To Take is Not to Give (3/?)

[lareinenoire]

Title: To Take is Not to Give (Part III of ?)
Author: lareinenoire
Play: 3 Henry VI / Richard III
Characters / Pairings: The York family, the Neville family, eventual Richard/Anne, Edward/Elizabeth
Rating: PG13
Wordcount: 4236 (Part III only)
Warnings: Violence (mostly offstage), character deaths, profanity. In this section, excessive quotation of Machiavelli and deeply dodgy politics.
Summary: Richard York and Anne Warwick are far more alike than either wishes to admit.
NB: Dedicated to rosamund and angevin2, who are the reason it exists. Part of the 'Sweet Fortune's Minions' AU, set directly after An Exchange of Favours. I have taken some liberties with the timeline in this section. Shakespeare's version diverges from the historical timeline by placing Warwick's alliance with Margaret before George's marriage to Isabel, which, although it gives us the (probably) unintentional hilarity of Act III, Scene III of 3HVI, doesn't actually make any sense from either Warwick's or George's point of view. So I have proceeded on the assumption that many, many things are happening offstage.

i. Methinks 'tis prize enough to be his son
ii. No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity
iii. I do but dream on sovereignty






Richard twirled the unlit cigarette between his fingers. It was his third that night; Ned and Hastings had nicked the first two, each remarking that a precious ration was wasted on him when he didn't even smoke the damned things.

Somehow, it had all turned into a bloody mess.

He should have guessed as soon as George insisted on engaging himself to Isabel Warwick in spite of Ned's objections. George developing a spine ought to have been warning enough. Yet, somehow--and Richard couldn't forgive himself for this oversight--he and Ned had let George slip through their fingers, just before frantic word arrived from Paris that Warwick and his newly-acquired son-in-law had been seen dining at Maxim's with Margaret Lancaster.

Even then, Ned had reacted with customary aplomb, unwilling to believe that George of all people would find the nerve to turn traitor. Least of all when George returned to London for Christmas, pretending nothing had happened.

"You're an idiot, George, if you think anyone is going to believe that, least of all Ned," he'd said, as his eyes strayed to Isabel, hovering behind George.

"Dickon, really." Already he was mimicking Warwick's mannerisms, rolling the words across his tongue as if tasting them, arching his back like a prideful cat. "Bel and I love one another. Why shouldn't we have married?"

Richard just looked at him, infusing the glare with as much scorn as he could see fit to muster. Much to his satisfaction, George's smile faltered, turning petulant.

"It's those damned Woodvilles, Dickon!" he hissed. "They've got Ned under their thumb, and he's content so long as that wife of his spreads her--" Catching Isabel's flushed cheeks from the corner of his eye, he cleared his throat. "You know what I mean."

"I don't see your point."

"Stop playing coy," snapped George. "You've said the same thing before and you know it."

Richard leant heavily on his cane as he rose to his feet. "I've never doubted that Ned's marriage was...unfortunate. But it's done, George. We can't change it."

"Can't we?"

They looked at one another across the cluttered desk. "Not like this. Not by wining and dining the woman who killed our father. Or have you forgotten that?"

George winced. "Do you honestly think I could?"

"You're doing a damned fine job of it so far." Richard made his way across the room, deliberately slowing his steps. "I'd suggest civility. And once Christmas is over, get out before you say something we'll all regret." Turning to Isabel, he inclined his head. "I'd congratulate you on the fine match but I do hate to lie."

Without waiting for an answer, he thrust open the door and stalked into the corridor, leaving George and Isabel staring in his wake.

He had to give them both some credit for discretion after that. Even Warwick paid a flying visit on Christmas Eve to offer belated congratulations to Ned and Elizabeth on the birth of their daughter.

The sight of Anne had caught him off-guard, not in the least because she was wearing red and it suited her. Ned had already remarked upon it though Anne, to her credit, did not vouchsafe so much as a blush. Beside her, Isabel's cheeks had already flushed pinker than her dress at whatever Ned was saying to her.

"Do you trust him?" The voice was low-pitched and resonant, its accents flawlessly patrician as only a woman who had clawed her way to Society's peak could manage. "George, I mean."

"One can always trust George," Richard replied, sotto voce. "It's simply a question of what he can be trusted to do."

Elizabeth had perfected the sort of frown that most women could only imagine, all pursed lips and not a line in sight to mar her face. "And what is that?"

"Whatever he feels is in his best interests, be damned to everyone else. George is a supremely selfish person. However, he lacks the mental capacity to do anything about it. Hence," he gestured toward Isabel, "Warwick."

