CHAPTER ONE - YORKSHIRE, MARCH 1467
To be fair, sunshine is a rarity in many parts of the land called England. Rain, fog, sleet and snow are more common than rich, golden beams falling from a sapphire blue sky. But not on this day. This day, the sun had come out, warming the rich black earth, giving life to the crops that many a man labored harshly to bring to harvest. Its golden rays trickled over the Yorkshire Moors, caressing the skin of all those outside. Faces would turn Heavenward, and as bells tolled from numerous chapels, praises were sung to God Almighty for this gift for them from Him.
Two people, however, did not join their prayers. They rode on horseback, one mounted upon a full grown chestnut stallion, the other, trundling behind on a rickety wooden cart, fastened to the chestnut stallion. The occupant of the stallion's saddle was a young man, with dark gold hair harshly swept back from his face. His stormy blue eyes roamed the landscape, as mail emblazoned with the white rose of the House of York clinked around his shoulders. The occupant of the cart, however, was a girl of about four. Not much could be seen of her, for she was swaddled in a thick, brown traveling cloak, even though the weather grew steadily warmer by the day.
Though not much of the girl could be seen, she could see everything. She leaned forward over the railings of the cart, glancing at the twisting, muddy, bumpy road on which she and her companion traveled. The girl watched in awe as a large black raven flew overhead, arching gracefully in the sky, its dark wings a stark contrast to the vivid blue that glared down at her.
I wish I could fly, the girl thought, watching the bird in envy. I wish I could fly home.
Home. The place already miles away. A large, stone building, not quite a castle, but not a peasant's wooden shamble either. It was the only place she had known for four years of her life. Her older sister, Katherine, was back at home, as well as a woman named Isolde who Katherine - and only Katherine - called "Mother". The girl sighed. Did Katherine an Isolde miss her as much as she missed them? Hopefully Katherine did, maybe not Isolde, since she had been excited at her leaving. Why did they get to stay at home, when she was sent away? It was not fair, not at all.
"I want to go home!" she pleaded with her companion.
He sneered down at her from atop his mount. "No, Marion Morton, you cannot go home. You are to become a ward of my Lord Warwick. Now be quiet."
Before the man on the horse had come, Marion's life had been orderly. She would rise with the dawn rooster's crows and help prepare the breakfast. Marion worked from dawn 'til dusk each day, chopping vegetables, carving meat, pounding spices and doing other household chores such as laying new rushes on the floor and collecting water from the small well just outside her house. She had bread and milk every day – unless she did something wrong (which was often), at which time she would go without meals for as long as Isolde deemed fit. Marion knew her place in the world; she was the little girl wearing her sister's old clothes, the bare-foot child scampering around the house doing chores that were too hard for one so small. On Sundays, she would walk the short way to the big Minster (which she could see from her back door, standing tall and proud and majestic to her left), to give eggs and bread to the nice man with the big bald patch and the long brown robe. He was always nice to Marion, patting her head and thanking her for the goods, and he always told her to call him "Brother". But since Isolde had announced one day that Marion was to leave, she did not know where her place was anymore. Would there be a big Minster at this new place? Would Marion get bread and milk? What if she did something wrong, would she still have to go without food? All these questions confused the poor little girl.
Marion sighed, shifting again in the uncomfortable cart that made her bottom hurt terribly. True, she did miss home, but at least riding in a cart and taking in a view of the sprawling countryside – no matter how many times she fell out of it, or how it hurt her – was better than chores. From before she could properly remember, Marion had been doing those chores. Yes, there were other servants to help her, but it was she, Marion, who was forced to do the most. She had not understood why she had to do this work, when her older sister, Katherine, did not. When she had tried to ask Isolde about it, the woman had yelled at her, for speaking in the simple speech of a girl barely out of babyhood. The woman had yelled at Marion, told her to speak like an adult, and would hit her if she did not understand the adult way in which the woman commanded her to do chores. Because of this, Marion was far older than a girl of four in her manner of speaking, and thinking; but sometimes her true childish nature came through in her view of things, such as the terribly unfair fact that she was being sent away from home, when everyone else she knew was allowed to stay there and keep their routines and their places. It was just not fair!
