Rose of rapture (46 page)

Though Warrick, Madog, and Caerllywel tortured the captive unmercifully, he doggedly refused to name his lord; and finally, Madog, angered, slit the man's throat. The knight gagged as blood, punctuated by an odd whistling sound, spewed from the mortal wound; then slowly, he sank to his knees and crumpled into a heap upon the ground.

Moments later, Isabella fainted into her husband's strong arms, a sudden, thick warm moisture seeping between her thighs.

Isabella was not well. All of a sudden, the world she knew seemed to have gone quite mad; and to one only recently recovered from a miscarriage and still suffering from depression because of it, the thought was even more disturbing than it would have been under normal circumstances. Her head pounded horribly as she lay down upon the massive canopy bed in her chamber at the

Tower. Old Alice placed a wet cloth on the girl's forehead, and, with relief, she closed her eyes at the cool, comforting touch. She wished desperately that Jocelyn would return with one of the Court physicians.

But the Tower was in an uproar over the King's death and the Queen's subsequent machinations to seize control of the Crown. TTiere was no telling how long Jocelyn would be. No one with any sense showed his face at Court these days, lest he be drawn into the struggle for power being waged between Elizabeth and Richard.

Richard would win, of course. Unlike the rest of the Court, Isabella had no doubt of this. She need have no fear for her savior, only for Warrick, who had come to the Tower to plot and plan now that his liege was dead.

Oh, if only she had not lost the child! she thought for the hundredth time.

She might have kept her husband at home, at Hawkhurst, where they both belonged. But she had miscarried the babe, and she cursed bitterly the unknown person responsible for the shock that had caused her loss. Isabella was certain the evil, deranged Lady Shrewton was the culprit; Warrick was not so sure. In any event, it was unlikely they would ever know the truth of the matter.

Physically, Isabella had recovered from the terrifying ordeal of her abduction, but mentally, she was still dazed and depressed over the loss of her child. She wished that Warrick had not insisted on traveling to London, but he had remained adamant about his decision.

'"Tis true I did not carry the babe in my body, sweetheart," he had said, "but my grief at its loss is no less than yours. I know 'tis little comfort, but ye are young, just seventeen. In time, there will be another child. Meanwhile, life must go on, and we must look to our future—and that of the babes we will have, cariad. 'Tis necessary we go to Court, 'Sabelle; otherwise, I would not ask it of ye. Ye know I would not. 'Tis that I cannot know fully what is happening there if I remain here at Hawkhurst. Besides, the doctor suggested a change of scenery might do ye good."

Though he had not pressed her further, Warrick had been deeply upset and anxious about his wife. Hawkhurst was a remote and isolated castle, and Isabella would not be happy confined behind its walls for safety. Though he had not told her of his fears, Warrick had felt certain her abduction had been instigated by Lord Montecatini. The Count had not, to Warrick's knowledge, returned to England, but the Earl knew the Italian was a

dangerous man who would stop at nothing to gain the revenge he had sworn to have. Warrick had said naught to Isabella about Lx)rd Montecatini's vow, however, or the Count's unnatural interest in Giles. The girl would have been worried sick about her brother. It had been better for her to assume that Warrick's jealousy had been the cause of his joust with the Italian; and Giles, with whom Warrick had privately discussed the matter afterward, had agreed. As long as her husband and her brother were on their guards, Isabella need not be troubled. But now, Warrick must take his wife to Court, where there would be safety in numbers and where he could attempt to ascertain precisely who had been behind the wicked scheme to kidnap her.

Hwyelis had agreed with her son, and finally, Isabella had been persuaded to undertake the journey.

"I could not find a physician, my lady"—Jocelyn spoke as she entered the chamber, recalling the girl, with a start, to the present. "But Lord Montecatini has rejoined us here at Court and was considerate enough to mix a draught he told me will ease the pain in your head and help ye to sleep."

"How kind of him," Isabella stated, "especially after Warrick jealously wounded him in that joust because of his attentions to me. Please, Jocelyn. Say nothing to my husband about the Count giving me the potion. I'm sure that Lord Montecatini has no special interest in me, and I do not want any more trouble."

"Of course, my lady."

Isabella drank the sweetly flavored draught and drifted into blessed slumber at last.

