Fortune's Wheel

  Fortune’s Wheel

  Rhoda Edwards

  © Rhoda Edwards 1978

  Rhoda Edwards has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1978 by Hutchinson & Co.

  This edition published in 2016 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  1

  Seulement Un

  December 1468

  1

  2

  The Sun in Splendour

  January – June 1469

  2

  3

  The Maker of Kings

  July 1469 – March 1470

  3

  4

  Lucifer Unwise

  April – July 1470

  4

  5

  The Web

  July – September 1470

  5

  6

  The World Upside Down

  July – October 1470

  6

  7

  The Seventh Sacrament

  October – December 1470

  7

  8

  The Exiles

  January – March 1471

  8

  9

  Le Temps Perdu

  March 1471

  9

  10

  Warwick est Mort

  March – April 1471

  10

  11

  Checkmate

  April – May 1471

  11

  12

  Death and Destruction

  May 1471

  12

  13

  Ivory Pawn

  June – July 1471

  13

  14

  Pentecost Lane

  July – November 1471

  14

  15

  The Turning Wheel

  December 1471 – September 1472

  Notes

  ‘So that the man is over al

  His owne cause of wele and wo.

  That we Fortune clepe so,

  Out of the man himselfe it groweth.’

  John Gower, Confessio Amantis

  1

  Seulement Un

  December 1468

  W for Warwik, goode with sheld & other defence,

  The boldest under baner in batell to a-byde;

  For the right of Englond he doth his diligence,

  Bothe be londe & watyr, God be his gyde!

  R be the ragged staf that noman may skapen,

  From Scotland to Calais there-of men stond in awe;

  In al cristen landes is none so felle a wepen

  To correcte soche caytiffes as do a-gayne the lawe.

  Twelve Letters save England (c. 1461)

  1

  The December night was mild and damp as a dog’s lick. Unmoving cloud hid the moon. As the barge rode the flowing tide, its oars dipped lightly, the rowers’ muscles scarcely swelling. The prevailing smell was of Thames water. That this river should smell uniquely nasty was strange, because other tidal rivers cleansed other cities twice daily and still retained some tang of the sea or of the hills at their source. Many jests were current at Westminster concerning the properties of rivers, and their pernicious influence. The words of Pliny’s Natural History became delightfully derisive when turned against that unpopular man Richard Woodville, Lord Rivers, the Queen’s father. The rivers multiply and overflow the land — one of the chief resentments against Lord Rivers was that he had managed to multiply himself twelvefold. Richard of Gloucester had never repeated any of these gibes himself, and seldom had to stifle laughter; he did not find the subject amusing. He had learned while very young to keep silence. Nevertheless, rivers — and Rivers — stank.

  The Thames below the City had more than a taint of Billingsgate, the shambles and public jakes on the Fleet. Yet it should be clean. It was deep, wide and dangerous on this stretch from Greenwich to London, far from human habitation, the dark hiding miles of winter-desolate marshes. The only friendly aspect the Thames offered to Richard was that of a bolt hole. You could row upon it out of sight and sound of the Westminster warren, into the tranquil Chelsea reaches — if you kept rowing long enough you would reach Sheen, or the first bridge, at Kingston. The Thames in summer had a smiling face, tempting you to swim in it for pleasure. One of the things that the Earl of Warwick had insisted upon was that boys under his tutelage must be taught to swim. This was an unusual demand from a sea captain; sailors usually refused because it prolonged a watery death, but too many men had been lost on land campaigns by drowning in assault or rout, and Warwick fought on land as well as sea.

  Richard was travelling by river from Greenwich, where the court had gone to await the Christmas season, to visit the great Earl of Warwick at his house of the Erber, in the City near Dowgate. A year ago, he would have made this journey eagerly, with hope. Now the summons was received uneasily partly because of its long delaying, and partly because he was a year more experienced in suspecting the motive of such an invitation. During that year, the quarrel between his brother the King and the Earl of Warwick had gone from bad to worse. His thoughts took refuge from his anxiety in trivia; he wished himself there, and the thing over.