So this is a castle, Marion thought. It's huge!
Though to a four-year-old it appeared huge, Middleham Castle was quite small in comparison with other castles, such as Westminster Palace, or Ludlow Castle. Middleham, located in Northern Yorkshire, in a little area called Wensleydale; was a squat, yet imposing fortress looming up from the top of a hill. A drawbridge provided access to the Outer Bailey of the castle, where animals could be led to stables and kennels to be fed and watered. Water gargled around the castle in the form of a foreboding moat, murky, sluggish, giving Middleham an air of mystery. Inside the Outer Bailey, directly ahead of the drawbridge, stood a set of grand, wooden doors, reached by climbing a set of well-worn stone steps. How many sets of feet had trodden on those steps, Marion did not know.
At the top of the steps, stood a man, far larger, more looming, and foreboding than Middleham itself. He wore a fine tunic that fell to the middle of his lower legs, thus signifying his status as a nobleman, and an important one of that. A thin, dark gold beard streaked with silver hung from his chin, and a great battle helm sat atop a head of curly silver locks. Eyes the color of wood inspected Marion and her companion as they were helped from their horse and cart and began to approach. There was no doubt that this man was the "Lord Warwick", her surly companion had mentioned. The famed, and very much feared, Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, also known as the "Kingmaker".
Marion watched in fascination as her young escort knelt upon a knee before the giant Lord, bowing his head respectfully. But she was clueless as to her own conduct, so she remained standing where the stable boy had set her.
"My Lord," he said. "I beg your pardon. It took longer than expected to reach the city to collect your newest charge."
The Lord waved his hand dismissively, smiling slightly at the boy. "All is well. You have remained in my good graces. Now, you may rise, my Lord of Clarence."
He obeyed, tugging on his chain mail as he stood, so that the white rose glinted in the sunlight.
"And this must be Marion," Lord Warwick said, his eyes resting on the tiny girl.
Marion bowed her head. Whether out of respect or fear, she could not tell. It felt like the right thing to do.
"'Tis an honour to make your acquaintance, my Lord." she whispered, remembering the words Katherine had taught her.
"Come here, child, so that I may look upon you." he said, not unkindly.
Marion did as she was told, making her way to the bottom of the steps, tripping every now and then over the hem of her plain traveling dress.
The Earl gazed down at her, his eyes taking in every inch of her, from her messy hair, to her scuffed boots. Marion could not help but feel that this man was looking for something when he looked at her, and wondered if he would find whatever it was. So, it will come as no surprise that she was shocked to see a smile eventually graced his thin, chapped, lips.
"Aye," he breathed. "You look very much like your father. But those eyes... and that hair. Both are foreign to me."
Marion blinked, taken aback. True, she had not known what he might say to her as a greeting, but she had been in no way prepared for the Earl of Warwick to say she looked like her father. Father. That man was a myth to Marion, a story Katherine had told her countless nights when they huddled in front of the fire pit in the older girl's bedchamber. In her sister's stories, their father was a brave soldier, and politician, who had acted somewhat as a battlefield physician when needed, too. But Marion had never met this man, so he was as mythical to her as the much-loved tale of Arthur of Camelot. Why would it matter to this man, then, if she looked like a man who, to her, did not exist? Marion watched as the Earl's smile vanished, but returned in an instant.
"Well, Marion Morton, follow me, and I shall introduce you to some very special people. One of whom, is your cousin, Innogen. Did Isolde ever tell you that you had a cousin?"
Mutely, Marion shook her head. She was shocked. How could she have a cousin she never knew about? Did Katherine know? Why was she, Marion, never told?
"Well, you know now." Said the Lord. "Come along. And George, go find your brother - and no stealing wine from the kitchens. 'Twould be a blessing to see you sober for once..."