Red Rose, White Rose. Joanna Hickson

      I shrugged. ‘I tried not to stay within call. I suppose I was an unruly little girl.’

      ‘Yes, you were.’ Richard shifted about to make himself comfortable on the soft cushions. Afternoon sun shining through the leaded panes bathed us in soft, golden light. ‘But I admired you even then,’ he added – as an afterthought, it seemed.

      ‘Admired me?’ I echoed. ‘I thought you considered me silly and annoying.’ I had a sudden recall of a particularly disdainful look when I was in trouble following one of my illicit rides.

      ‘No, I never thought you silly. Annoying perhaps but mostly because you were so confident you would be forgiven whatever you did. And of course you always were.’

      I gave a little laugh. Had he known what I was thinking? But what he said was true. I said, ‘I was spoiled; an occupational hazard of being the youngest child in a large family.’

      ‘I envied you that privilege.’ Richard leaned forward, suddenly earnest. Once again he took my hand in his, clasping it gently. His palm was callused from wielding his sword and I could feel the scratch of the raised skin against mine. ‘I should like us to have a large family, Cicely.’

      I felt myself blushing again and berated my lack of self-control. ‘We must be content with whatever God sends I suppose,’ I murmured. I stared down at our joined hands and had a sudden image of how our bodies would be joined after our marriage. It would be so soon after John – but perhaps that was just as well. A shiver ran down my spine but Richard seemed not to notice.

      ‘I am the last of a line,’ he was saying. ‘The House of York needs sons. I intend to make the white rose flourish and there will be much to pass on to the next generation. Still, as you say, it is in the hands of God.’

      He was fiddling with the betrothal ring on my middle finger. ‘I remember when you put that ring on my finger,’ I said. ‘You did not look as if you admired me then. You are greatly changed from the boy that was my father’s ward.’

      ‘I hardly knew you. You were only eight or nine and I did not want to be betrothed to anyone. But on the contrary, Cicely, it is you who are most changed. You have become beautiful.’

      His use of the word unnerved me. Emotion and memories rose like a tide and I could feel the same frisson running up my arm as I had when John had used it, only a few days ago. Was I so gullible, so vulnerable to flattery? I snatched my hand away but managed to hide the action as if assailed by a sudden sneeze, pulling my kerchief from my sleeve pocket.

      ‘Please forgive me.’ My words were muffled in the kerchief. ‘It is not an ague – just dust I think. Or perhaps I am not used to flattery.’ I managed another little laugh, turning back and tucking the kerchief away again. ‘At least I hope my appearance coincides with what you consider appropriate in a duchess, although I am afraid you find me rather plainly attired today. It is Lent …’

      He shook his head. ‘You look just as I hope I may see you many times in the future, in private moments. But I do believe that greater display is needed for public appearances. People love a spectacle and it is important that we give our vassals reason to bend the knee. With you by my side they will have splendour and beauty. And to that end I have something for you which I hope you will wear at our wedding.’

      He opened the gilded leather purse he wore on his belt and took out a silk pouch, tied at the neck. I gasped as he tipped it over his palm. Shards of brilliance began to dance around us when the object it contained caught the light from the window. It was a brooch, fashioned to represent the wild English rose from which the York emblem was derived. Five white diamonds set in gold were laid like petals around a large central stone of a much yellower colour, such as I had never seen before. The gems seemed to pulse with life in his hand.

      ‘I had it made for you by a London goldsmith,’ he said. ‘The middle stone is a yellow diamond and very rare. May I pin it on your gown?’

      We both stood up. My gown was fashioned with a central opening at the neck, through which the white linen and lace of my chemise showed. He pinned the brooch to my bodice, just above where the gown was cinched under my bust by a gold-braided girdle. I felt the pressure of his fingers on my breasts and was sure he could sense the nipples pucker. He smiled as if he knew my knees had gone weak and leaned in to kiss my mouth, raising his hand to caress the back of my neck. His lips left a warm, soft imprint on mine.

      ‘It is the first of many jewels I shall give you, Cicely, for beauty demands beautiful things. I look forward greatly to our wedding on Tuesday but even more to our life together afterwards.’

      Due to the season there were no fresh white roses at my wedding, which took place before a large assembly of guests in the Baron’s Hall at Raby, but the white rose symbol featured liberally on the heraldic banners hanging from the rafters, on the badges of many of the guests and in the elaborate embroidery on the new ducal mantle draped on the shoulders of the bridegroom. As I stood before the Duke of York, waiting to confirm my betrothal commitment to him, I wondered if my father had envisaged this white rose challenge to the red rose of Lancaster, to which he had been so faithful. Up to the time of our marriage affinity badges had been small and inconspicuous; noble support for Lancaster had mainly been signified by the wearing of the double S collar and any rivalry between the red rose and the white had been restricted to the jousting lists. There was no reason to suppose that my union with Richard would be anything more than a peaceful one between two dynasties for the purposes of perpetuating their lines and establishing an accord between their families. However, looking back on the day I suppose we might have detected the first signs of discord, stirred by the flamboyance of Richard’s retinue with their conspicuous white rose badges and the sly jokes this inspired among the other attendant peers, not least my own brothers.

      At Richard’s invitation, the nuptial mass in the castle chapel was presided over by the elderly bishop of Durham, Thomas Langley, a former Chancellor of England and an eminence grise of the Church. As he blessed our union I found the venerable Bishop’s gnarled hand on my head a reassuring reminder of God’s promise of forgiveness and in return I made a silent vow of marital faithfulness.

      The wedding feast lasted well into the night, impressive for its ten ceremonial courses with their seemingly endless procession of dishes that were paraded shoulder-high around the hall before being removed to the carvers and divided into portions; for the ingenious table-fountains which flowed constantly with wine and hippocras and for the army of tumblers, mummers and minstrels that had travelled from far and wide to entertain us in the intervals while one course was cleared to make way for the next. From my seat of honour beside Richard at the high table I watched the guests grow drunker and the dancing become wilder and I laughed and smiled while my stomach churned with anxiety so that I ate little and drank less. I watched my mother nodding and laughing with Bishop Langley while on her other hand my brother Hal barely cracked a smile. Perhaps he was worrying about his absent wife Alice, who might at that moment be birthing their latest child.

      I could not begin to imagine how much all this revelry had depleted the Neville coffers but Richard was well pleased by it. ‘I confess I had wanted to hold our wedding at my castle of Fotheringhay,’ he whispered during the feast, ‘but your lady mother wrote that her husband had made a point of leaving special funds for our nuptials, providing they were held at Raby. It was a long way for my vassals to travel but this feast alone has made it worth their while. However, they are just having a feast, whereas I have gained a brilliant and beautiful duchess.’

      My new husband raised the jewelled gold bridal cup we shared. On an impulse I leaned in close to hold the lid beneath it as I had used to do for my father and Richard’s eyes lit up in delighted surprise. ‘Thank you, my lady wife; no female has ever done that for me before. While we both live I shall never allow another to do so.’

      This was no tipsy wedding promise. I understood his implied declaration of marital loyalty and when he had drunk, I gently took the cup from him and turned it, then pressed my own lips to where the rim was still warm from his and sipped at the rich red wine. Our eyes locked and I knew we had exchanged a solemn vow. ‘I shall hold you to that, my lord,’ I said softly.