"I don't like it."

"Neither does Ned. But it can't be helped now. We've got to work with it." He could feel her eyes on him, restless and questioning.

"Something must be done about Warwick," she said. "You've heard the rumours, I'm sure."

"About Margaret Lancaster?" Richard shrugged. "It does seem improbable, but the source is beyond reproach. What we don't have is proof that he's done anything. And so long as Ned can keep him in the country we at least have a better chance of finding out what he's up to."

In the end, it was Ned who succeeded in convincing both Warwick and George that a shooting-party in Yorkshire was just the thing, leaving Richard with whispered instructions to find out as much as he possibly could. "I don't care how, Dickon," Ned said, his eyes on Warwick. "I need to know what he's planning."

"He has to know, Ned. He's not an idiot."

"No," his brother murmured with a quirked smile, "but he is under the distinct impression that I am."

Richard couldn't argue that point. Elizabeth, however, did, the moment Warwick left.

"Have you lost your mind completely?" she demanded. "Is this your brilliant plan? To crouch in Yorkshire bracken with Warwick and George until one of them takes it upon themselves to shoot you instead of the fowl?"

"Lizzy, do stop worrying. Hastings will be there, and your father offered to come..."

"My father?" his wife all but shrieked. "I hope you refused."

"Nothing's going to happen--"

"You can't know that!" Elizabeth grabbed his hands and gazed at him imploringly. "Ned, even you don't trust him. You've told me so a thousand times. Please don't do this."

"She does have a point, Ned," Richard volunteered, prompting both his brother and sister-in-law to remember he was there. "When faced with two men who hold grudges against you, one of whom is Warwick, it seems rather inadvisable to hand them rifles."

"If Warwick wanted to kill me, I'm certain he would have done so by now."

"That doesn't mean it's a good idea to offer him the opportunity on a silver platter."

"E tu, Dickon?"

Elizabeth sighed. "Will you listen to him at least, Ned? You are always going on about how clever he is."

Richard held up his hands. "I was merely offering my opinion."

Ned sank onto the cushioned bench beside the stairs. "Will neither of you understand that I have a plan?"

"We acknowledge that you have a plan," said Elizabeth. "We also wish to point out that it's a very bad plan. But," she stepped back, holding up her hands, "if you insist, go on!"

"Lizzy, really--"

"I don't wish to discuss it any further." Turning on her heel, she stalked up the stairs and let the bedroom door slam behind her.

"Dickon?"

"I'm not saying anything." And he kept to that, even when the shooting party returned from Yorkshire several days early, bearing George with a cast on his leg. Apparently, owing to some unfortunate confusion regarding the location of a pheasant nest, someone had shot him through the knee. Ned later confessed that he had insisted upon George borrowing his hat some two hours prior to the incident and presented Elizabeth with a mink as an extravagant apology for not taking her advice.

"I wish to point out," Richard informed his brother dryly, "that I still insist upon first preference where limited seating is concerned."

The accident, naturally, made it impossible for George to leave London for several months, during which he did his level best to make the entire household as miserable as possible. Even Isabel's supposedly infinite patience gave out in a screaming match that ended with three broken vases and George locked in the powder-room for two hours. Richard let him out only after Isabel had stormed into the January wind, muttering something about Harrods.

George glared at him. "You can stop being so bloody self-righteous, Dickon."

"Maybe I should lock the door again if you're going to keep this up."

Moving far quicker than a man on crutches ought to have done, George hobbled past him into the corridor. "I'll get him back. Just you wait."

"I can only assume you mean Ned."

"Stop being coy. You know exactly what I'm talking about."

Richard took his time before remarking that perhaps he ought to have considered that before trying to shoot Ned in the first place, if only to enjoy the expression of comical rage on his brother's face.

Perhaps he ought to have been more circumspect. But it was far too much fun to wind George up, and rare enough that he allowed himself the luxury. And, besides, it had been a clean shot, and the doctor had assured George that, if he did as he was told, he would regain full use of his leg. This last said without looking at Richard.

Warwick had, much to everybody's surprise, chosen to stay in London for the full period of George's convalescence, although his younger daughter had fled back to Cambridge at the first possible opportunity. Richard could hardly blame her for that and told her as much, eliciting a wry smile.

"Perhaps it's shameful, but I don't care," she said, straightening to look him in the eye. "I'm not married to him."

"Thank God for small miracles?"

Anne laughed. "Poor Bel. I still can't understand why she did it."

"Miss Warwick," Richard lowered his voice, stepping closer to her, "I'm quite certain it was your father's doing."