  Because he had been taught in Warwick’s household, Richard reckoned that he knew at least half a dozen more ways of killing a man in close combat than other young men of his age. That he had survived four years of Warwick’s regime never ceased to amaze him, as it evidently did others, and his confidence in his own capacities after this training was only diminished by his apparent inability to grow. Having reached manhood, at sixteen years, he remained the size of a fourteen-year-old boy. It put him at a disadvantage in every way. He saw no prospect, unless a miraculous shooting up occurred, of catching up with his fellows. If he had not such a crowd — five — of enormous brothers and sisters, he would not have felt his deficiency so deeply.

  As the oarsmen took the barge round the curve of Cuckold’s Point, Richard wondered idly why this name should have been given to a stretch of Rotherhithe wall, marsh and dyke, whose only inhabitants were the Abbot of Bermondsey’s cattle; it would be more apt for the palace stain at Westminster! His barge was a large one, with ten rowers, as necessary for the prestige of the King’s brother, even if he were only a minor and perilously short of the King’s coin. On close inspection the paintwork and gilding could be seen to be the last of many layers. It had been decorated in the York colours of murrey and blue, and King Edward’s device of a white rose upon the sun in splendour, among which a few slightly misshapen examples of his own boar badge were now squeezed. It had been retired by the royal bargemaster but refurbished in the Lambeth sheds for his own use.

  The barge speeding through the night seemed as insubstantial as a paper boat on fire, riding a sea of pitch, and it was surprising that the helmsman was not the dreadful Charon, but the Duke of Gloucester’s bargemaster. The torches that lit it streamed tails of sparks like comets. Richard put up his hand experimentally to let the fire motes fly through his bare fingers, and they did not even prickle his skin; the rushing air extinguished them to nothing. He yawned, stretched his legs and hooked the toe of one shoe under the edge of the opposite seat. The shoe was of smooth red leather, one of the few pairs he owned as yet unscuffed. Though far from being a slovenly young man, he had not yet lost the boy’s habit of maltreating his shoes. He waggled his foot back and forth. The tapering, elegant point of the toe was stuffed to retain its shape, and bent to and fro rather ridiculously. After a certain length of wear the peaks became shapeless and bulging and threatened to trip one up.

  Aware that he was trying to divert his mind when he should be arming his defences, he jerked himself upright in
his seat, shoved each hand up the furry sleeves of his gown and found that he was nearly under London Bridge. The rowers shipped their oars as they approached the middle arches, smaller craft giving them the way. The widest lock was on the north side of the chapel of St Thomas, and then only allowed about twenty feet of passage. They dived out of the light spreading from the houses on the bridge, into a deafening roar of water, shooting through the dark, torches gleaming on the slimy sides of the starlings, and popped out into quieter waters on the other side. One shot the bridge each time with a sense of relief, and a quick thanks to St Thomas, who allowed too many drownings under his chapel.

  A great number of Warwick’s servants were assembled to meet the young Duke. Their torches made the quay seem bright as day. They had been sent to escort him the short distance up Dowgate Hill to the Erber, a courtesy the Earl always afforded his more important visitors. They had even brought wooden clogs for him to wear, as the street was dirty. The men all wore jackets of scarlet, a ragged staff as big as a man’s forearm in gold on chests and backs. Scarcely a soul in the kingdom would fail to recognize that livery. Merely to put on Warwick’s colours made a man stand out from his fellows. The chest bearing the ragged staff seemed broader, the swagger more pronounced, in addition to which the purse probably hung heavier — Warwick paid better wages, Richard suspected, than even the King, and felt disloyal to his brother for thinking it.

  The Earl of Warwick was taking a bath. He had returned later than expected from riding, his servant apologized, but his Grace of Gloucester must come at once and take wine with him. As Richard entered the room, the Earl rose from his tub like Neptune from the waves, water streaming off him, and stepped out on to towels. He moved with youthful agility. He was forty years old. The moment Richard set foot in the room, he knew the Earl’s presence was as arresting as ever. Warwick was a rare man, and produced feelings in other men either of dazzled admiration, violent antagonism or riveted fascination, but never indifference. This was something from which Richard desperately wished himself immune.

