Chapter Text
Middleham’s hall was already packed with people, and dinner being long served in the chiseled plates adorning the tables, when Richard scurried into the room with ever-faithful Francis at his side, both boys quite breathless from their hurrying in the corridors. Their weaponry and horse-riding practice that afternoon had left them completely starving; and yet Richard Neville’s severe gaze fixing itself on them immediately, as soon as they entered the room, would’ve made anyone’s appetite vanquish instantly.
Seated at Warwick’s right side as the highest-ranked noble guest at his table, George shot the unfortunate younger boys one of his trademark mischievous smirks.
Richard could guess exactly what he would’ve liked to say in that annoying taunting tone of his: probably something the likes of oooh, my serious little brother is in trouble. Let’s see how you get out of this, Dickon!
Francis swallowed nervously at having all the attention from the high table on the two of them, and glanced sideways to his young lord and friend. “Don’t worry,” he whispered, attempting a strained grin. “I’m sure the Earl can’t really punish you too harshly at least, with you outranking him and all that…right?” he added hesitantly.
“Well, that is really very reassuring, Francis” Richard sarcastically huffed back. That wasn’t true and he knew it; as much as he was a little Duke, Richard Neville, the “Kingmaker”, was still his guardian. His status, instead, often meant he was the first to be blamed if something happened among the Earl of Warwick’s numerous wards: that was to teach him that, when he took men into battle, no one would be responsible for their actions but him, and he must be ready to accept the burdens of command as well as the privileges it brought.
To be honest, he wouldn’t have it any other way.
Steadying himself, he took a deep breath and headed closer to the high table, dragging Francis with him; and both boys offered their most apologetic bow to Warwick and Countess Anne.
The Kingmaker’s lips twitched in amusement. “Ah, there you are. My lost wards. Very thoughtful of you to grace us with your company.”
Richard tried to control the red of embarrassment that was threatening to creep up his face. “We are very sorry, dear cousin; but Francis is not at fault, I am.” He saw his friend trying to protest in the corner of his eye, but silenced him with a determined glance. “I insisted that we lingered on with the horses out in the moors, and made us late.”
He held Warwick’s scrutinizing gaze, trying to ignore his brother’s unimpressed expression. “We would have come straight away, but didn’t want to offend your table with our state, or the ladies...”
As he mentioned them, he gave a polite nod first to the always stony Countess, then to Isabel, who was seated next to her mother and seemed particularly glowing that evening, in her newest dress and elaborately-braided hair – was it only a cohincidence that she was looking her best when his brother was around?
However, as his lips spontaneously prepared to quirk in a tiny reassuring smile for his other, most adoring little cousin, whom he was about to turn to next, he had to stop dead in his tracks, suddenly realizing she wasn’t sitting by her sister as she should, nor was she anywhere to be seen.
Where could Anne be?
“My daughter has fallen ill today.”
Of course his silent flash of astonishment wouldn’t escape Warwick’s sharp eye, as much as the consequent flicker of worry which followed his explanation, which was exactly the reaction the Earl was expecting – and hoping for. Every other boy would be annoyed to have a small eight-year-old trailing their tail in admiration every time she could; but Dickon showed to take part in Anne’s games and to cherish her companionship equally as his other male friends’ – if a little more quietly, since it wasn’t equally proper – and the thought of their closeness pleased the Kingmaker greatly.
“Oh, but dear cousin, don’t make my little brother fret so. I understand ‘tis nothing more than a passing fever,” George chimed in, his tone clearly infused more with mockery for his brother than concern for the little girl’s health, “is it not, Isabel?”
The older girl shot him a surprised glance, secretly flattered at his chivalry in wanting to involve her in the conversation – like the betraying, if light, blush suffusing her cheeks was attesting. Seriously, it seemed George had her wrapped around his little finger, and Richard couldn’t see for the love of God what she admired so much in that exasperating attitude of his.
“Well, yes. One she wouldn’t have caught, had she not been climbing trees like a little monkey…such unladylike behaviour,” Isabel scoffed, her eyes still meaningfully directed to George, as if to make him notice in contrast how very composed and well-mannered she was; to which Richard rolled his eyes.
At least she’s not boring like you are, he thought. The times when the four of them had been playing all together, before George and Isabel decided it was suddenly improper for them to be seen engaging in such childish activities, seemed so far away, and he found himself missing them at times.
“Well, since my niece seems to have been up to some mischief of her own, I guess we ought to be a little more indulgent, just this once, with these two young gentlemen standing here. Don’t you think, brother?”
John Neville, who was also a guest at his brother’s table, lightly winked at the two boys; Dickon gratefully smiled back at him, both for speaking in their defense and preventing more ill-talking of Anne, while Warwick smiled condescendingly.
“You are right, Johnny; it seems I’m in no position to rebuke them, thanks to my daughter's efforts. And besides, I'm sure they will have learnt their lesson, since they will find very little left to eat by now. You may seat,” he concluded, indicating to the two of them their respective places. As Francis bowed respectfully and headed to the other wards’ table, he mouthed an imperceptible “good luck” in Richard’s ear, and the boy wondered for a moment what he’d meant; but as soon as he realized he was going to be seated next to George, and likely be the target of all his antics for the night, he thought that was punishment enough.