The smile disappeared from Anne's face, replaced by a shuttered mask. "It was a good match in theory. Simply not in practice."

"You're not going to tell me anything, are you?"

She lowered her eyes for a split second before looking at him again. "I don't think it will matter in the end whether I do or not."

Richard held out his hand on reflex. "Are you so certain of that?"

"I am sorry. But this is larger than my father and Ned. Far, far larger." She shivered, drawing the furred collar of her coat higher about her neck. "I don't know anything useful. If I did, I would--"

She stopped short, eyes suddenly focused behind Richard. When he glanced over his shoulder, he found Warwick looking back at him, his expression thoughtful.

It really was only a matter of time before Warwick invited him to his club for a drink. Ensconced in a predictable leather armchair and slowly nursing a truly excellent Scotch, Richard was even willing to endure the usual small talk, but Warwick surprised him by coming directly to the point.

"I have no doubt, Dickon, that you are aware of how your brother has disappointed me."

"I'm sure you'll pardon me for saying, sir, that the blind man who lives in the subway under Marble Arch knows how my brother has disappointed you."

Warwick's smile was all the more surprising for being genuine. "You don't mince words, do you?"

"One of the few luxuries granted to one in my position," Richard replied, raising his glass in a mocking toast. "But, yes, I do know. Ned's marriage was...unexpected."

"I could have given him the Continent, Dickon. The young lady Bonne Savoyen was everything he could have wanted and more." He sighed, retrieving a Cuban cigar from the box beside his chair. "You see, don't you, how that woman and her family are ruining Ned?"

Richard made a non-committal noise. What he saw never quite seemed to agree with what everybody around him insisted he saw.

"They're Communists," Warwick hissed. "Or close enough for my tastes. Have you seen them? That brother of hers might as well write for Pravda. And don't start me on the mother."

"I do seem to remember seeing something about unsavoury connections in Paris, although," Richard paused for effect, "to be fair, it was in your paper."

Warwick held up his hands. "They report what they hear. It's a pity when such things come to light. Of course, Ned seems disinclined to listen to reason." He took a long drag on the cigar. "He's always had a predilection for beautiful women--with his looks, who wouldn't? But this was badly done, Dickon, badly done."

"So I've been told."

"Dickon, you're a young man with great gifts. Your father always spoke very highly of you." At Richard's nodded acknowledgement, he continued. "And there's so much more to the world than managing Ned's estate. Wouldn't you like to be part of something greater, something that will change the very face of this world?"

"To what exactly are you referring, sir?"

"The British Empire, on which the sun never sets, is falling into decay as Rome did before it, and something must be done." Richard suspected he was meant to state aloud the conclusion he had already reached, but instead merely smiled. Warwick's returned grin was wolfish. "You want me to say it."

"I would hate for there to be any sort of misunderstanding between us."

"Germany."

"Fascism, you mean." Richard took a slow drink. "I had wondered if your inclinations had followed those of our former King."

"Another whose predilection for unsuitable women led him to ruin," Warwick observed with a sigh. "Ned ought to have taken heed. But the time for that is long past." His eyes met Richard's, dark and unreadable as his daughter's. "I could make you exceedingly wealthy."

"I already am."

"Ned's money is not yours." He cleared his throat. "Not yet, at any rate."

"You forget your son-in-law."

Warwick waved his hand dismissively. "George is a great disappointment."

"Not that great, surely. You can't have expected very much of him." Richard's fingers danced on the ivory handle of his cane. "What you gained in tractability, you lost in brains."

"I shan't make that mistake again."

"It certainly does not seem so. Margaret Lancaster," he paused, gauging the other man's reaction and finding disappointingly little, "is many things, but tractable is not one of them."

"Dickon, do stop dancing about."

"But it's the only way for me to dance."

"Touché." Warwick laughed shortly. "Very well. I'm asking you to join me, Dickon. You're far too clever to spend your life in Ned's shadow."

Richard looked at him long and hard before rising to his feet. "Do you take me for a fool, sir?"

"Why, no, Dickon. Surely the fact that I'm telling you anything at all indicates that I think nothing of the sort." A frown twitched at the other's mouth, betraying him. "Come, now. Speak your mind."

"As you said, sir, there are many things that one hears about Germany in this great day and age, not the least of which is that der Führer is building a perfect race." Leaning heavily on his cane, he pulled off the glove covering his ruined left hand. "I can assure you, sir, that I would have no place in the Third Reich's world order."

Warwick's eyes flickered briefly downward, and back up to Richard's face. "Disappointing. I had expected a less simplistic outlook."