  The Earl favoured his young cousin with his most spontaneous smile. ‘Your Grace is the most welcome visitor I’ve had in months! My dear Richard, I take the liberty of greeting only old friends in this degree of undress!’

  Richard smiled back; the informal friendliness was infectious. He had removed his hat as he had walked through the door out of politeness; it would not have occurred to him to do otherwise, though his rank excused him the gesture. All was exactly as if he had left the Earl’s household only yesterday. He had witnessed this scene many times. Warwick’s squires were rubbing him down as efficiently and ungently as ostlers. He enjoyed briskness in everyone about him. Richard almost felt it should be himself who fell upon the Earl with hot towels, retrieved the soap from the water, poured him wine — never let a drip run down to the foot of the silver flagon — and offered it as if to a king. But Warwick’s squire, a boy with whom he had previously been friendly, had hastened to pour wine, and in the roles of royal guest and servant, they were too constrained to be caught exchanging grins. On Richard’s cup was engraved a motto: Seulement Un. Well chosen; Warwick could bear no equal, and he taught absolute reliance upon one’s self

  Richard realized that this familiar scene was probably a deliberate ploy to disarm him, and he had been momentarily hoodwinked by it. He felt afraid. This was not because he thought that Warwick might force him to act as he did not wish, but because he knew that his affection for the Earl was still sufficient to betray him. Warwick must know his vulnerability well enough. Disappointment and misery reduced him to silence; before, he had never found himself tongue-tied in front of the Earl. As Warwick did not seem to find it necessary to begin a conversation at this stage, Richard watched while the servants finished their work.

  When one looked at him closely, Warwick did not have strictly handsome features, but his person combined so many attractive elements that his overall aspect was that of a handsome man. He was of medium height, with not an ounce of spare flesh on him, a man still in his prime. His limbs were well made and hard, as if carved from new wood; the gown of brilliant scarlet and white silk into which his squires helped him undoubtedly flattered him. Even his face, particularly in profile, had this smooth, finished look, which prevented it from being too hawkish. His head was startlingly well shaped, like a Roman general’s on an antique coin, with close-growing, crisp hair, neither curling nor straight, dark nor fair, now a little salted with white. Some said his eyes were like a predator’s, and that he’d have less influence on men if he could be hooded; he had the awful, wide-open stare of a yellow-eyed goshawk. In fact, his eyes were grey, exceptionally clear and light, like mirrors, or water. That was his element, water. The sea — implacable yet irresistible. Proud as Lucifer, ill-wishers said. This arrogance was not obtrusive, and so much part of his fascination that one condemned it reluctantly. Only when slighted did he choose to reveal it, then it scorched the beholder. Men did not easily forget being singed. Warwick’s Countess had once said that she could see a look of her husband in Richard, which had secretly delighted him. Warwick was his full cousin. They had the same name.

  When he had been dressed, Warwick said, ‘Now we are ready to join the ladies.’ He selected rings — three only — and slipped them on his fingers, flexing his hands as he did so. Hands for use, not display, but shapely and well-cared for all the same. Then the Earl stood aside and gave his guest precedence.

  The servant who opened the door and announced their arrival could not know that he revealed to Richard a nightmare spectacle. It was so admirably domestic. In the company of Warwick’s wife and two daughters, grinning all over his face like a cat with a canary, sat Richard’s brother George of Clarence. Richard tried to keep an expression of dismay from his face, without success. He felt as if he had walked straight into an ambush. George rose to his feet, bowed with exemplary courtesy to the Earl — he had natural grace and had been taught beautiful manners, though he too often employed them only where or when the whim took him — and said to Richard, ‘Ah, my prodigal brother… We’d forgotten the colour of your coat here!’ putting the younger boy in the wrong from the first moment.

  The women descended upon Richard and kissed him, the Countess with nervous affection, Isabel without taking her eyes off George, and Anne like a sparrow snatching a crumb.

  ‘Dear Richard, we are always so happy to see you here. It must be a twelvemonth since your Grace was last…’ The Countess’s speech trailed off apologetically, as it often did.

