Royal Mistress (24 page)

Edward’s eyes were closing. It had been a long day, and he never slept more easily than after he had been pleasured. “Aye, I believe Dickon loves her. But I warrant he will never love anyone as much as he did his Kate.” He yawned. Then his eyes flew open. “By Christ’s nails! That is who you remind me of, Jane. Kate Haute, Dickon’s first love.” That amber-eyed beauty with a voice like an angel. Edward would have taken her to bed the first time he had seen her but for the respect he had for his loyal youngest brother.

Jane was curious now: this was the second time she had been compared to Richard of Gloucester’s paramour. How can I meet this woman? she wondered, sleepily. Deciding she would find out more about Kate Haute soon, she snuggled down into Edward’s embrace, delighting in the sensation of skin against skin as they lay together. Before slipping into sleep, she sent a prayer to St. Elizabeth to watch over them that night.

Strangely, she dreamed about Will Hastings. It was a disturbing dream of running through dark rooms searching for her friend, and then in the gloom she saw the little towheaded boy from the Old Bailey kicking a football that was covered in blood. When she looked closer, she saw it was not a ball but a head.

Edward felt Jane’s distress and held her close. “ ’Tis naught but a bad dream, sweet Jane. Never fear, I shall always be here,” he murmured in her ear, and she calmed. He was surprised by the strength of his conviction that he was speaking the truth. He would always be there for her; he knew that now. Despite his devotion to his wife, it was this diminutive, carefree, and generous girl who had reawakened his jaded heart.

T
he bodies of Richard, duke of York, and his son Edmund, earl of Rutland, were transported from Pontefract to Fotheringhay in an elaborate catafalque pulled by seven horses followed by a mile-long train of mourners, the chief of these being Richard, duke of Gloucester. Behind him, also dressed all in black, rode earls, barons, knights, heralds, and squires, and as far as the eye could see marched four hundred yeomen, wearing black hoods and carrying torches. Ahead of the procession, a team of bishops had been sent to prepare the sanctuary at each night’s resting place. On the seventh day, the dead duke and his son, both killed at Wakefield’s battle on the last day of 1460, were greeted by the king, his queen, and his mother at the church of St. Mary at Fotheringhay, where the bodies were laid to rest on the thirtieth day of July under the newly renovated nave.

On the day following the burial, Edward had seated more than fifteen hundred people at a feast, which began at noon and lasted well into the long summer evening. Close to five thousand more were accommodated in canvas pavilions in the fields and received alms from the king, but no one was counting. Edward’s new prosperity was on show, and all prayed England was now well set upon a peaceful course.

“Well, my lady Mother, are you contented now?” Edward asked Duchess Cecily as they mingled with the guests. The king looked magnificent in purple with a baldric of gold thread affixed diagonally across his chest, holding jeweled brooches, fermails, and medals. A jeweled crown topped his gold-red hair. “I regret it took so long, but have I done right by my noble father and my brother?”

“My dear Edward, you do not need to seek my approbation,” Cecily replied. “You are the king and I am but your subject, and a haggish, tottering one at that.”

Edward’s burst of laughter caused those nearest to him to wonder what Proud Cis had said to amuse her giant of a son. Despite her
sixty-one years, the duchess of York had kept her fabled beauty, and only the few lines around her eyes and on her forehead hinted at the age of her still-lucent skin. But it was her eyes, the gentian blue of her native Durham wildflower, that never failed to arrest an onlooker’s attention. Also in purple and trimmed in ermine, with her widow’s wimple and barbette a spotless white and her ducal crown glimmering gold, the tall, slender woman might have been a queen.

“You are still the most beautiful woman at court—
when
you are at court, Mother. Do not play humble with me, I beg of you. It does not become you. Now, answer me, please. Will Father and Edmund finally rest in peace? Will
you
rest in peace? I did this for you, you know,” he fawned, looking for a moment like the boy Cecily remembered when the Yorks were a complete family.

She reached up to pat his cheek. “Aye, my son, I thank you. They are at peace now, and it will not be long before I shall be as well.” She smiled sweetly at him, but her voice then took on an edge. “However, there is another matter I wish to discuss with you, Edward. Shall we walk along the Nene apace?”

Edward’s face fell. He knew that look, that tone of voice. He was about to be chastised, and there was nothing he could do about it. “Aye, my lady,” he agreed, remembering the last time the duchess had asked to walk with him apace had been two years before when she had demanded an explanation as to why he could not effect a reconciliation between his two brothers. He checked about him for Will, hoping his friend would come to his rescue, but his chamberlain was nowhere in sight.