"Simplicity has nothing to do with it, sir. This is fact." With a flick of his good hand, twisted fingers disappeared from view beneath a mask of black leather. "Like it or not, Hitler has no use for cripples, however clever."

"Hitler will not be around forever." Warwick rose to his rather impressive full height, some half a head taller than Richard. "At least consider it."

Richard nodded slowly. "I hope you know, sir, that I am gratified for the offer, regardless of my final decision."

"I would not make you a catspaw, Dickon. I do hope you understand that. I have too much respect for you."

"I should hope so. I should hate to die in as undignified a manner as George so nearly did."

Warwick let out a bark of laughter. "I must give Ned credit for that particular turn of events. He has the damndest luck."

"That he does." Richard smiled. "Fortuna favours the bold."

"Indeed." Warwick seemed to consider for a moment before adding, as Richard finished the last of his Scotch, "Oh, Dickon, something I nearly forgot. What, exactly, is going on between you and my daughter?"

"Your daughter?" Richard blinked. "I wasn't aware that anything was going on."

"Annie is..." he shook his head, "difficult, on occasion. But she is cleverer than one might anticipate."

"She does see a great deal, yes." Richard allowed, for the first time unsure of where this was leading. "Am I to assume, sir, that you are proposing some sort of alliance?"

"You may assume that." Warwick, as if sensing Richard's hesitation, stepped closer. "I must admit, it hadn't occurred to me before, but now that I think on it..."

"Sir, with all due respect," Richard interjected, "I haven't agreed to anything."

Warwick looked at him for a moment, then held out his hand. "Of course you haven't. Take all the time you need."

Richard shook the proffered hand, meeting Warwick's eyes as he did so. "And if I refuse?"

"Then that will be that."

"No retribution?"

Warwick's smile flickered behind the cigar. "I cannot promise that accidents will not happen, Dickon. I can give you my word that I'd bear you no malice. A man must look out for himself, after all. But I can't help but think my Annie would get the worse end of the bargain if you decided to stay with Ned."

"As you said, a man must look out for himself."

Warwick chuckled. "I hope you plan to milk Ned for all he's worth. He doesn't deserve you."

"Just desserts rarely happen in this world, but I'll keep it in mind." With a last grin of his own, Richard made his slow, methodical way to the door.

It should not have surprised him then, that Warwick bided his time. And that the blow, when it came, was swift. They all listened, even little Elizabeth on her father's lap, Ned's eyes wide and uncomprehending in her face, as Prime Minister Chamberlain handed the Sudetenland to Hitler for hollow-tinged promises of peace.

"Peace for our time," echoed Ned, ruffling his daughter's hair. "I thought the last war was meant to give us that."

"It won't last." Elizabeth's brother Anthony looked up from a battered book he'd been poring over in the corner. "He'll eat the Continent alive, and we're letting him do it."

"Tony, please." Elizabeth placed her hands over the little girl's ears. "Not in front of the children."

"They'll know soon enough when they're forced to learn German in school--"

"Enough!" she snapped. "Ned, switch it off."

Richard's fingers twitched toward the telegram in his jacket pocket, arrived just that morning from Berlin: Amando li uomini a posta loro, e temendo a posta del principe, debbe uno principe savio fondarsi in su quello che è suo, non in su quello che è d'altri.*

It was damned tempting. He could hardly deny that, Machiavelli notwithstanding. He might even have given Warwick the benefit of the doubt as to his purported respect. The fact that he'd told Richard anything at all had to mean something.

All the same, as his attention drifted to Ned, he found himself wondering at the one thing Machiavelli had confessed the greatest prince could not control. Even Warwick had said it himself--Ned had the damndest luck.

And if Fortuna was indeed a woman, Richard had no doubt which man she would choose. He sent his reply the next morning: Bisogna che elli abbi uno animo disposto a volgersi secondo ch'e' venti e le variazioni della fortuna li comandono.** Although I cannot regret it as such, I regret that it came to this.

In retrospect, trying to predict Fortuna's whims was not the cleverest of Richard's ideas. This was confirmed less than a year later when he was awakened at gone three in the morning by the sound of desperate pounding on the door to his flat.

"Richard! For God's sake, open the bloody door!" He recognised William Hastings' voice, filled with uncharacteristic panic. "It's Ned, dammit! It's all gone to hell in a handbasket, and I've got no idea what to do..."

Ignoring the twinges of pain in his leg, Richard limped to the door and pulled it open. "Get inside, quickly."

