CHAPTER TWELVE – LONDON, FEBRUARY 1475
George, Duke of Clarence had grown from a snappish, mean boy to a snappish, mean, and greedy drunken man who always expected to get his way; or at least, that is what he appeared to be to Marion. She sat before him, on a little stool set at the feet of his Lady wife, Isabel Neville, while the Duke paced to and fro before her. She watched him warily, careful not to give away any indication of how uncomfortable she felt. Now at twelve years of age, Marion had learned well from Dickon how showing one's emotions could be a blessing, and a terrible curse when dealing with politics. This was one of the many, many lessons she would learn for when she entered the strange world of German politics, said to be just as perilous as its English counterpart.
Marion had been called to George's London residence shortly after the Christmas feast of 1474, though she had not known why. Dickon had been reluctant to let her go, but had relented when his brother sent about twenty letters demanding Marion come to see him. He made this visit sound as if it was going to be a grand holiday, a time for Marion to really experience the delights of London, after being "cooped up" in Westminster for the majorities of her last stays in the city. Marion too, had been hesitant to leave her home, preferring to go back to Donington with Katheryn when spring arrived. But alas, Katheryn had traveled alone back to Kate's home, gazing back at her aunt with wide, apprehensive eyes as Francis Lovell tugged at the reigns of her horse, guiding it over Middleham's drawbridge. Marion had tried to smile, tried to reassure her niece that all would be well, that there was nothing to be worried about when it came to Clarence's demands that she visit. She had never been more wrong.
As soon as she had arrived at the palace in London, Marion had been swamped with questions by the Duke. His eyes had glittered with eagerness and greed as he asked question after question after question. By the end of the first day, Marion had felt somewhat light-headed and sick, and had begged to be allowed to retire early so she may rest. For surely, the second day of this "holiday" that was nothing like a holiday, would bring as much questioning as the first.
It had. And now, Marion found herself amid an interrogation, as to what she had thought of the King and his family, from a rapidly pacing Duke.
"The children, what were they like?" Clarence demanded, as he took a swig from his goblet of wine.
Marion struggled to suppress a sigh, and answer as she was expected to; although she felt she was betraying the trusts of both the King and Dickon by telling him. "They were... well, there were a lot of them. Lots of daughters."
"Hmm, yes. I do know about Edward's misfortune when it came to having an heir. But he has a boy now, does he not?"
"Yes, My Lord. Two, in fact. One named for him, and the other named for your father, Richard."
"Really? For Father? I'd have thought Edward would name his second son after our dear brother, who has been loyal to him from the day he was born, it seems."
From her place on the chair above Marion, Isabel shifted, her skirts rustling against the rushes that coated the floor.
"W-why does it seem strange to you?" Marion asked, quickly chiding herself. Who was she to ask such things of him? Oh right, a Lady and a Princess. She had forgotten that. Maybe she could use that to her advantage and get out of there.
Instead of falling into a rage, Clarence merely smiled tightly at her, before answering her question with a question of his own. "Why indeed? Tell me, Marion, what do you know of the Earl of Warwick's rebellion in 1469? You were alive then, were you not?"
"A-aye... I was..."
"Well then, tell me what you know."
Marion's throat ran dry. She did not like this, did not like to be questioned about this. She had a terrible feeling that anything she said to this man, who was getting deeper into his cups with every passing minute, would be wrong, because the information had come from Dickon. And at the moment, it appeared that Clarence had no love for his youngest brother.
"I – uh -"
"Out with it, girl!" Clarence snarled at her.
"George!" his wife gasped. "Please, let her be! You are frightening her. How are we supposed to get information from her, if she is scared witless?"
He grumbled, before nodding to his wife. "You are right, wife. Very well then, Marion, how about a deal? You tell me what you know of the rebellion of 1469, and in return, I shall give you a coin purse for you to spend as you wish in the markets."
Marion scowled. "I have no need for such things, my Lord. I have everything that I need provided for me, and my Lord Husband will also provide thusly in the future. I will, however, tell you what I can remember." Even though it's all bound to be wrong.
"Good... very good. Now, what do you remember?"
"Well... I can remember that Warwick was angry at Edward for some reason – I never knew why. And I remember that you joined sides with him, and fought against your brothers. And then Warwick joined the old King Henry, and you went with him. But then, you decided to go back to your brothers, and fight with them, for York. And you were the victors. I'm sorry, my Lord, if this wasn't accurate… I was only a little girl when this happened."
Clarence paused in his pacing, gulping down another cup of wine, before looking at her with increasingly bloodshot eyes.
"You have a keen memory for detail, Marion Morton. That is a very admirable quality."
"Er... thank you?"
