Authors: Sandra Worth
“My dearest, your fingers are like ice. I shall warm them for you.” Richard lifted them to his lips, kissed them tenderly and held them between both his hands. His heart twisted as he gazed at her. The special prayer that his confessor, Father Roby, had inserted into his Book of Hours from which he read his devotionals had made no difference… none at all. Thin and pale, Anne was so weak she had to be propped up in her throne with pillows. She had always been delicate as a flower, but now she was but a shadow of what she had once been. Richard could no longer fool himself. Anne was doomed. Crushed in spirit, always fragile in health, she would not survive much longer.
“Sire!” said a messenger.
Richard blinked. The man knelt before him. “I bring an urgent message from France, Sire.”
Richard waited.
“Our agents beyond the seas report that, notwithstanding the potency and splendour of your royal state, Henry Tudor will, without question, invade the kingdom this summer.”
After a pause, Richard said. “Nothing more desirable can befall me than to meet Tudor in the field at last.” The man withdrew.
“Is that true?” asked Anne quietly.
“Waiting has never been my strength, my sweet. The sooner he comes, the better for me.”
Anne felt a chill and drew her fur mantle closer. Richard was in no condition to defend his kingdom. He was pale, haggard, more careworn than she had ever known him. He barely slept anymore. She knew, because she feigned sleep for his sake, and he feigned it for hers, but as soon as he thought her asleep, he rose to kneel in prayer, or sit at the window and stare up at the heavens. She bit her lip. If he met Tudor in his condition, there might well be disaster. And Tudor, shrewd, ruthless, and cunning as he was said to be, no doubt knew that. Margaret Beaufort’s son would be one who could smell his quarry’s blood even from across the seas. She closed her eyes and raised a hand to her head. She felt suddenly dizzy.
“Anne!” cried Richard.
“’Tis nothing, my love, merely a passing faint,” she managed. Looking at him, she remembered that blessed time when news arrived that Edward, only weeks before his death, had granted Richard the county palatine of Cumberland, making him virtually a sovereign prince independent of England. They had come so close to taking a far different path in life. So very close. But that dream had been spun of gossamer, shimmery and beautiful, and too frail to bear the burden of reality.
Anne’s face had acquired a poignant, sorrowful look, and in an effort to distract her, Richard said, “Your gown is magnificent, dear Anne.” In conversation there was a mindless solidity that kept dread thoughts at bay. “But why is it that Elizabeth wears the same?” He frowned in his niece’s direction.
“Because I care for her,” replied Anne. “And because she is eighteen and reminds me of myself when I was that age, and in love.” Softly, she said, “Richard, will you not dance with her?”
Richard’s eyes met hers. For a long time they held each other. Slowly, Richard transferred his gaze to his brother’s daughter. She was conversing with Humphrey Stafford as she strolled gracefully along on his arm, turning heads as she went. She wore no headdress except a circlet of crystals and pearls, and her long golden hair shone like sunlight in the glow of the torches. She looked startlingly beautiful. Anne was right; there was a resemblance between them. He heard Elizabeth laugh, a clear sound that evoked the ringing of bells. The past stirred in his heart and Anne’s image flashed into his mind’s eye, as she had been at his brother George’s house, beneath the starry sky, by the river’s dark edge. He gripped the side-arms of his throne and willed the memories away.
“Richard, what is it?” Anne whispered. He had blanched and his arm had jerked suddenly. When he turned his face to her, his grey eyes were filled with raw pain. “Nay, my lord,” Anne cried softly, reading his thoughts. She clutched his sleeve. “’Tis God’s will, Richard. Look not to the past, but to the future. ’Tis no use to dwell on what we cannot change… Dance with her, my dearest.”
Like a man in a trance, Richard rose to his feet, gave Anne a small bow, turned and went down the steps. Music floated to him from the minstrel’s gallery, but it seemed very far away. Someone asked him a question, which he neither absorbed nor would have answered if he had. As he walked past his guests, faces stared at him strangely; they blurred, faded away, were replaced by different faces. Directly ahead stood a familiar figure in a brilliant silver and violet robe that might have been Anne years ago. He went up to her and inclined his head. She blushed, sank into a deep curtsy. He offered his hand and she took it. He noted without emotion that her hand was soft as a flower petal. As Anne’s had once been.
