Chapter 4

1471

Sometimes, the path the stars had set hinges upon one small choice. If the leader of a party coming to Warwick's aid had but kept his mouth closed when he chose a manor house to spend the night, he might have arrived to help turn the tide in the upcoming battle.

He did not choose wisely, though, and told his hosts how the manor, and everything they owned, would be his once the upstart Edward was dead.

Thomas still welcomed them in – what choice did he have? – and Joanna busied herself overseeing preparations for a feast. They kept Kate in the kitchen, shielded from any lustful eyes, for most of the day. It was only after the servants were out, preparing the great hall for the meal, that Joanna sent her to the garden. "Go now, and get me the blackberries."

"Thou knowst 'tis too early for blackberries," Kate said.

"The black berries," Joanna said with emphasis, and Kate understood. There was only one black berry in their garden, and it was deadly nightshade.

"Are we to-"

"Thou art to do nothing but pick berries like a good girl," Joanna said. "The rest is for thy uncle and I to do." She leaned in and pulled Kate close. "Thou and I might support ourselves selling remedies, if they take everything from us. But what of thy uncle?"

Thomas' condition had grown more severe with age. His back had bent so far that he only seemed to find comfort in bed or in the baths Joanna prepared, and the slightest rheum left him gasping for air. Nothing remained for him but the poorhouse, if he were cast out of their estate. Kate met Joanna's eyes. "I will bring thee the black berries."

The two women spent the night locked in Thomas' room, straining to hear if the sounds of merriment had changed to horror. It was past midnight when someone staggered into the door.

"I cannot work the lock," Thomas slurred, and almost fell on them when Joanna opened the door. "They would not drink it, if I did not." He made to lie down on the bed, but Joanna blocked him.

"No, no my lord. Not yet," she said, and led him into the room for bathing. The sound of retching started almost immediately, then Kate heard something like a heavy sack hitting the floor. She ran to Joanna and helped her prop him up.

"He would have drunk as little as possible," Joanna said, though with less conviction in her voice than Kate would have hoped for. "He shall live. And now, 'tis time for one of thy escapes."

"What's your meaning?" Kate asked.

"Go, and tell the King's men what we have done here," Joanna said quietly. "I know thou canst climb down those walls whenever thou pleasest. Now is not the time to pretend thou canst not."

"And thee?"

"I shall see to thy uncle," Joanna said.

"And if any of them – wake?"

"I shall see to them too. Now go, girl. Thou canst not help us here. And if it goes wrong, retreat with thy cousin's kin."

Kate managed to get to the stables without being seen by anyone – though the poison had likely blurred their vision enough that they wouldn't have known her, she thought. It was fortunate that her uncle had let her ride with the boys of the estate since childhood; it had prepared her for this. She rode until morning before she came upon the King's encampment. Warwick's was not far away.

The man who intercepted her did not believe she could have an important message, but finally sent her on, chuckling as he did. He probably thought she was a camp follower, and that might well be her fate if the battle turned against them.

She was escorted to the edge of the King's tent. The King was not there, but another man was bent over some maps. "Who is this drab?" he asked without looking up.

Kate felt herself flush. "Call me a drab if you like, but my uncle destroyed dozens of your enemies at great personal risk, sir."

"Oh, did he?" The man finally turned his face up, but did not straighten. "And why, pray tell, did he send thee to tell me that?"

"Because he might have missed a few and will need your help."

"Why not kill them himself, the great warrior?"

"We poisoned them, and I doubt they will drink our wine again." He looked shocked. Poison was a dishonorable way of dispatching one's enemies, but she was too angry and drained to care. "My uncle is a bunchbacked old man who cannot wield a sword, and my father is already fighting with you. Be offended if you must, but we got rid of dozens of Warwick's men for you. You might also be grateful."

"Do you know to whom thou speakest so boldly, my girl?" He said the word 'boldly' in a way that reminded Kate of nothing more than a snake.

"Not at all," she responded. "Some assistant to one of the king's commanders."

"What if I told thee that thou had been so insolent to a duke?"

"I would beg pardon, or else beg that you run me through quickly, rather than sending me back to my family home with no help for them." The wisest course generally would be to fall on her knees and wail her contrition, she knew, but she had no doubt he'd dismiss her as a silly girl if she did. It was vital to keep surprising him, keep him interested.

He snorted. "Thy father is with us?"

"Aye."

"And how far is this manor?"

"I started riding shortly after midnight and arrived by dawn."

He thought a moment. "He may go, long enough to help thy uncle mop up the rest of the traitors. Thou wilst stay here, to ensure he returns."

"Well, and I thank you, Your Grace."

"Thou art not frightened to be my prisoner?"

"I must, perforce, be someone's. I find Your Grace no more frightening than any other."

He halted over to stand in front of her. He was still slightly taller, despite a bend in his back that was nearly as severe as her uncle's. "Are you still not frightened?"

"If it pleases Your Grace, I will say so."

"Bold wench," he said, and directed her toward the back of the tent. She sat on the cot and waited. It was possible he intended to violate her. Well, she would fight back if he did, duke or no duke.

At some point, she must have drifted to sleep. When she woke, he was gone, and the camp was eerily silent. "This is what happens before it all starts," she thought, and bowed her head to pray.

00000000

Richard had never cared for the tale of the Prodigal Son, and he found he liked the prodigal brother even less.

Of course, he had been the one to extend a literal hand to George. The King could not debase himself to do such a thing. And he had enjoyed the change of looks on Warwick's face, especially after the barb that he would not stoop low enough to bow to Richard. Yes, it was a joy to see Warwick turn red as George went on about throwing his infamy at his father-in-law, who had so misled him.

Perhaps George could better play a role than he had believed. Edward's spies had carried word that George had gone with the Tower with Warwick and seen faint-hearted Henry place the crown on his own head again. Surely he must have understood that he would be only a small player in whatever design Warwick had planned. But he did a convincing job of making it appear he believed he deserved only punishment from Edward – which was true, of course, but he doubted George truly felt that.

"Pardon me, Edward, for I will make amends, and Richard, do not frown upon my faults, for I will henceworth be no more unconstant," George pleaded as he knelt before them.

"Now welcome more, ten times more beloved, than if thou never hadst deserved our hate," Edward responded, taking George's hand.

This was the wisest course, Richard knew; any wavering man who thought of deserting Warwick must know he could safely do so. But ten times more beloved? Edward was not one who weighed his words and set his face for the occasion. Truly, then, George the deserter was more valuable than Richard the loyal. Well, he could hardly say anything in objection. There was nothing to do but prove his worth on the field.

And that he had done, with distinction. When some nameless Lancastrian had Edward backed against a tree, who ran the upstart through? Who put his sword through Warwick's back? (What good his straight, tall, noble back did him now!) However much joy it had brought him, whatever others might say later about his reasons, killing Warwick had been the turning point. He had won that battle for Edward. It had been the best strategic move.

He couldn't say the same about cutting Prince Ned's throat.

The former crown prince had to die; his impudence could not be allowed to stand. But he wasn't thinking of that when he sliced into the boy's neck. He thought of Edmund, younger than this quarrelsome child, lying dead before his father, and Margaret wetting his father's cheeks with blood. Justice demanded that she see her son die, just the same, and then die herself. He would not be denied this.

But Edward did deny him. Held him back. "We have already done too much."

"Why should she live, to fill the world with words?" Richard demanded. It was not the best argument, but he was too incensed to think of anything better. Why should she live? What right had she, after all the misery she had inflicted on their house? But Edward was resolved. He could not defy his king and run her through.

Edward had not said anything about Henry, though.