On Sunday, May 4, 1483, the day that young Ned was to have been crowned King, he rode into London, with his uncle Richard, Duke of Gloucester, and his uncle by marriage Henry, Duke of Buckingham, at his sides. The older men wore mourning black, but the boy King was garbed in blue velvet. Ned was just twelve years of age, and the sudden turmoil in his life had made it difficult for him to grieve for his dead father, whom he had seldom seen. He was more concerned for his uncle Anthony Woodville, Earl Rivers, who had reared him at Ludlow, where he'd lived most of his life, and his older half brother Sir Richard Grey, both of whom had been arrested by the man that Ned had begun to think of as "my wicked uncle," Richard, Duke of Gloucester. Over the years, Ned had heard terrible stories from his mother and the rest of his Woodville kin about his uncle Richard and

had instinctively shrunk from him that dawn at Stony Stratford. When the boy had learned that his uncle Anthony and brother Dickon had been arrested, his worst fears about his uncle Richard had been confirmed.

Still, Ned was somewhat cheered at the sight of the crowd that had turned out to greet his arrival in London. Surely, no harm could come to him when so many people obviously loved and welcomed him as their king. King. The word had a glorious ring. Aye, he was, in truth. King of England. After his coronation, he would free his uncle Anthony and brother Dickon and have his wicked uncle Richard put to death.

In the Jerusalem Chamber of the Abbot's lodgings at Westminster Abbey, Her Grace Elizabeth, Queen of England, cowered with her sons and daughters, whom she had taken with her into sanctuary. This was the fourth day of their self-imposed exile, and already, their taut nerves had worn thin.

"God's wounds, Thomas!" the Queen snapped to her eldest son. "Will ye stop that endless pacing. Ye remind me of one of the beasts in Lion Tower. I must think what is to be done. All is not yet lost...."

"Oh, Mama, how can ye say such a thing?" Bess, the Queen's oldest daughter, asked with despair. "Just look at what all your wicked scheming has brought us to!" she cried, gesturing about her at the huge piles of tapestries, paintings, plate, jewels, and bolts of cloth-of-gold they had managed to strip from the palace. The coffers surrounding them were filled to overflowing with the stolen treasure. So greedy had the Queen been that when the Abbot had suggested that one chest, too large to fit through the doorway of the abbey, be left behind, Elizabeth had commanded that a hole be broken in the wall of the sanctuary in order that the trunk might be carried in. Bess was appalled by her mother's thievery. "And I know that Uncle Dickon never meant us any harm," Bess continued defiantly, despite her mother's threatening advance. "Father would never have left Ned in Uncle Dickon's care otherwise. 'Tis only that ye hate Uncle Dickon and always have. Had it not been for ye, we might have remained at the palace—"

"Shut up, Bess!" the Queen hissed, her pale blue eyes narrowed and glittering like ice as she shook her daughter viciously and smartly boxed her ears. "Ye know nothing of your father's treachery toward us! Nothing!"

Elizabeth's cold hard heart froze with terror at just the thought of what Ned had done, the lie they had lived all these years, the secret that would be the undoing of her, Elizabeth, the Queen.

Oh, God damn ye, Ned, she swore silently. God damn ye for your sins. I hope ye rot in hell—

Oh, if only she could lay her hands on Bishop Stillington. She would tear out his cowardly heart, as Ned had foolishly refused to do, even when his brother George, Duke of Clarence, had learned the fatally damning truth. Aye, she would be safe then. Bishop Stillington was the only one left who knew—

"Uncle Dickon, Uncle Dickon," the Queen went on sarcastically, feverishly mimicking her daughter's voice. "Is his arrest of my brother Anthony and my son Dickon and their imprisonment at Pontefract not proof enough for ye of his evil intentions toward us?"

Elizabeth's wildly blazing eyes burned like hot coals into Bess's own.

"He would never have arrested them if ye had not sent them to wrest Ned's protectorship from Uncle Dickon's grasp," Bess, shot back with a strangled sob, her hands pressed to her still-ringing ears.

"Oh, be quiet, Bess," Lord Thomas Grey, Marquis of Dorset, ordered curtly. "Ye know nothing of politics. Do not despair. Mama"—he turned to the Queen. "Uncle Ned's fleet is still anchored in the Channel, with the rest of the treasure, and we have the Great Seal in our possession."

"Aye, thanks to Thomas Rotherham, the fool," Elizabeth sneered. "He hied himself to Crosby Place fast enough to beg Richard's pardon when he discovered how our plot had gone awry. Well, he'll find no mercy there, I'll warrant."

"It doesn't matter, Mama," Thomas reassured her soothingly. "We'll make other plans."

"Aye." The queen nodded, then reiterated, "I must think what is to be done."

At Crosby Place, wherein Richard was lodged, a dead silence had fallen over the great hall. For a moment, no one present even dared to breathe, for only twice before had the men gathered there ever seen that sick, stunned look on Richard's face: once when he'd been told of Neville's murder and once when he'd learned of Ned's death. Briefly, Lord Francis Lovell wondered worriedly how many more shocks Richard's psyche would be

able to sustain. Concerned, Francis moved to fetch his beloved liege a chalice of wine but was halted abruptly when Richard suddenly leaped to his feet and said quietly, fiercely,

"Nay, 'tis a lie."

