Fortune's Wheel Read online

  It was largely due to the Duchess that the Queen received so much grovelling and silent adulation; no one could do other than emulate the woman’s own mother. Jacquette Woodville was small and coquettish, very aware of her Frenchness, and hard as a mason’s block. Her eyelash fluttering, eye rolling and waving in the air of tiny, elegant hands disgusted Richard, and he was sure her still quaintly accented English was an affectation. What he found irritating was that she was not a raddled old hag of over fifty, exposing too much flesh in unsuitable gowns, but a graceful little figure dressed with exquisite taste in discreet colours, all her wrinkles and sags covered. Worst of all, was her manner towards himself. She called him ‘mon cher Duc’, and amused herself by making him glower. Richard had to admit to being a little frightened of her. She had a reputation for dabbling in witchcraft and he always half expected to see a toad sitting on her shoulder.

  Richard’s head, back, shoulders and legs had all begun to ache with the strain of standing, kneeling and keeping a wary composure before the Queen. The court had eaten itself into satiety, but there were the entertainments to endure.

  A troupe of tumblers spilled out over the floor, turned themselves upside down, stood on each other, carried a dwarf about on their shoulders, while a fool dodged around, trying to trip them up.

  A disguising was enacted of the Judgement of Paris; it was no coincidence that the girl who played Helen of Troy wore a wig of blonde hair in imitation of the Queen.

  Into the space left vacant by the mummers came a strangely attired figure. He was greatly hampered by the sheer size of his boots; they reached up his sides to meet the points of his hose and shirt, and the feet were big enough for Gog the giant. As if this were not grotesque enough, his doublet was so short that it ended just under his armpits. He tottered along, groping ahead and prodding the floor with a staff twice as tall as himself, his backside sticking out absurdly like a couple of apples. On his head was a hat the size of a cartwheel, an exaggeration of the hats pilgrims wore to keep off the rain. The lugubrious and unjesterlike face under this was of Jack Woodhouse, one of the King’s more witty fools.

  His progress was made in silence and, because of this, the entire hall fell silent also while the freakish figure came on slowly, right up to the King’s table. By this time everyone was craning for a view, and King Edward’s own eye was caught.

  Leaning forward, in the greatest of good humours, he said, ‘You look as if you’re expecting a new Deluge, Jack — come on, tell us what you’re up to!’

  Making a great business of clinging to his staff, the fool said, ‘Why, your Grace, I’ve been journeying through every county in your realm, and in each of them I could find no fords, and without my good marsh pike, I’d have been drowned, for I could scarcely find the bottom of any rivers, they were risen so high…!’

  Woodhouse’s voice carried to all corners of the hall — the rivers rising high had been a trumpet call. One moment more of silence was broken by explosions of laughter from every side. It did not wait for the King to lead it; it could not be contained, having waited a long time for such a jest to let it loose. Richard felt a grin split his face before he could straighten it into a look of discreet aloofness. His chest began to ache with the laughter trapped there, which he dared not let out. The Rivers rise high! It was rich, and ripe, and it had been said in public by a daring fool. It was not as if it had been a very funny or clever jest, but it was a release of resentment, and Woodhouse had given it the proper ludicrous treatment. No one cared who saw them laugh. Richard heard his young cousin Harry Buckingham yelping like a delighted puppy dog; many of the older lords were clasping each other and laughing themselves into painful indigestion.

  After a first quick frown, King Edward’s mouth began briefly to twitch, and he let out a shout of laughter as loud as anyone else. It was a signal for even greater uproar. Then, defiant, dissembling old dog that he was, Lord Rivers himself began to laugh. The mirth of the skeleton at the feast, Richard thought, watching Woodville’s valiant grimacing and apoplectic colour.

  Lady Rivers — the Duchess of Bedford — however, took an unequivocal stand. Her comment shrilled over the guffaws, almost in Richard’s ear. ‘Cochon!’ she spat, like a little striking adder. Richard flinched, as if she had aimed the word at himself. But no one took any notice, they were enjoying themselves too much.

