A Rose for the Crown (99 page)

“Richard!” she screamed, dropping the cup and trying to rise. Roger gently forced her down. Her eyes were wide, and she shrank back in the chair like a cornered animal. “Oh, no, not Richard! Please, God, let it not
be true!” She clutched Roger’s doublet. “Master Wygston, say ’tis not true.”

Thanks to his wife’s revelation, Roger knew Kate was referring to the king. He gently removed her fingers from his doublet and held them. He could not say the words she wanted to hear. Mistress Wygston had dried her tears and now rubbed lavender oil on Kate’s temples, hushing her as Kate’s grief began in earnest. Her uncontrolled weeping embarrassed Roger, who retired with the curious children, leaving the women to tend her.

“I knew he should never have taken off the necklace . . . and the magpie . . . the old witch . . . Oh, woe, I wish I could die. My love, my dearest love . . . I should have warned him. Why did I not warn him—stop him? Sweet Mother of God, help me . . . Where is Margaret? I need Margaret!” At Margaret’s name she gave another cry. “Oh, no, not Jack, too, ’tis not possible. What am I to do? Oh, woe . . .”

She pressed her hands to her heart. Was it broken? Why did it hurt so badly? It was as though someone had punched her there. She could not breathe for the ache, and the tears that ran down her throat choked her. Between them, Edith and Mistress Wygston eased her from the chair and helped her upstairs to bed.

The wrenching sobs into her pillow during the next few hours might have been heard in the street had not pandemonium broken out there. Hundreds of fleeing men-at-arms ran through the streets to reach the road for home through the north or east gates, begging citizens for food to sustain them on their journey. A youth burst through the Wygston front door, his face covered with blood, and begged for water or ale. Roger sent to the kitchen for food and drink and sat the boy down at the family table.

“What news can you give us, lad? We know the king is dead and also Norfolk. What of the Stanleys, Brackenbury, Surrey? What of them? And how was the king slain?” Roger talked fast, knowing the boy must leave or be caught. The archer was trembling and close to tears.

“I know not how the king died, sir. I saw him charge down the hill with only a few mounted men. ’Twas after our lord of Norfolk was killed and we were scattering. I did not stay to find out the manner of the
king’s death. All I know is that Oxford’s men fought well and they captured the earl. Brackenbury is dead, I know that.”

“The earl? Which earl? Northumberland?” Roger demanded.

“Pshaw! Northumberland sat on his fat arse and never moved. Traitorous whore! His force was the rear guard or reserve. All he did was guard his own rear! Nay, ’twas Surrey, Howard’s son, who was captured. With Northumberland we might have prevailed. But when we heard ‘Treason’ and ‘The king is slain,’ me and my comrades knew ’twas time to flee.” He shook his head, eyes wet with tears. “I will never forget this day. I hope I do not live long enough to see another battle. ’Twas hell on earth.”

When the food arrived, he wolfed down a whole meat pie and some cheese, washed down with a jugful of ale. Roger gave him a loaf of bread and urged him to leave while he could. Fortunately, the fearful sounds from Kate’s chamber had stopped, and Roger presumed she had fallen asleep. He left the house and ran down to the Soar to witness the beginning of the new reign.

Tudor’s first act did not impress him, as he told the household later. The Gloucester herald, carrying a tattered banner of the White Boar, had been forced to bring his king’s body back to Leicester. A lone drummer preceded the weeping horseman. The townspeople gasped when they saw his baggage. Richard’s naked body had been flung behind the herald and tied onto his horse like the kill from a hunt. The silence turned into angry murmurs. As the unlucky man rode over Bow Bridge, his horse stumbled, and Richard’s flopping head struck the stone, just as the hag had foreseen. Roger was shocked by the ignominy to which the once proud king of England’s body was now subjected. Bloody gashes and livid bruises covered every inch of his limp corpse. Henry had not even afforded him a covering for his private parts.

“God damn this Tudor,” Roger said to his wife when he finished the tale. “King Richard was the Lord’s anointed. He should have been treated with honor.” He shook his head. “I will say this for my fellow citizens, they gave Richard their homage in silence, many on bended knee. Then I saw the Tudor. Never saw a man look more like a ferret. Pale, shifty eyes he has, a thin, mean face and straggly hair the color of a mouse. I saw nothing to recommend him, wife. ’Twas certain he had men planted in
among us to shout ‘God save King Henry,’ but only a few took up the cry, I am happy to say. Not content with demeaning the late king, he was already wearing Richard’s crown.”

K
ATE SLEPT THROUGH
Henry’s entry into the city, and Edith did not wake her for supper. She was dreaming of Bywood Farm. She was nine years old again, watching her mother skin a rabbit. Martha turned to look at her, and Kate was horrified to see it was the face of Margaret Beaufort, grinning at her. Margaret Beaufort lifted a hatchet and began hacking off the rabbit’s head—chop—chop—chop—

She woke up as the sound penetrated into her dream. There it was again, a rap upon the window. Her room was lit by the moon. Edith was snoring lightly next to her and the two Wygston girls were curled up on their trundle bed, fast asleep. She got out of bed, opened the casement and peered down into the shadows of the street.

“Who is there?” she called in a whisper. Her head was pounding behind her swollen eyes, but the tapping’s persistence drew her like a beckoning finger. It did not occur to her to be afraid.

“’Tis John. Mother, let me in! Quickly!”

Safely inside, he clung to her, his manly bearing lost in the welcome embrace of his mother. They sat by the light of a candle, staring into the gloom beyond. They were the only two left with whom Richard had shared his heart: his first love and his beloved bastard son.

“He almost reached him. He was so close,” John murmured.

Kate frowned. “What do you mean, son?”