Robert Stillington, Bishop of Bath and Wells, flushed and shuffled his feet nervously beneath the Duke's steady, piercing gaze.

"Your—your grace, I swear upon my—my soul that 'tis not," the Bishop stammered, his hands trembling upon the rosary beads he fingered anxiously with fear. "Why, I performed the ceremony myself!"

Nay, it could not be. Godamercy! Surely, surely, Ned would never have done such a terrible thing! Built his kingdom on a lie so dreadful that its consequences would affect the fate of all of England. Richard's mind reeled at the horrible thought. Elizabeth was not Ned's widow, for she had never been his lawful wife. At the time of their marriage, Ned had not been free to wed. More than two years previously, he'd been secretly troth-plighted to Lady Eleanor Butler, widow of Sir Thomas Butler of Sudley and daughter of Lord John Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury. Nay, sweet Jesu. It could not be. In the eyes of the Church and the Law, all of Ned's children were bastards. Young Ned was not his father's heir and had never been his father's heir. The right of inheritance had belonged to George, Duke of Clarence. George, whom Elizabeth had hated, whom Ned had so suddenly, inexplicably, executed for treason

Oh, God. 'Twas true. Richard knew now, in his heart, that it was. Ned would never have ordered George's death otherwise; George had plotted against the throne often enough before and been pardoned. Only that last time, somehow, some way, George had stumbled onto the truth about Ned's marriage and had become too dangerous to live.

"The boy cannot be crowned King, your grace," Bishop Stillington declared more firmly now, bringing Richard, with a start, back to the present. "He is not the rightful heir to the throne."

"My God! Don't ye see what this means, Dickon?" Buckingham cried when still Richard remained silent. "The Crown is yours. My God! The Crown is yours! Ye need only to take it— "

"Nay!" Richard burst out. "I cannot!"

"Christ's son, Dickon! What do ye mean ye cannot?" Buckingham chided, his voice filled with eager encouragement. "'Tis a damnable choice, I'll admit. We all know how much ye loved

Ned, and no one expects ye to enjoy proclaiming his children

bastards; but 'twould indeed solve all our problems."

"Nay, Harry." Richard shook his head. "Ye are forgetting George's son, Edward, Earl of Warwick. If Bishop Stillington's words be true, then 'tis Warwick who is Ned's rightful heir, not I."

"For God's sake, Dickon!" Buckingham swore again. "He's only a boy and somewhat simpleminded, as well. God knows, England doesn't want or need another King Henry VI on the throne! Besides, the Bill of Attainder against Clarence for treason bars Warwick from the succession. I tell ye the Crown is yours if ye want it! 'Twas written in the stars all along. Dost not recall what that astrologer told Ned so long ago—that the name of the next King of England would begin with the letter G? Everyone thought 'twas G for George, but I tell ye 'twas G for Gloucester!"

Richard's face went white once more at Buckingham's words.

Oh, Ned, oh, Ned. I loved ye so, and what a mess ye made of it all. Why didst thou not tell me the truth?

"I must think," Richard said slowly, unknowingly echoing Elizabeth's words. "I must think what is to be done."

It was Friday the thirteenth, said to be an evil day. Isabella was certain now that it was so. Lord Thomas Grey, Marquis of Dorset, had managed to escape from the sanctuary of Westminster Abbey and flee the country; but others had not been so fortunate. That morning, when the council had met in the Council Chamber in White Tower, another plot by the Queen against Richard's life had been exposed.

After Edward's death, his raucous mistress Jane Shore had taken up with Lord Dorset and, ludicrously disguised as a nun, had been meeting him secretly at Westminster Abbey. Through her. Lord Dorset had managed to persuade Lord William Hastings, who was besotted with the harlot, to Elizabeth's cause. Together, with Archbishop Thomas Rotherham (who had again switched sides); John Morton, Bishop of Ely; and Lord Thomas Stanley (whose piously clever wife, Lady Stanley, had made several visits recently to Westminster Abbey, ostensibly to offer the Queen comfort), they had conspired to murder Richard and crown young Ned King at once.

At the council meeting, Richard had accused the men point-blank of treason. There had ensued some sort of a scuffle, during which Lord Stanley had been slightiy injured; and Richard had

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ordered Lord Hastings to be dragged out to Tower Green and executed immediately.

Isabella was appalled by Richard's uncharacteristically brutal act and, following the dreadful execution, had gone at once to Crosby Place to comfort her beloved Anne, who had come to London and who was now deeply distressed.