  The fool, not one to press his luck, turned a somersault over his marsh pike and shuffled off as fast as his boots would allow.

  The Queen, insulted in her presence by this jibe at her father, sat as if turned to marble, as if she had heard nothing. Her remote, perfect face made Richard shiver. I hope Woodhouse is well protected, he thought, and that his protector can prevent her from touching him.

  Then, suddenly, he was sure that he knew who had paid Woodhouse to enact that particularly dangerous piece of impudence. The outrageous absurdity, and its direct insult to the Queen, bore the mark of his brother Clarence. Warwick would never have trifled with such things. George was as capable as any fool at devising jests, and his patronage and payments were unlikely to be rejected even by the King’s servants. It was an episode which should act as a warning to the King.

  Yet the King was slow to heed the warnings of his brother’s disaffection. George, who now professed no love for King Edward, had at one time been violently jealous if his elder brother had shown favours to others — to Richard especially. When they had been children Edward of March as he had been then, had never once neglected Richard for the brighter charms of George, and George’s jealousy had been both unreasoning and permanent, staying hidden within him into manhood.

  *

  George of Clarence’s temper did not sweeten with the coming of spring. This was noticeable on the few occasions when Richard saw him. Nobody ever seemed very sure of George’s whereabouts. Richard suspected that he was dividing his time between his own estates and Warwick’s, some of which conveniently converged, and that he had probably been on a visit to the Moor in Hertfordshire, the house of Warwick’s youngest brother, the Archbishop of York. This was a bad sign, as the two Georges, Neville and Clarence, were likely to feed the vinegar of discontent in each other.

  It was nearly two years since the King had deprived the Archbishop of York of the office of Lord Chancellor — two years in which discontent might ferment. Richard saw his brother briefly when the King and Queen’s third child — another daughter — was baptized at Westminster. She was named Cecily, for her paternal grandmother. King Edward had hoped for a son this time but was not a man to grumble at what fate chose to give him. He was very fond of the two little daughters he already had, and, as he said, with a wink, he did not think as some did that the world was too full of women.

  Clarence did not appear again at court until Ascension Day. He came to Windsor for a special meeting of the Garter Chapter, when the King’s brother-in-law, the Duke of Burgundy, was elected to the Order. It was obvious, as the knights walked from the chapter house after their business was over, that George intended once again to demonstrate his alliance with Warwick and his dislike of the Woodvilles by indulging in Rivers baiting. As Richard walked behind him, he thought that this time Woodhouse the fool would have done better.

  Immediately George was out of the door, he stopped in his tracks, leaving just enough room for Richard to squeeze out beside him, and there he waited for Warwick. When the Earl came up with him, he laid hold of Warwick’s arm and launched into an apparently confidential and prolonged conversation. While this took place, one or two other knights were able to emerge past them, but Lord Rivers found his way well and truly blocked.

  Richard, watching, had to admire his brother for having the nerve to try such tricks which it was not in himself to attempt. He twiddled the gold tassels on the long cords which fastened his blue velvet gown and waited. George had managed to spread the train of his gown around his feet so that it took up the maximum space, and even Rivers hesitated to tread on it. Warwick was smiling and nodding
as Clarence spoke into his ear the words so clearly meant for him only. Rivers, stuck in the doorway, a high-coloured man in any case, was growing purplish in the face. Peering round his bulky shoulder, was the face of his eldest son Anthony, sharp with annoyance. After a minute or two of this, Richard found the suspense unbearable. A picture of an unseemly brawl among the Garter knights came into his mind.

  ‘My lord of Clarence!’ King Edward’s voice rang out, pleasant, but with an edge of authority in it. His two brothers stood facing each other, angry, yet drawn to each other as by a lodestone, alike in the light blue Garter robes. George, when you looked at his face, was in fact the more handsome, but beside his elder brother, people tended not to notice this. Edward was both taller and broader, a focus for all eyes. Richard did not think of himself as resembling either of them, and would have been surprised to be told of similarities between his own face and the King’s. He had long ago ceased to notice the slight amusement of onlookers when he was at his brother’s side, or that he had to gaze upwards into the King’s face. George did not have this disadvantage. Richard held his breath; if George did not move, a scene was inevitable.