“I hope you said a few aves for your own soul these past two days, my boy,” Cecily began as they left the castle by the postern gate, the massive keep high upon the motte at their backs. Fotheringhay had been Cecily’s favorite residence during her marriage to Richard of York; it was the principal seat of the York family, built by an ancestor, Edmund of Langley, with a moat fed from the River Nene.
“It has come to my attention that your eye has wandered from your wife again. Nay, do not dissemble, Edward,” she grumbled as Edward’s silence and sulky mouth revealed the truth. “Your father and I were married for more than thirty years and he did not stray from my bed.” She turned the large ruby betrothal ring on her finger, a habit she had acquired every time she thought of her beloved departed husband. “I sometimes ask myself what we did wrong in your upbringing.” She shook her head. “At least Richard was decent enough to rid himself of his leman before he wed his Anne.” She paused, remembering something. “He tells me his bastard will join his household on the morrow. While I commend his paternal responsibility, I do not approve. Did you hear of this?”

Relieved to revert from his own indiscretion to Richard’s, Edward dived right in. “His son is coming to Fotheringhay? How old must he be? John is his name, I believe. Certes, I have seen Dickon’s girl here from Wingfield with my sister Suffolk. Katherine is quite a beauty, you must agree, your grace. She is the image of her mother.” Christ’s bones, why had he brought up Kate Haute? It would only return the subject to Jane.

He was right.

“And what is the name of your latest wagtail?” Cecily snapped. “I cannot believe Jacquetta’s daughter would take this lying down . . .” Cecily grimaced at her choice of words as Edward smirked, and she immediately corrected herself. “. . . suffer this behavior from you. You should put the woman from you and concentrate on the business of governing. I suppose you know the country is filled with outlaws? Why, one of my ladies was set upon just last month as she was escorted home to Lincoln. You must govern more sternly, Edward. Your father would have done so.”

Edward scowled. Not that comparison again, he thought. He wanted to shout, “Aye, but my father may have begun the fight but he did not win the crown! I did. He was not perfect either, and at least I have brought peace to the kingdom and prosperity,” but
he said nothing and allowed her to finish. He had far too much respect for this indomitable woman to gainsay her.

Knowing she had reached her limit with him, she relented. “You are the king, and I am your loyal subject,” she reiterated. “I am merely asking, as your mother, to curb your wanton ways. There, I have said my piece, now kiss me and let us return to the feast.”

“Aye, Mother,” Edward said meekly enough, and bent to kiss her proffered cheek. Who was he to defy Proud Cis?

I
n the months that followed the reburial, Edward worked hard to live up to his mother’s expectations of him. But despite holding sessions of oyer and terminer in several counties, calling a great council to request that overtures be made to Castile for a marriage between his six-year-old heir and the Infanta Isabella, and entering into negotiations with the duke of Brittany to gain custody of the exiled Henry Tudor, earl of Richmond, Edward’s popularity sagged, most especially with the London wool merchants. He was unable to reverse the recent Burgundian edict against the importing of English cloth, and thus the breakdown of trade with the wealthiest market in Europe was now hurting the economy.

Edward’s sister Margaret was duchess of Burgundy, but she did not appear able to persuade her husband to revoke the edict, probably owing to Duke Charles’s fanatical ambition to harness as much of Europe as he could. Thus he was rarely at home, preferring to leave Margaret to rule in his place. However, the duchess was powerless to change laws, and her husband was as stubborn as he was rash.

Not unexpectedly, yet still a shock to the rulers of Europe, Charles the Bold was killed at the siege of Nancy one frozen day in early January, leaving his heir, young and vulnerable Mary of Burgundy, in the care of her stepmother, the childless Duchess Margaret. The wool merchants would now have to wait until Mary found a husband and the new duke could be approached about the edict.

In another foreign policy failure and despite an agreement,
Edward was unable to wrest his possible rival, Henry Tudor, from the duke of Brittany, and the young earl had gone into the church sanctuary, where no one could touch him.

I
n the matter of his mistress, however, Edward had no intention of giving her up. His mother’s ire be damned, he thought as he signed the letters of protection to accompany the new merchant adventurer, William Shore, into Burgundy that yuletide. It was more important to Edward that Jane was finally free of Shore, who would not be seen in London for many years to come.

Edward was astonished at the strength of his feeling for the dainty, strong-willed woman from the merchant class. He loved her naturalness, her ignorance of courtly pretense, her wit, warmth, and her beautiful body. But he had to admit it was Jane’s generosity of spirit that touched him most deeply, a rare quality in her position.