"Nevertheless, I can tell your story had holes in it, details that you wished to omit, so you would not show me as a villain. I do appreciate that, Marion, I really do. Now, I do have a story to tell you."
"N-no… no I never… I was only little…"
Ignoring her quiet stammers, George turned to his wife. "Isabel, go and make sure the servants are working hard, and that they do not disturb us. I do not want anyone coming into this room while we speak – unless someone is dying, or the house is on fire."
"As you will, husband." she nodded, getting to her feet to do his bidding.
He whirled around, facing Marion once more. "Now, Marion, here is my side of what happened during that rebellion. You may have noticed that our King has married a snake who was formerly of the House of Lancaster. Have you noticed this?"
"I did not know she was of the House of Lancaster..."
"Well, she was. Interesting though, that you do not find her to be loathsome. Or do you?"
"I… uh… well… she was a bit harsh…" Marion curled in on herself, unable to tear her eyes away from George's piercing, bloodshot gaze. The stench of wine from his breath hung around her face, clogging the air with its foul miasma. Her head spun, the choking smoke from the candles, the heavy wine smell and dim lighting left Marion feeling light-headed, unable to form clear thoughts.
George threw his head back, laughing. "Harsh! Ha! Oh, you are adorable in your ignorance, child. Of course she was harsh to you, everyone else is, are they not? Now, at the time that Edward married this witch – for surely, she must be a witch, to have made him stop his horse in the middle of a royal procession, simply to admire her beauty – the Earl of Warwick was…"
"Excuse me, my Lord, but how do you know that the Queen made Edward stop his horse in the middle of a royal procession, simply so he could admire her beauty?" Marion rubbed at her temples with trembling hands, squinting at the Duke of Clarence with a small frown.
"Well, because I was there, you foolish child! Both Richard and I were there with him. We were celebrating our victory, the victory of the House of York. Edward was a newly crowned King, and we, his royal brothers, had decided to ride out with him to alert the common folk to our power. There, he saw Elizabeth Woodville, and her two sons. He could not take his eyes off her, and the next I heard of her, she was his bride. The next time I saw her, was at her coronation as Queen of England, at the Tower of London."
"O-oh,"
"Yes 'oh', it was all very suspicious. Now, as I was saying; at the time of this lucrative marriage, the Earl of Warwick was also planning a match between Edward and a French Princess. But just as the marriage was to be finalized, he found out about Woodville. He was angry, furious in fact, but he let Edward have his pretty bride, even though it shamed him and his reputation. For years, the Woodville family invaded the court, slithering in like the serpent that tempted man from the Garden of Eden. By the time the rebellion came around, Warwick was sick of it. He felt Edward was an unfit King, as unfit a King as old King Henry had been. Your own stories about what you saw, and how my brother behaved have confirmed his suspicions, and mine own. So, Warwick decided to work to make me King instead, because I would be a better King than Edward."
Marion paled. You, as King? God help us, we would be ruled by even more a drunkard than we already have!
"But, Warwick failed, and then decided to support the claim of the old Lancastrian King, Henry, and his son, Edward."
Why are the royal family naming all their children Edward? Do they not know how confusing that is? I am lucky, that I am the only Marion.
"But, Marion, God did come to me in a dream, and tell me that I was on the wrong path. So, in accordance with His holy will, I abandoned Warwick, and rejoined my brothers once more."
It had nothing to do with God! Marion wanted to shriek. You changed sides all the time because you are a greedy man who wants more than you need! You want more than what you have been given by God!
The door creaked, and Lady Isabel walked back into the room, her somber face hidden behind the gossamer fabric of her headdress. She resumed her seat in the chair beside Marion's stool, listening, wrapped, to her husband's tale.
"But, there was always one thing weighing on my conscience, Marion. And that thing was to do with Edward."
"Was it the rumours that he is a bastard?"
"How did you know?" the Duke looked at her, aghast.
Marion shrugged. "Everybody hears rumours, my Lord."
"Eh, very well then. Yes, this weight on my conscience is to do with those rumours. Now, Marion... can I trust you with something?"
Marion gulped, sweat beginning to form on her brow. Do not let him see your fear... do not let him see your fear...
"I-it depends on what it is, my Lord of Clarence..."
"Can I trust you to keep a secret?"
Meekly, the girl nodded, her brown hair falling from beneath the little coif she was wearing, and on to her sticky brow.
"Those rumours are true. Edward is not the son of the Duke of York. You said it yourself, he looks so different to Richard and me. He is so tall and... blonde. He is far too jolly and frivolous for English standards."
"B-but, I have met men like that, and they are truly English. My sister's bondman, Lord Digby, he is jolly, and can be frivolous – when he is deep enough in his cups that is-"
"Yes, but he is a mere commoner, not a man pretending to be a King."