Dinner was indeed an interminable affair to him; but it was actually his worried thoughts for Anne that partially saved him, since George soon grew tired of teasing a brother that was only half-listening. As soon as he finally gave up on him, and asked Isabel for a walk in the moonlit gardens – which forced a way deeper blush out of her – Dickon seized the opportunity to bid the room goodnight and retire himself, exaggerating his drowsiness from the day; his mind, though, was on a very different destination from his room, and as he exited the hall making haste apologies again for his former belatedness, he missed the knowing look that passed between Lord Warwick and Countess Anne.
It seemed that, as far as both their daughters were concerned, they would be in no need to play matchmaker.
Anne’s chamber was half-hidden in darkness, with only a few candles still left lit in the corners to keep some light on until the young lady fell asleep. And asleep indeed the girl looked, at least until the heavy wooden door gave a betraying creak that made Richard wince internally.
“Izzy?” whispered the little girl in a drowsy voice.
“No…Dickon.”
“Richard!” Anne chirped happily, immediately pushing herself up from her covers, suddenly a lot more awake. Richard smiled at the use of his full name she appeared so determined in making, since – as she had seriously informed him with an adorable frown on her petite face – everyone else already called him Dickon, but she liked to “have her own names for the people that mattered the most” to her (she had blushed furiously – and adorably still – right after completing that sentence).
“You should stay under those,” he said, motioning towards the furs that were now crumpled at her waist in her attempt to sit up. “Don’t want your father to get angry at me again for making you catch more cold.”
He wouldn’t admit that, actually, he didn’t want to see her becoming sicker because he himself didn’t like one bit to see her all flushed and shivering lightly with fever like she was now.
“But it’s so boring being here with nothing to do!” Anne protested, but actually did as he suggested and lay back with a huff.
Her brows suddenly knitted together. “Why “again”?”
The boy ducked his head in embarrassment. “Er…Francis and I arrived very late at dinner. Your father was not pleased…and George just couldn’t shut up about it afterwards. You know, usual George behaviour.”
Anne indeed knew what he was on about and giggled softly, which soon turned into a light cough. “But you escaped,” she said, in a conspiratorial tone that made Richard laugh as well.
“Actually, he seemed to be quite happy, for once, to be taken away by your sister,” he chuckled.
The girl frowned a little at the mention of Isabel. “I don’t know why she likes him. I don’t like him very much…he is mean,” she pouted. “And Izzy never wants to play with me when he’s around...”
A sudden thought seemed to strike her, and at once a pair of wide blue eyes was fixed on him in a worried expression. “You’re not going to become mean like them, right, Richard?”
“Never!” Richard’s boyish face was suddenly, too, deadly serious. “I would never be like that to you, Anne.”
“Promise?” A spark of hope fluttered in her voice.
“Promise.”
Anne looked relieved and smiled at him gratefully from under the bed linens, before her fever sent her in new, more violent shuddering, even though little droplets of sweat were sticking to her forehead; and, as Richard reached out to secure the covers around her better, he was suddenly startled in noticing just then the very familiar pattern made of little golden threads on the old, faded light-yellow base of the blanket that had come under his fingers.
His very own, favourite blanket.
He had thought it had been lost in the messy haste that had been that freezing night when his mother had sent a frightened George and himself on a little ship headed to Burgundy. It had been the only thing he had been irrationally over-attached to, as kids often do with some particular possession of theirs whose importance only they understand, in all his childhood; but that had been the very night he had left his early, carefree years behind for good, and their vestiges with it. Somehow, the thought of Anne keeping and treasuring that small, unimportant piece of fabric for him for all this time made him feel a tingling, pleasant warmth inside.
The blanket, however, seemed to do very little to repay Anne’s care now: he could still see her small, half-covered form trembling from head to toe. In a rush of impulsive decisiveness, he swung the gold-embroidered cloth away and climbed onto the bed, snuggling himself close to her and throwing the fabric back upon them both.
Anne gave a startled squeak, her cheeks reddening with a whole different reason than being feverish. “Richard…what are you doing?...don’t want you…to get ill…” she protested, interrupted by her shuddering breathing.
“Keeping you warm,” Dickon said, matter-of-factly. “George did it for me when we were escaping from the Bad Queen on that ship. George hates snuggling…but he wasn’t mean George yet.”
The boy smiled at the memory. “I thought he was the bravest brother I could have then. Well…the second bravest. No one can be braver than Edward.”
Brazenly brave, Anne thought, remembering what she’d heard her father say about the young King; but she refrained to say so, in front of Richard’s well-known, unabashed admiration for his big, resplendent brother.
“Will you tell me about that night, Richard?” she asked instead, her eyes staring at him expectantly. “Please?”
Richard didn’t really like to talk about the constant fear and uncertainty those days had been; for while they seemed to have happened a lifetime ago, they still brought with them the aching pain of losing his father and Edmund, and that appeared not to be going to heal any time soon. However, lying together like that under his – to be fair, he was going to have to call it theirs now; and it actually felt strangely nice to know he was sharing something with her – old blanket, her big eyes watching him in anticipation from so close that he could have counted her eyelashes if he wanted, he found that he couldn’t have possibly denied his little cousin anything.
As he recalled his memories from that cold night on sea and weaved them into a bedtime tale for her, he was mildly aware of the growing drowsiness from the day enveloping them both, and making his words slur. The last thing he remembered noticing, before his eyes became too heavy with sleep, were the tremors coming from Anne’s tiny frame, squished tightly against him, finally subsiding, and her steady, sleeping breaths puffing lightly on his cheek.
His last conscious thought was that, much contrary to his brother dearest, he definitely liked snuggling.