After the hot and thorough initiation I'd received, I was vulnerable.
"You are too familiar, sir." I glanced uneasily to where he gripped my arm.
"And I hope to be increasingly so. Now, come, sweet Rose, allow me the kiss of peace."
He bent to lightly brush his lips against my cheeks, one after the other. Astonished, I allowed it, not quite believing that he'd dared. As he did, his warm, hard belly pressed close; he smelled clean and fair.
"I give thanks for your forgiveness, Rose. But to speak frankly, I had hoped to be the man so honored."
I knew what he meant, of course, and that made me blush. Looking down, ashamed, I said, "Certes, it was a great folly, one which I do daily regret."
"We shall no more speak of it." Hugh spoke in a firm, almost fatherly tone. "Now that we are friends again, I shall keep you no longer from your prayers."
* * *
"Hush and follow!" Finger to my lips, smiling, just as I'd done with him long ago, I turned and began to walk. Richard, a smile of his own begun, obeyed. He signaled his servants to stay where they were.
It was cold now, the holy day of Saint Hugh. We'd gone to hear Mass, and now, within, my Lady played her lute, making music like the sweet caged bird she was. Her skill was not a thing she'd yet shared with the Duke of Gloucester, but I thought it high time.
She'd made excuses for not playing for him, prime being that a lady might know a few pretty songs, but it was not quite fitting to be as skilled as she'd become. These days my lady played the lute far better than many a fellow who earned his bread by the trade. I said I thought her music was quite extraordinary, but she’d only laughed and said it was "a wonder not to be much wondered at, as many hours as I've put to practice."
Richard had arrived today unannounced. Another piece of luck, I'd met him as he passed through the brittle, frost-edged garden.
"What is this, Rose?" He eyed me warily, as well he might, now alone with a woman whose veins still ran with the fire he'd started.
Wanting to tease him a little, I boldly caught his gloved hand and tugged him forward, into shadows and torchlight.
"Listen, My Lord!"
Within the cold leather glove there was a warm hand. He did as I asked, however, and at once his attention strayed from my impudence to the music. Anne’s sweet voice was as clear and pure as a cut boy's. The lute accompaniment was both elaborate and beautiful.
Lifting the latch to the outer door, I bowed him into our fireless antechamber. My lady sat in an alcove beyond, hidden by a tapestry. Great bellied, it held heat within the smaller space.
Shoot, false Love, I care not.
Spend thy shafts and spare not.
I fear not thy might
And less thy spite.
If thou canst, now shoot and harm me.
So lightly I esteem thee.
As a child I once deemed thee.
Long thy bow did fear me.
At last I do perceive
Thy art is to deceive,
And every simple lover
All thy falsehood can discover.
Then weep, Love, and cry sorry.
For thou hast lost all thy glory.
* * *
I watched as he went to the curtain. One hand upon it, his pale face turned to me, questioning, framed against his dark hair. It would, of course, have been utterly improper for an unattended lady to have a musician in her bedchamber anywhere, not only within the sacred precincts of St. Martin's! I suppose I was wicked to do this to him, but, somehow, it had become an irresistible notion.
How could he imagine anything but a highly-trained lute player beside her? Now that the words were past, Anne began to finger a fair embellishment. The sound danced like a sparkling waterfall.
Pretending I hadn't a notion of anything amiss, I indicated, with an encouraging gesture, that he should open the curtain. Richard’s lean jaw tightened as he reached, caught the fabric and then stepped inside.
Anne, deep in her music, was badly startled by his abrupt entrance, an effect I had not for an instant considered. She jumped up with a shriek. The lute struck the floor and sounded a noisy discord.
Fortunately for me, the perpetrator, there was carpet on the perennially cold stone flags, a recent gift of my Lord of Gloucester. The instrument, with its fat belly and long delicate neck, was not injured, though it did pop a cat-gut string.
"Saint Paul!"
Before my heart had time for another beat, Richard turned on me, Plantagenet temper up. “My Lord—I—I—only—wanted you to hear her play!"
"Of whom do you speak?" He did not shout, but—far worse—spoke with icy precision.
It was time to go to my knees, which I promptly did.
"Your Grace—um—to hear my Lady—Lady Anne—who—who—plays—so magically!"