Marion opened her mouth to protest, to say that no, Edward was not pretending, he was the true King – he had to be! George of Clarence was speaking nonsense and lies. Lies, vile, insane lies. Was he mad? Judging by the glint in his cold stormy blue eyes, the answer to that was, in Marion's opinion, yes.
Marion stayed with the Duke and Duchess of Clarence for a week before things began to go wrong – well, more wrong than they had been before. And for a few weeks after, things continued to go wrong. It was enough time to see things happen, things that frankly, Marion did not want to see. George began to spread his lies around court, struggling to gain support. The King, it seemed, was growing angry with his antics, and warned him many a time to stop. Marion herself, expressed a desire to return home; weather to Donington or Middleham, it did not matter. Anywhere would be better than this terrible place in London. It was this request that sent George overboard with her. He started ranting about how he should not have told her what he did, believing she would go and tell Dickon as soon as she was released to go home. In a desperate attempt to keep a potential enemy under his watch, George had Marion dress as a kitchen maid, and work downstairs with the women. She slaved away for days, collapsing into her bed at night with sore, trembling limbs. Every night she prayed, the same, desperate prayer:
Heavenly Father, please let me go home. Please let there be a way for me to go home.
The answer to her prayers came in the most unexpected form. Lady Isabel, the woman with the thin, solemn face, called the thin brown-haired girl to her rooms one day, simply stating that she wished for company as she watched her little daughter, Margaret, play. Margaret was of an age with her cousin, Neddy, though the two had never met. She was a sweet little girl, giggling, as she tottered from her mother's lap to a small kitten curled at the hearth. At one point in their time spent watching the girl, Lady Isabel picked her daughter up, placing her on her lap. She made a great fuss over smoothing down the unruly curls around her daughter's small ears. Marion quickly realised this was the Lady's way of saying she did not want to be overheard, or seen to be doing anything suspicious. Quietly, slowly, so as not to attract attention, Marion leaned in.
She felt the handkerchief before she saw it. Quickly, Marion tucked the white scrap of fabric into a small pocket in her dress – a feature Kate had added on to her favourite traveling dress for her.
Later, when Marion retired to her chambers after another hard afternoon in the kitchen, she pulled out the handkerchief and was startled to see smears of blood, the red contrasting starkly with the white of the cloth. Even more shocking, were the words the blood made.
Lord Lovell will get you out on the morrow.
Marion had not slept well at all that night. She tossed and turned in her bed, wondering who this "Lord Lovell" person could be. Logically, it was Francis Lovell, Dickon's best friend. But... mayhap there were other lords out there named Lovell? Was it even a common name, like Morton? Marion had shaken her head, rolling over again in bed. She would find out soon enough.
Only later that day, as Marion stumbled from one end of the kitchen to the other, struggling to heave a huge pan of boiling water from the fire at the end of the room to a spare part of the wooden bench, did she spot the green eyes staring at her. Without their normal glint of humour, it was hard to pick them out, hard to see that they belonged to a friend, hastily disguised as a servant. But when Marin did see that it was her friend, and not some smelly old man who gazed at her with an intensity that would make any other young woman cower in fear and shame, she was so relieved she could have flown over to him like a bird. Quickly, she heaved the pan onto the bench, rushing over to those sad green eyes. Warm, strong arms found her and pulled her into a tight embrace and for the first time in weeks, Marion felt safe.
"Come, Marion." Francis Lovell whispered. "Let us go, let us leave this place and get you back home."
"Where will we go?" she whimpered into his shirt.
"Donington le Heath. Your sister is worried sick about you. As soon as Dickon came and told her that you had outstayed your original visit time with Clarence, she began to panic. She feared you dead. Dickon sent me here to see for myself what became of you."
Marion nodded, taking his hand. "Then let us go,"
As they casually strolled out of the building, a building Marion would thankfully never see again, she smiled for the first time in what felt like months.
Upon returning to Donington under the heavy cover of nightfall, Marion and Francis were greeted by a flurry of activity. Unintelligible shrieking was their greeting from little Katheryn and John. Kate – and surprisingly Nan and Anne – smothered Marion with hugs and kisses. Kate cried into her sister's hair, running her nimble fingers through the tangled strands. Marion, in return, wrapped her arms around Kate's neck, clinging on for dear life. Out of all the people in her life, Kate was the most constant. Despite her bouts of rage when things did not go her way, Kate was her sister, and the closest thing she had ever had to a mother, and for that, Marion would always love her. The last one to greet her was Dickon. He dropped to his knees, and pulled her to him, kissing her brow in a brotherly fashion. He apologised profusely, blaming himself for what had happened. It took Marion no less than half an hour to convince him that Clarence's actions were not his fault. When all were calm, and sitting in the main room of Donington with Lord Digby and his wife, and their son Tommy, the adults agreed to focus not on the mistreatment Marion had suffered, but at the reason for said mistreatment: George's motives in the first place.