  But George moved. He still could not disobey the King to his face. If he had been drunk, he might have brazened it out, but at eleven in the morning he had not had the chance to give himself courage from wine. He moved aside, and Lord Rivers came out of the chapter house door with his head lowered like an angry, snorting bull.

  Warwick drew back to let him pass with a gesture of exemplary courtesy, but Richard saw the Earl’s face when Rivers’ back was turned. His hawk’s stare bored into the back of Rivers’ head as if willing a headsman’s axe to fall upon it. Warwick’s face seemed pinched and aged; the intensity of his hate consumed him from within, coldly, like the icing over of water. Richard felt its chill within himself and was afraid.

  When Warwick went over to speak to the King, no trace of anything other than an easy naturalness could be detected in his face. Because King Edward was never the first to pick a fight, it was easy for onlookers to assume that he was good-humoured to a fault and easily hoodwinked. He was not.

  ‘I hope, Richard,’ King Edward said to Warwick, ‘that the fleet is ready down in the Cinque Ports, to take to the sea against the Hansards. I should not like my brother of Burgundy to lose his ambassadors and his new Garter to the Hanse pirates!’

  Warwick, who would feel personally affronted if the Hansards captured an English ship after all his precautions, would not have worried if Duke Charles of Burgundy strangled himself with his new Garter in one of his famous fits of temper. The thought of that bit of expensive goldsmith’s work buckled round that over-muscled leg was galling. It was just as galling to see the collar of the Burgundian order of chivalry around King Edward’s neck, with its pendant dead sheep — Toison D’Or, or Golden Fleece was a good name for it. The pursuit of the Burgundian alliance by the marriage of the King’s sister Margaret with the Duke had fleeced the English of 50000 gold crowns, with 150000 yet to pay. The exchange of orders of chivalry between Duke and King was a sour reminder to Warwick of King Edward’s rejection of all his advice and labours in trying to bring about a rival understanding with France.

  King Edward, who did not need to read Warwick’s mind to know better than to dwell upon the subject of Duke Charles, said, ‘My lord, I have every faith in your preparations for the defence of the realm on the sea. It’s one less worry for me. I hope your brother of Northumberland is as prompt to deal with this Robin-whatever-he-calls-himself, in the north.’

  ‘The commons in the north,’ said Warwick, ‘have never in my memory been anything but unruly. I can’t calculate the number of Robin Mend Alls who have appeared over the years. They mend nothing. Hoping for a chance to rob the rich to give to the poor, no doubt, like the merry man of Sherwood. This Robin won’t get away with it. My brother John knows how to deal with rebels.’

  ‘I rely on his talents, as I do on yours, my lord. I intend to go to St Edmund’s Bury and Norwich shortly, then on to Walsingham, to pay my respects to Our Lady. Then if this trouble in the north continues, I may go to York to look into things myself. I hope you will join me there if I should send for you. I also hope to see your brother the Archbishop of York there; it may help to pacify his see.’

  *

  When the Earl of Warwick and his lady visited the town of Sandwich, they were always given presents. As the Earl was Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports, these visits had been fairly frequent. A special bond had been established between the Earl and the town, and he usually stayed in the house of the Mayor, or of one of the other Common Councillors. This time, Warwick received three swans, six gallons of Bordeaux wine and several basket-loads of oranges. A Venetian galley had recently put in at Sandwich, and the Earl and his family were loaded with small gifts of pretty goods from Messina.

  The Kentish swans appeared on the table that night at Anne Neville’s thirteenth birthday feast which, as usual, was shared with St Barnabas. She liked roast swan, and she had been given a coral jewel from Sicily to hang round her neck. Though the occasion was Anne’s feast, Isabel behaved as if it were hers. Anne had listened to her sister talk of nothing but her coming marriage to George of Clarence.