The minstrels broke into a lilting pavane. He led her to the dance floor. Trusty Lord Howard and his son, Thomas, fell in behind him with their ladies. Others followed: Rob, Jack, Ratcliffe, Brackenbury, Conyers, Catesby, the Lords Scrope of Bolton and of Masham, Francis, Greystoke, and the two Harrington brothers who were Knights of the Body. All his loyal, faithful friends, closing ranks behind him. The line moved up and down in rhythm to the melody; they turned, they twirled, they changed partners, and returned again. Ahead of him, Anne smiled at him; to the side, Elizabeth smiled at him. Violet and silver dress; gold hair and violet eyes; pointed chins and rosebud lips. Anne, as she had once been.
Silver-haired John Howard slapped his thigh and gave a roar of merriment, and such a joyous roar it was that it penetrated to Richard through the fog around him. He became aware of people. They were murmuring; stealing hostile glances at him and Elizabeth. He didn’t care. What did it matter? Nothing mattered anymore.
~ * ~
Margaret Beaufort stood with her husband, Lord Stanley, Lord Stanley’s son, George, and their henchman Reginald Bray. They watched carefully from the side of the room, as they had the previous Christmas. “What do you make of this spectacle?” inquired Margaret Beaufort with a raised eyebrow.
“We’re about to have a new queen,” Lord Stanley grunted. “He has dressed them the same to bring them to our attention. What else could be meant by it?”
“Indeed, Father, I believe you’re right. Elizabeth of York will take Anne’s place as his queen—and soon, I wager,” said his son.
Margaret Beaufort glanced around the room at the faces of the prelates and the nobles watching the King dance with Elizabeth of York. “So think they all.”
George Stanley bent his head, dropped his voice to a whisper. “I wonder, does he mean to do away with his queen in order to marry Elizabeth the sooner, and so thwart our Henry’s plans?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Margaret Beaufort hissed. “He may be poisoning her already. See how she looks. Like a skeleton in a coffin.” She locked eyes with Bray who edged close, lowered his ear to her lips. “If she dies before my Henry can marry Elizabeth, it would foil our plans. We must crush this idea of his.”
“By what means, m’lady?” whispered Bray.
“The trusted, tried, and true methods which we devised two years ago and which are exacting such a toll on our dear Richard.” She smiled suddenly and her eyes glittered. “Placards,” she hissed softly.
~ * ~
From the opposite side of the hall, the Countess’ gaze moved between Anne, Richard, and Elizabeth, and back again. She left the Scropes and Richard’s sister, Liza, with whom she had been conversing, and took the steps of the dais to her daughter’s side. “I fear it was not a good idea. There are murmurings about you and Elizabeth wearing similar dress. People are thinking the worst, dear child,” she said heavily.
“People always do, Mother.”
The Countess turned her gaze on the old sea-dog Howard shaking a merry leg and twirling his lady under his plump arm like a ribald youth, then at Richard, moving mechanically with Elizabeth. “Why can’t they see the truth?… That some dance to remember… and some to forget.”
Anne coughed, laboured for breath. Tears stung the Countess’ grey-green eyes. “My dear one, what will I—will he—do without you?”
“He will carry on, Mother… with Elizabeth. Where there is love, life can begin again.”
The Countess took her daughter’s hand tightly in both of her own.
“Now smile, Mother. The eyes are watching.”
The Countess forced her trembling lips to curve, tears blinding her vision.
~ * ~
Chapter 20
“O my soul, be comforted!”
In the dull greyness of the February dawn, Richard left his chambers and strode down the back staircase that connected to Anne’s rooms. They slept separately now. The doctors had forbidden him to share her bed since January when she began coughing up blood. She was contagious, they said, and it was vital he keep his distance. He bowed his head, stepped through the arched entry into the side passageway that led to Anne’s chambers, and encountered the Countess, leaving. “How is she?” Richard’s heart did not beat as he waited for her answer. The Countess was silent for a moment, gazing at him with red-rimmed eyes. Sounds of coughing filtered from Anne’s room. “She has not long, my lord.”
Richard smashed his fist into the stone wall.
The Countess placed a gentle hand on his sleeve. “’Tis the will of God.”
“No—!” he moaned, sagging into the wall. He turned bloodshot eyes on her. “Why is He doing this? Was Ned not enough for Him? What is enough for Him?”