There was a little pause and I heard a swish. This was Anne in her furred, many layered winter dress, bending for the lute. Holy Mother Bless her, for this led to Richard's turning to assist. Just the sparks from his eyes could have ignited the floor under my feet.
"Your pardon, dear Lady Cousin." Richard presented the lute with its dangling string.
"Never mind, Your Grace! I—I shouldn't have been so silly."
"My Lady—I didn't mean to frighten you! I only wanted—his Grace the Duke—to hear—"
"Rose," Anne interrupted, waving me to silence, the pale tips of her fingers emerging from hand warmers. "Go fetch something hot for my Lord of Gloucester."
"Yes, my Lady." Off the floor in an instant, I scampered for the door.
"Rose!"
So close to escape! Already I had a hand upon the cold iron latch.
"Your Grace?" I curtsied low, not daring to meet his eyes.
"Call my servants."
"Yes, my Lord." I was halfway to shutting the door when Anne had another thought.
"Rose!"
Another curtsey and My Lady instructed, clear and clipped, "Be certain you bring them directly. It would not seem well for me to be unattended." This last seemed a little strike at Richard, to let him know she'd witnessed his instant of suspicion. At last out the door, I trotted away, briskly, too, as you might imagine. Of course, I knew I was going to catch it, but emotion had not let me think clear.
Much mischief was set loose with this prank. In the moment Richard had swept back the curtain, I'd known he was wondering who he would find there. In the same moment, Anne, nerves still raw, had caught suspicion in his eyes.
I'd hurt Richard—yes! Made a bit of fool of him, too, but I'd also scared my understandably edgy mistress and hurt her feelings right along with his.
Why? I could see well enough all around the matter now, but what devil had prompted, had whispered there was no harm in my fooling? I slowed, needing time to get my wits about me. Besides, My Lord and Lady didn't really want me to hurry too fast. A few minutes, private, would right matters between them, of that I was certain.
When I came into my mistresses' chambers again, I arrived with the tail of the duke's attendants, hoping everyone would be occupied. Sure enough, they were encouraging the fire in the antechamber, setting out a table and chairs, arranging the refreshments the duke had brought in. There was wine and spice for mulling, baskets of nuts, apples and cheese. I slipped into the shadows, and remained unnoticed—for a few minutes.
As I'd hoped, Richard and Anne seemed well enough, even merry. Anne was explaining to John A'Parr why she had been shy of playing her lute in the duke's presence.
"I have been intending to surprise His Grace at Yuletide, but now Rosalba—"
"Has surprised me 'pon Saint Hugh's day, instead," said Richard. I noted how his dark eyes pried shadow to uncover me. I was in trouble with my Lord of Gloucester, and would stay that way.
Anne touched his glove, soothing him with the pale tips of her fingers. Her nails, of which we were taking great care, were lovely as ever.
"When we have refreshed ourselves, if you are willing, Cousin, I shall play again."
"I would be honored, Lady. What I just heard declares you have more than mastered the art."
There was a sizzle as a hot poker, heated in the fire, plunged into the mulling pot. A spicy, burnt smell filled the air. A bottle was already open and sat on the table between them. Richard took the glass offered by A'Parr and gazed at it, studying the red spark which shone within.
He took a sip, and then passed the glass to Anne. It was an honor, from a royal duke to an Earl's daughter; it was communion shared by a knight with his lady. Firelight flickered upon the tapestries behind them, causing the woven vines to appear to curl and twine.
Anne lowered her lashes demurely, took a slow sip, and then said, "I began to study the lute after you went to court, Cousin. Anthony Reed instructed me. Do you remember him?"
"Yes, very well. Poor Reed couldn't see his feet upon the floor, but his music—his music! He ever delighted my heart."
Anne was as good as her word, and later played again, most exceptionally. Richard claimed astonishment once more and appeared genuinely moved by her artistry. He seemed to understand the effort which she’d put into the accomplishment.
When they exchanged their cousin's kiss that afternoon, I saw how they lingered close, hands resting upon each other's shoulders, how they gazed into each other’s eyes.
He should not be so very angry with me, I thought, for I have brought him another step closer to his desire. But what of my own? My heart ached, loving them both so much, so hopelessly.
7