  ‘Madam, I hope not to be guilty of the omission in future,’ he said stiffly. Then, because he did not like to see this timorous little woman, who in past years had tried so hard to foster him, discomfited by his uneasy manner, smiled. The Countess’s face flowered becomingly to genuine pleasure. Richard had noticed that ladies of an age to be his mother often reacted to his smile in this way. More wine was pushed into his hand. The family folded itself round him in welcoming comfort. He found himself seated near the fire next to the little girl, Anne. George was already beside Isabel, as if by right; he was evidently an established visitor. While making some effort to respond to their small talk, Richard hunted in his head to find an excuse for escape.

  ‘Which of you girls has been playing?’ Warwick was relaxed, and never an over-stern father.

  ‘My lord father, Anne has a new song…’ Isabel would do anything to avoid being asked to sing herself, for she had no voice and did not like looking foolish, especially in front of Clarence. She was adroit, Richard thought, at passing tasks off on to her younger sister.

  ‘Sing for us, little one,’ Warwick said gently. Richard had always suspected that Anne was the daughter he preferred. It would not have crossed either girl’s mind to question their father’s request, though Anne would clearly have liked to. She had always hated being pushed to the forefront in company. She was blushing. But she took up her lute obediently and began to pick out a melody. It quickened into a nimble tune, suc
h as children dance to in the street. Her fingers flew, the music’s gaiety giving her confidence. When she sang, her voice, like herself, was small and self-effacing, but sweet. She sang in French as easily as she did in English; she had spent several years in Calais when she was tiny, with French nursemaids, and had learned to talk using both languages at once.

  George began to beat time with his toe, then to sing in part with her. It was a song that he used to sing with his favourite sister, Margaret; they had made it their special song.

  Margot labourez les vignes…

  Vignes, vignes, vignolet…

  he carolled in his chiming tenor, like a golden bell. People, especially women, used to call George a golden boy. The egg-yellow hair of early childhood had long ago darkened and dulled, but he still had a glow of health and promise. George, his sharp and disillusioned young brother thought, should at nineteen be showing signs of promise bearing fruit. The cooing and gushing which had been lavished upon him as a child, but not upon Richard, often had not survived the trials of longer acquaintance.

  George had done such appalling things; Richard never knew how he’d escaped being skinned alive. There was the time he had encouraged his dog to deposit a turd under the chair in which sat his oldest and most formidable Neville aunt, and worse, the incident of the ink in the holy water stoup at Fotheringay. It had been set in a dark place, and the congregation had emerged each with a brownish cross on forehead, as if branded by some mysterious agent of God, or the Devil. No doubt it was still remembered as a miracle. Nothing had been proven against the culprit and Richard had not told tales. Now, he wondered why he had not; George would probably have benefited from punishment.

  The song ended, George flushed and laughing, Anne with eyes modestly downcast. Compliments were passed. Richard noticed Anne smiled at George but not at himself.

  Of the two girls, Isabel, a year older than he, was the prettier, at least everyone said she was the prettier. Yet he did not often look at her, and if he did, she did not hold his attention. Anne, however, who had always been considered plain, gave him cause for thought. This was not merely because of the two little bumps in the front of her gown — a year earlier they had not been there — or because the gown was stylish, which had the effect of making her seem more of a child when it was meant to add years, but because they had once been friendly, and now she avoided his eyes entirely. She had pecked his cheek so hastily he wondered if it were his appearance she did not like. He was nothing to look at, of course, but he was not spotty, nor was his hair unwashed or uncombed, and his teeth were clean and in good order. He had always thought Anne looked up to him a little, as a small sister might, as his own sister Ursula might, who had died before he was big enough to do more than poke his nose over the edge of her cradle. He was sure that a great deal went on inside Anne’s head, of which no one but herself had knowledge. Her head was bent now over the lute, which rested in her lap. A very small head, the hair in two neat sections on either side of a precise chalk-white parting. Hair that lay sleek and flat against the delicate skull, very smooth, very shiny, like a pelt. Well, mouse-like, it had that sort of indeterminate colour. She was twelve years old — add on half a year, her birthday was in June. The eleventh, odd that he should remember.