“After Norfolk was slain, ’tis said Father suddenly took it into his head to charge himself directly at Henry, who was skulking somewhere behind his army but with his standard clearly marking him. For some reason—my Lord Lovell and Sir Robert tried to gainsay him—Father chose to wear his crown around his helmet.”

Kate could hardly believe her ears. “Such folly!” she exclaimed. She was full of questions but let him catch his breath.

“Lord Lovell and others of the household followed him through the fighting. Father appeared to have God-given strength, he mowed down so many in his path. His axe took down Henry’s bodyguard, a giant of a man, and his standard bearer. But his horse went down in the marsh—
Redemore Plain is full of foul marshland—and he was left horseless. My lord Lovell said he heard a cry of ‘Treason’ from him, and there were red coats everywhere—the uniform of that turncoat, William Stanley. Oh, Mother, ’tis too terrible to contemplate the agony of Father’s death. He was surrounded and on foot, but he fought on with his sword until the thrusts by so many cowards finally . . .” He could not finish. His young imagination was reliving the slaughter, but he could not bring himself to pronounce the words that his beloved father was dead. He put his head in his hands and let the tears fall.

“Holy Mother of God,” Kate whispered. “Would no one come to his aid? Where was Thomas Stanley? He had a great force with him.”

John lifted his head and sneered, “Turncoat! Traitor! The name of Stanley will forever have that meaning. He sat and watched his brother kill the king. What disgusts me more is that same Stanley saw fit to place my father’s crown on the Tudor’s head! Oh, how I wish I had been able to follow Father. I might have saved him—”

“You did your duty, John, and should be proud. You could not have saved him, my dear, although ’tis a noble thought.” She patted his knee. “What I cannot understand is why Richard took such a risk. He must have known that if he died, the battle was lost.”

“Aye. But with Henry dead, their
cause
would have been lost! ’Tis what my lord told us. The York line would still be secure with my cousin Lincoln as heir.” They sat in silence only broken by the cracks and snaps of the settling house and sputters of the guttering candle.

Kate hardly dared ask, “Who else was slain? I know about Jack Howard.”

“Brackenbury, Ratcliffe, John Kendall and Sir Robert Percy I know for certain.”

“Rob! Dear Rob! Oh, ’tis too cruel.” More tears sprang to her already well-washed eyes. “Richard loved him and Francis the best of his friends. And Francis, where is he now?”

“He is gone into sanctuary. He gave me leave to come, and from here I shall go north to Middleham. He believes Henry will not harm me once I am with my cousins. I will write from there, I promise.” He held her close. “There is only you and I now, Mother.”

Kate kissed him. This was not the time to tell John of his brother. She had one last question of him. “Do you know where your father is now?”

“I did not dare look for him, but a groom told me he had been taken to the Grey Friars. ’Tis said Tudor did not even cover him. Poor father!”

“I shall go and offer prayers for him from us both, have no fear. Now you must leave.”

After filling his bags with food, she led him to the Wygston stables and gave him her horse. They embraced one last time. “God speed, John. Go, quickly! Write to me in Suffolk when you are safe. And never forget I will love you always.”

“And I you, Mother.” He turned the horse and trotted out into the street.

W
RAPPING HERSELF
in her cloak, she used the moonglow to light her path through the sleeping city to the Grey Friars’ gardens. She saw the watch approaching along the High Street and ducked into the trees. She gave a little cry as she fell over something on the ground. Dozens of bodies, brought there to be claimed after the battle, littered the ground. She was almost sick as she trod on one whose belly was slit open, its intestines slithering out on the dewy grass. Armless, legless and sometimes headless, the moon picked out such horrors that she was frantic to leave the place. She found a bush and sank down beside it, weeping for such senseless slaughter. The plant’s fragrance relieved the sickly smell of blood and death, and she pulled a blossom closer. It was a white rose. York’s rose. Carefully, she broke it from its branch and carried it with her to the church. The door was not locked, so she grasped the wrought-iron handle and let herself in.

In the glow of a hundred candles, ten monks kept vigil around Richard’s battered body. A low murmur of prayer calmed her nerves and removed her from the gory spectacle of the garden. A monk turned when he heard the door open, and he smiled at Kate, although he may have wondered why a woman would break curfew to view the dead king. Kate fell to her knees when she saw Richard. The monks had cleaned his wounds and laid a simple woolen cloth over him from the chest down.
But his face was barely recognizable between the gashes, crushed nose and bruises. It made her recall the knight’s face of her dream. She gave a little moan and crossed herself. The monks eyed her curiously as she leaned forward to place the rose on the blanket. They moved to allow her nearer, and she settled herself by his head and began to pray.

Soon her praying gave way to reliving memories. Their first meeting; the look he gave her when she sang for him at Tendring; the clumsiness of their first lovemaking; his wonder at his first child; the water hole near Bury. She thought of his loyalty, the most important aspect of his character, how deeply he gave of it and how often it had been betrayed. Perhaps Richard’s tragedy was that he placed his trust in the wrong people, she mused. His brother let him down in the end, as did Warwick, Buckingham, Stanley and his scheming wife, Margaret Beaufort. Even Anne abandoned him, God rest her soul. But he had loyal friends, too, friends such as Jack, Rob and Francis. They did not desert him. Not even in death. She remembered the last conversation she had with him, his promise to reveal himself to Dickon—a promise she believed he would have kept.

All night she kneeled there, until the monastery bells tolled the prime. And then she knew what she must do. She would go to Ightham and claim Dickon, but to keep him safe from any revenge Tudor might take, he would not know his father’s name. She gazed on Richard’s face for a moment longer before rising to her feet. She did not know how long she had been kneeling but dawn was filtering in through the windows.

Her eye was drawn to the white rose. Like the house of York, it had already withered and died.