  ‘The only thing,’ Isabel had said that morning, ‘about marriage which I don’t like, is that I shall have to put my hair up under a cap all the time. I look better with it hanging down.’

  Anne was inclined to agree with her. There was nothing special about Isabel’s face, though it was quite pretty, but her hair was lovely, very fine and straight and a pale golden blonde. Beside her sister, Anne always felt she looked washed-out, and thought that when the time came for her marriage and she had to put her own hair up, she would look positively plain.

  ‘Do you really like him?’ she asked Isabel.

  ‘Clarence?’ Isabel looked at her as if she had asked an odd question. ‘Yes, of course. He makes me laugh — I mean, he’s witty and amusing. I couldn’t endure a dull dog for years! He’s good looking. He’s the King’s brother. He’s the King’s heir. But you’ve seen nearly as much of him as I have, Anne. Mother never leaves us alone together. You don’t talk to him much. Don’t you like him?’

  ‘I don’t really know him,’ Anne said lamely. ‘He talks to you mostly.’

  ‘Good,’ said her sister. After that Isabel lost interest, and Anne did not have a chance to ask if she thought whether George would be kind, and not suddenly less witty and amusing if one were ill, or developed a pimple, or just felt bad tempered, or if one’s family became politically embarrassing. She did not want to spoil Isabel’s hopes by suggesting that Clarence might be a fair-weather husband. Isabel seemed to have forgotten that marriages had been suggested for both of them, that her sister should have the other brother, Richard. Anne had once imagined a double wedding. Now she was again eclipsed by Isabel.

  The next day Anne’s uncle, the Archbishop of York, who had joined them in Sandwich, performed the ceremony of blessing Warwick’s great warship, the Trinity. At this ceremony the Duke of Clarence shone, being easily the most handsome young man there. He made Warwick look sombre and middle-aged, and even the Archbishop of York was eclipsed. Anne watched her sister gaze at him like a child at the gingerbread men on a stall. He came down off the gangplank from the Trinity as if he were an angel descending from Heaven on a sunbeam. Small crystal drops sewn among the flowers patterning his doublet, bobbed and twinkled as he moved. On the quayside, he was met by a man whom he evidently recognized, and whose appearance at the festivities was far from welcome. Clarence turned from him with a face no longer handsome and shining, after hearing what he had to say.

  ‘The Duchess of York,’ he announced angrily, ‘my lady mother, is here!’

  Anne thought that a note of panic was in the Duke’s voice, as if he had been well and truly cornered. It was inevitable that a mother should wish to see a son, when he was set upon disobeying her. Anne felt a little sorry for Clarence; the Duchess of Y
ork was a somewhat intimidating lady, and she was treated as a queen in her own right.

  Clarence himself was both frightened and annoyed that his mother had followed him all the way to Sandwich. She was beginning to treat him as if he were still in napkins, and to act as if he were committing blasphemy by daring to criticize Edward. But there was nothing he could do to avoid an interview with her.

  ‘If you take up arms against your brother the King,’ the Duchess of York all but shouted at her son, ‘it is as bad as turning on your own father! When my husband bred his family, he never knew one of his sons would rebel against the other — if he had, he’d have kept from my bed! You insult your father’s memory. Edward is the head of the family. He is the King. Do you think my nephew Warwick’s base ingratitude and ambition are worth a betrayal of your brother? Or is it your ambition that incites you to this folly?’

  George cringed from his mother’s tongue. Not that his moral conscience was wounded by her attack, but the mere fact that his calm, dignified mother should lose patience enough to shout at him was alarming.

  Duchess Cecily had a spot of angry colour in each cheek, though this was all that betrayed her emotions. She was of a height with her son Clarence, and her blue eyes speared his own as if they were wriggling fishes. When he was a child, George thought his mother as stately and cool as a lily; she was the only person he had never dared to defy. She was still a tall, handsome, straight-backed woman in her middle fifties, and looked younger; George had never seen anyone show her disrespect. He was as scarlet with anger and shame at her castigation as if she had caught him with his fingers in the sweetmeat box and slapped him.