No matter how reassured Marion was by the consensus by the grown-ups, she still felt a niggling at the back of her neck; George's claims that his brother was a bastard, and that he was the rightful King were alarming at best. Something told Marion that these claims would not lead to anything good... no good ever came from a drunken madman with a claim to the English throne.
The attempted rebellion that shocked the nation to the core, and would have a lasting impression on history would come three years later; but, as Dickon so wisely said to young Marion:
"This is a consolidation period for George, he has done this before. His time with the Earl of Warwick showed it well, he would use those around him to gather as much information as possible, before going off to fight whatever cause his alcohol-drowned mind could come up with."
After the incident with the Duke of Clarence, seeing how close it came to a kidnapping, Dickon decreed one day while Marion and her loved ones were ensconced safely within Middleham's walls that he would personally teach her to fight. There had been mixed reactions to this. Lady Anne had been shocked that a girl would be using weapons, Kate had been furious – Marion was still a babe in her eyes, and babes should not wield swords or shoot arrows! Nan seemed coolly indifferent to the whole thing, advocating for the benefits of Marion learning self-defense. With that, there had been a pointed look at the three children, sleeping in their mothers' laps; if Marion could defend herself, she could defend others, too. So, then it had been agreed: Dickon would teach Marion swordplay.
Finding clothes for the girl had been difficult, something that held proceedings back a bit. Even though she did not see herself as a lady, and did not like fancy dresses and much fuss, Marion knew that it was wrong for girls to wear boys' clothes. She refused to wear a tailor-made tunic and hoes, stating that the tunic's hemline was too short for her. It came to mid-thigh, making the girl worry she would look improper while wearing it. "I'll look like my mother," she stated blandly ignoring the horrified and scandalised expressions on the adults' faces. Soon, a compromise was made. Tommy, Lord Digby's son, was a few years older than Marion. The tunics he wore were a few sizes too big for the girl, meaning that the hem fell halfway down the calf of her leg. Marion was happy with that. Letters were sent, and parcels returned bearing the old tunics. Lady Anne went to work on fixing the shoulders, so that the garment might fit Marion's narrow frame, Kate and Nan being unable to help her as they had to return to their homes.
Finally, all was sorted, and ready, for Marion to begin her training. She would remember the day she first held a sword clearly. It was a fine spring day, with birds chirping and animals scurrying around in the brush. The sun shone harshly, but not so harshly that the girl's vision was impeded at all. Marion stood with Dickon in the training yard at Middleham, where young boys sent to train there as squires would do their work. Dickon had ducked into the small smithy nearby, returning with a long, thin blade sheathed in a simple brown leather scabbard. When he unsheathed the sword, Marion was amazed at how shiny the live steel was. The blade was narrow, and looked almost flimsy, but there was something sturdy about it too. She could see strange markings carved up and down the blade, markings that looked almost ancient.
"I got this sword," Dickon said quietly, turning the blade around in front of him. "When George and I were exiled to Brittany during the worst of the last outbreak of war. I came upon it when we were forced to take shelter in the ruins of a castle one night. These markings here could be Viking runes, but I am not sure. If they are, I know not what they mean. The blade, Marion, is so small, it was either designed for a very young boy, or a woman to wield. That is why it would be perfect for you, see?"
He held out a hand, the hilt of the little sword facing Marion. Cautiously, she grasped it in her left hand, her strongest hand, grinning at its weight. She tried twirling it, flicking her wrist deftly, as she had seen Dickon do with his own sword, only to shriek when she almost cut herself in the face with the blade. Leaping back, the sword falling to the ground with a clatter, Marion scowled as Dickon chuckled, brushing errant hair out of her face.
"I only said to hold it, not try to spar with it." He chortled, stooping down to pick up the tiny blade. As he straightened, a look of pain crossed Dickon's face, but it was gone in the blink of an eye. "I will train you with a wooden sword, until you are able to use the sword adequately. Then, and only then, shall we move on to live steel."
Dickon trained Marion vigorously, rousing her every morning at dawn. She would change into her modified boys' clothes and follow her friend down, take up a small, wooden sword and run through basic forms. Under Dickon's kind-yet-firm tutelage and the cheers of her niece, nephew and Lady Anne, Marion progressed quickly. Dickon would often smile at her, saying that she had the strength and stamina of any man, that he was proud of her.
In those moments, Marion forgot who she was. She was no longer the bastard daughter of John Morton, Katherine Morton's little sister. She was Marion, strong and brave, and she loved it.