“Hush, my lord! Don’t let them hear you speak thus. You must not rail against God, my lord. Even a king must bow to His will.” She glanced along the hall to the antechamber milling with servants, physicians, monks, and ladies-in-waiting. With an arm around his shoulders, she guided him in the opposite direction into a small room off the passageway. Two maidens sat in the window seat, chatting. Startled to their feet, they bobbed a curtsy and fled, their shock at Richard’s condition evident on their faces.
Leaning on the Countess, Richard made his way to the window seat. “My lord,” the Countess said, “’tis best you not see Anne until you are better yourself. She worries about you; all her thoughts are for you. It would break her heart to see you thus.” Richard looked up at her pitifully. The Countess sank down beside him and took his hand into her own, tears rolling down her cheeks.
~ * ~
It was not until later in the day, after dealing with a host of problems with his council, that Richard felt composed enough to visit Anne. He paused at the door, forced a smile on his face, and entered. The bed hangings of silver brocade were pulled back and tied with ropes, and the sun, which had broken through the clouds, slanted into the room from the windows that stood cracked open for air. Dressed in a dark chemise and covered by a grey velvet coverlet embroidered with tiny silver roses, Anne lay propped up on white silk pillows, her arms stretched out woodenly at her sides. Elizabeth was with her, playing chess on the bed, and her pale gold hair and dress of emerald silk brightened the room as vividly as any of the jewel-coloured tapestries that hung on the stone walls.
“The knight,” Anne whispered.
Elizabeth moved the knight. “Very clever, my lady. Now let me see how I can salvage myself—” Thoughtfully, she cupped her chin in her hand and examined the board.
Richard’s heart filled with gratitude to Elizabeth.
Anne glanced up, caught sight of him at the door. “My dearest lord!” she cried with delight. She tried to rise, fell back, choked by a fit of coughing. Then she gagged. Elizabeth leapt to her feet, grabbed a silver basin, and held it to her mouth. The room filled with the stench of vomit. She smoothed Anne’s damp hair, helped her lay back against the pillows.
Richard strode to Anne’s side, snatched a damp towel from an approaching maidservant. “I’ll do it,” he barked. The woman bowed her head, stepped aside. He dabbed the gilt-edged cloth to Anne’s mouth, and winced as he wiped away blood. He accepted a clay cup from a monk. The foul-smelling liquid, thick as oil, offended his nostrils. “What is it?”
“A tincture of bitter aloe, black poppy juice, and bethony, Sire. Good for bleeding and cough, and to ease pain and procure sleep.” Richard slid his arm behind Anne’s shoulders and supported her while he tilted the cup to her lips. She was so weak, she could barely swallow. Much of the foul liquid slid out from between her teeth and dribbled down the side of her mouth. She pushed the cup away, seized by another coughing spell. He handed it to the monk and gently wiped her mouth. Anne laid her head against his shoulder. “Is it bad today, my love?” he asked. From the corner of his eye, he saw Elizabeth leave. The servants followed and the Countess, the last to go, shut the oak door behind her, leaving them alone.
“Not now… when you’re here, Richard,” breathed Anne. “I always feel better when you’re here, my love.” He sat down on the bed, stretched out beside her. He tightened his hold of her.
The doctors be damned
, he thought. He took Anne’s small white hand into his own and rested his cheek against her brow.
Anne said haltingly, “How goes it, Richard… with Tudor, I mean?”
Richard tensed. “No news.”
“But there is trouble… isn’t there?” Anne insisted.
His gaze went to the window. The rippling blue Thames flowed past, dotted with colourful barges and masted ships. It was by sea that Tudor would come. All he needed was a fair wind. “There’s always trouble in the realm, but nothing that need worry your sweet head.” He kissed the top of her brow and stroked her hair.
“Richard, it worries me… far more… when you… keep things from me.”
“Truly, ’tis nothing, little bird…” His eye rested on John’s old hound, Roland, asleep in the corner, “merely the memories, which seem weightier today. Maybe because it’ll soon be spring.”
Spring
. He bit at his lip. Once there had been joy in the spring. No use looking back.
In last year’s nest there are no eggs
. John smiled down at him against the backdrop of a vast sky, the wind whipping his hair. He blinked. “I find myself thinking of your uncle John a great deal lately,” he managed over the tightness in his throat. Looking back was dangerous, he reminded himself. He mustn’t look back. He couldn’t go forward if he looked back.