Middleham is a strange castle, quite unlike any other I have seen, although very luxurious. The solar is across the courtyard from the rest of the principal apartments, and linked to them by a wooden bridge. The bridge is roofed, of course, and glazed, but the timbers have a funny way of squeaking and bending under your feet, and you always wonder if you’re going to make it to the far side. As I stepped off this bridge someone took hold of my arm. It was Roger Beauchamp.
‘Unhand me, Sir!’ I snapped. (I’d always wanted to say that. This was my chance.)
‘What is a fair damosel like you doing in a dull household like this?’ he asked.
He was older than I had thought at first sight, a good ten years my senior, and his hair was already thinning at the front.
‘At the moment,’ I said, ‘I’m taking this book to my lady, and I’ve already been longer about the task than I should have been. She doesn’t score very highly on patience, and I could cope with a few less fools blocking my way.’
He gave me a winning smile. His teeth were in pretty good condition, I noticed, and there was not a single pockmark on his face. And he had good legs.
‘I need to speak to you,’ he murmured.
‘The custom of this household is to avoid idle dalliance except on Tuesday afternoons,’ I said lightly. ‘In any event, I don’t suppose you wish to tell me anything that I haven’t already heard. I’ve got a whole sheaf of poems under my pillow. I’m fully briefed on the colour of my eyes and the shape of my instep, and threats of imminent suicide do not impress me.’
‘Don’t flatter yourself, Mistress Alianore Audley,’ he snorted. ‘I’m not here for dalliance, idle or otherwise. This is the King’s business.’
‘Well,’ I admitted, ‘that is a new line. I’ve never been part of the King’s business before. I do feel important. Have you written your poem yet?’
He jerked a thumb towards the nearest staircase. ‘The battlements, at midnight,’ he instructed. ‘Don’t make the mistake of keeping me waiting, or you’ll discover that I’m not one of your love-sick boys.’
‘It may not be that easy to get away,’ I objected.
‘Be there!’ he said, remorselessly.
It was one of those cloudless nights when it is not so much cold as bloody freezing, especially when you are stood on top of Middleham Castle with the north-west wind blowing in hard all the way from Fiend’s Fell. I had my mantle wrapped tight about me, but, in all honesty, I couldn’t have been much more chilled if I’d been stark naked.
Roger stepped out of the shadows, grinning his approval. ‘So, you decided to come,’ he drawled.
‘I’m always turned on by men who threaten me,’ I said, fighting hard to stop my teeth from chattering.
‘You’re cold.’
Observant fellow, I thought. ‘No. I’m a block of ice on legs. It has something to do with getting out of bed at midnight and wandering about on the roof.’
‘Come here,’ he ordered. He was used to telling people what to do, that much was certain. As I hesitated, he snatched at my wrist, pulled me close, and enfolded me in his big cloak. It was rather like being in a very small tent with him, with only our heads sticking out.
‘The King wishes you to know that your loyalty is appreciated,’ he said. His voice was mellow, and rather grave, pleasant to my ear as well as very close to it. ‘Your report confirmed much that was already suspected, and you are to keep your brother Audley informed of developments.’
‘Is that all?’ I asked.
‘Is it not responsibility enough for a saucy young damosel? What did you expect? To be made Warden of the West March? There’s this as well.’ He pressed a very thin book into my hand. ‘It’s an official enciphering manual. Put the serious stuff into code before you send it, in case it falls into the wrong hands. And, whatever you do, don’t lose the manual, or let anyone else see it. We don’t want any harm to come to you.’
‘I didn’t know you cared,’ I said.
He grunted. ‘I am a knight. It is my sworn duty to protect all ladies and damosels, even those I don’t particularly like.’
‘Good God,’ I cried, ‘have you ridden directly from Camelot, or did you take the long way round? You’ll be telling me next that a knight’s word is never broken, and that he loves his honour better than his life. And, of course, that he serves his lady without the least thought of swiving the butt off her.’
‘Alianore,’ he said, patiently, ‘you do very ill to mock the Knightly Code. I think the time has come for you to go back to bed.’
I didn’t want to go back. I’d grown comfortable where I was, warm and secure, and it was rare sport to provoke him.
‘Are you a wealthy knight?’ I asked. ‘Tell me about your property, and any inheritances you have pending. If it’s a long enough tale I might just allow you to carry me off. I need a change of air and a new challenge.’
‘I know exactly what you need,’ he assured me. ‘Do as you are bid, and go to bed. Now.’
He withdrew his cloak from around me, so that the chill rushed back into my very bones. I decided that it was too cold to argue, and so I did as I was told.
Warwick’s next error was to try to draw Richard of Gloucester into the plot, using his younger daughter, Anne, as bait. I was present for this interview as well, so I might as well tell you about it.
We were gathered in the solar at Middleham.
Warwick stood with his back to the fire, keeping all the benefit of it to himself. He was making an enormous effort to appear relaxed and avuncular. He kept trying out his smile on one of the dogs.
Isabel had assumed a pose. (My mother used to say that that was the only thing that any woman should assume, especially where men were involved.) She was, I think, trying to determine the correct angle of backward tilt for her head and the exact arrangement of folds for her skirts. She knew that if she could impress Richard of Gloucester she could impress anyone.
Anne stood next to her sister. She was twelve years old, but could have passed for younger. She’d been given a good scrubbing and a new gown, and been allowed, nay, told to wear her hair loose. It was long and blonde, and definitely her best feature.
Lady Warwick sat by the window, working on a big piece of embroidery that she had in her frame. I was on hand to thread her needle, sort out her silks, plump her cushions, chase away the dogs and do whatever else I was told to do. Alice Savage was at a lectern, reading aloud from a book of poetry, and Rob Percy, wearing the cleanest livery his back had ever known, was on hand to pour out the wine when required. It was all very cosy and domestic.
Richard walked into this tableau, and Warwick and the Countess gave him the sort of welcome he’d have merited if he’d just arrived from Jerusalem instead of the henchmen’s dormitory. You could see Gloucester cringe, and the hump swelling on his back. Richard never liked much in the way of fuss, and there they were, laying it on thicker than an old whore’s face paint.
Warwick was subtle at this point. I’ll give him that. He said a lot about reforming the government and removing the advisers who had an unfortunate influence over the King. Not much at all about chaining Edward in a dungeon to starve to death and putting good old George in his place. Then he began to rattle on about the past, reminding us all that he, Warwick, had loved the House of York all the way back to his days as an embryo, and how his own father, Salisbury, and Richard’s father, York, had both died in the common Yorkist cause, at the hands of the bloody bitch Margaret of Anjou.
King Edward, he said, had forgotten the old ties of blood and kinship. Edward cared only for his Queen and her swarm of grasping Woodville relatives, and preferred men who had fought against him above those who had fought for him. He had to be won back to the correct way of thinking. (Warwick’s way, Warwick meant.)