Hastings' story spilled out in a somewhat incoherent torrent and his hands were shaking around the glass of whisky Richard had given him. Something about Ned meeting a mysterious woman at the Ritz--at this, Richard lowered his forehead into his hands, knowing exactly where things were going--and the next thing they knew, Warwick appeared. "He must have paid her off, the bastard."

"He knows Ned's weaknesses," Richard mused. "Where did he meet her?"

"A party. I can't remember which." Hastings leant back in the chair. "Christ, Richard, what are we going to do?"

Richard didn't answer at first, his eye caught by the newspaper he'd left sitting on the table earlier that evening. Germans invade and bomb Poland. Britain mobilises.

"The entire world has gone to hell in a handbasket, Hastings," he said. "But what I don't understand is what on earth Warwick is doing here..." trailing off, he reached for the paper. "He can't stay long. Not in his position. He'll need to get out of England before they detain him for being a Nazi collaborator."

Hastings caught sight of the headline and let out a quiet but vicious string of profanities. "I expect I'll find a telegram at home, demanding my immediate presence." At Richard's querying look, he added, "RAF, '19 to '31. I hadn't thought they'd need me again, but..." His eyes widened. "Hold on."

"What?"

"Do you remember when Ned got that bee in his bonnet about learning how to fly? Before Lizzy Grey," that with an expressive eyeroll, "made her grand entrance?"

"I think I do," Richard said slowly. "Our mother nearly had a fit when he told her. She thought he was going to get himself killed, and you suggested the Volunteer Reserves, so he'd at least learn from people who knew what they were doing..."

Hastings was smiling widely. "Warwick can't hold him. He's got an ironclad excuse. Serving God and Country."

"Dulce et decorum est, and so forth," Richard added with a grin of his own. "Are they still at the Ritz?"

"Either there, or Warwick's house, I should think."

"Right." Richard started toward the bedroom. "Stop at Curzon Street, see if there's a telegram for Ned. If so, bring it, and I'll meet you at the Ritz. If not..." he waved his hand, "I'll think of something. Hurry!"

It was with a positively glowing sense of satisfaction that Richard stepped out of the lift at the Ritz to find himself facing Warwick. Reaching into his pocket, he held up the official telegram from the Chief of Air Staff calling for permanent service one Edward York, RAFVR.

Warwick's smile did not reach his eyes. "You've outdone yourself, Dickon."

"Have you read the headlines?" Richard asked sweetly. "I'll give you three hours before I inform the authorities. I'm sure they'll be positively dying to track down one of the men responsible for the Prime Minister's little overindulgence last year."

The smile flickered out. "Pity."

"I suggest you make for Dover and leave my brother to me."

Warwick might have said more, but one of the men guarding the door murmured something in his ear. With one last lingering look at Richard, he stepped past him into the lift.

Ned, who had been lounging half-dressed near the window, jumped to his feet as they opened the door, a smile breaking across his face. "I don't think I've ever been happier to see you, Dickon."

"You might be less happy when you see this." Richard handed him the telegram. "You missed the news. We are officially at war with Germany, and you have been ordered to report for duty."

A frown pinched between his brows, Ned read the telegram. "I suppose I have been." He looked at Hastings. "Does Lizzy know?"

"I can't say. But you haven't the time, Ned." Hastings tossed a suitcase onto the bed. "We need to go, and quickly."

He hesitated, glancing between the letter and the suitcase. "Have I got time to write her a note, at least? Dickon?"

Richard nodded. "Get dressed first. You dictate, I'll write it."

About halfway through the dictation, Ned snatched the pen from Richard's hand, adding several scrawled lines below Richard's carefully formed script. After signing it, he handed the folded paper to Richard. "See that she gets it, Dickon."

The note, which Richard reread as the car made its way from the Ritz back to Curzon Street in the twilight, caught him rather by surprise.

Darling--

First and foremost, I need you to keep calm. Withdraw as much in sterling from Dyal's as they permit you. Then, take the children and go to Carnarvon Hall. Take whatever servants you need, but make certain you've shut up the house before you go. Do not, under any circumstances, stay in London.

Do not fear for me, love. Take care of yourself and the children, and remember that, no matter what happens, I will always come back for you.

Your own,
Edward

Richard tucked the letter into his pocket and sighed.

Yes. It had all turned into a great bloody mess.

Part IV

______________________________________

* Machiavelli, Il Principe, Cap. XVII: 'I conclude that since men love at their own inclination but can be made to fear at the inclination of the prince, a shrewd prince will lay his foundations on what is under his own control, not on what is controlled by others.'
** Machiavelli, Il Principe, Cap. XVIII: 'Thus he has to have a mind ready to shift as the winds of fortune and the varying circumstances of life may dictate.'