"Your grace, Anne, please lie down," the girl begged. "Ye have always been frail, and I fear ye will make yourself ill with this fretting. Please lie down, and rest. I'll have a draught brought to soothe your nerves."

"Oh, 'Sabelle, 'tis no use," the Duchess wept. "Not even that would help me sleep, I fear. I cannot believe that Richard has done this mad thing. Will Hastings was one of Ned's closest friends! To have ordered him executed without even a trial—"

Anne broke off abruptly, biting her lip, tears streaming silently down her pale cheeks.

"Richard must have a good reason for acting as he did, Anne. My lord Duke is not unkind. No one knows that better than ye and I...."

Isabella's voice trailed off, for she could not bring herself to tell her stunned and disbelieving friend the awful remainder of the tale: that Archbishop Rotherham and Lord Stanley had been arrested and imprisoned in the Tower. That Bishop Morton, far more dangerous, had been arrested and given into Buckingham's custody at Brecknock, in Wales, as far away as possible from London. That Lord Anthony Woodville, Earl Rivers, and Sir Richard Grey had been condemned to death at Pontefract Castle. That Jane Shore had been arrested and thrown into Ludgate Prison. That Lady Stanley had again been stripped of her possessions by the Yorkists, who would murder her son, Harry Tewdwr—if only they could get their hands on him.

So swiftly had the terrible blows fallen that the royal heralds were, just now, atPaul'sCross, announcing Lord Hastings's death.

Isabella shuddered and closed her eyes as she thought once more of the blood that had gushed from Lord Hastings's severed neck, spewing out, like water from a fountain, staining the hastily erected block and soaking the grass of Tower Green bright red.

"Do ye see now what I meant when I told ye that England would not again suffer a boy king, 'Sabelle?" Warrick had asked grimly as they'd turned away from the sickening sight. "Ye mark my words: This is only the beginning."

How right he had been.

Archbishop Rotherham and Bishop Morton were sentenced to remain imprisoned, the council being reluctant to shed the blood of priests, especially after Richard's shocking execution of Lord Hastings. Lord Stanley, the wily Fox, was able, however, to get himself released, since the evidence against him was largely circumstantial. The Baron had either cleverly shielded—behind his wife's skirts—his involvement in the ill-fated affair, or he had been her unwitting dupe. Either way, as usual, nothing could be proven against him. Jane Shore was spared a trial for treason but was forced to do public penance, for whoring, by walking barefoot through the city streets, garbed only in her shift and holding aloft a candle. London was much amused by the sight.

Only Lord Thomas Grey, Marquis of Dorset, escaped punishment. He had managed to reach Brittany, where he joined Harry Tewdwr in exile—an ominous portent, Isabella thought.

Shortly thereafter. Cardinal Bourchier, Archbishop of Canterbury, entered Westminster Abbey and demanded the Queen yield up her last and youngest son, Richard, Duke of York. The boy was subsequently taken from sanctuary and lodged in Garden Tower with his brother young Ned. '

Following this, in an act known as the Titulus Regius, Richard declared King Edward IV's marriage to Elizabeth Woodville (hereafter to be referred to as Lady Grey) null and void, because he had been troth-plighted to Lady Eleanor Butler at the time, and proclaimed all of Edward's children bastards.

On June 22, 1483, Friar Ralph Shaa, at Paul's Cross, delivered his sermon to the people of London, quoting from the biblical text, "Bastard slips shall not take root."

Four days later, at Baynard's Castle, England offered her crown to Richard, Duke of Gloucester.

BOOK FOUR

Tears

Chapter Thirty-Two

London, England, 1483

ISABELLA'S HEART WAS FILLED WITH JOY AND aching at the same time. Her beloved Richard was to be crowned King—and already, ugly rumors about him were being spread. He was a hunchback, gossip whispered, a deformed monster who had denounced his royal nephews as bastards, had imprisoned the boy Princes in the Tower, and usurped young Ned's throne for himself. The scandalmongers had even dredged up the old slander that had claimed that King Edward IV had been a bastard himself, bom of his mother's affair with an archer in Rouen. None of the vicious hearsay was true; Isabella knew, in her heart, that it was not, that Richard had done only what he'd believed to be right and for the good of England. But still, the spiteful, malicious slurs hurt.

"Are ye ready, sweetheart?" Warrick inquired as he buckled on his dress sword.

"Aye."

"Then we'd best go. The pages say the procession is forming."

Today, July 6, 1483, was Richard's coronation. Isabella was to be one of Anne's attendants at the ceremony. What Warrick

thought of all that had occurred and his wife's close association with the new King and Queen, the girl did not know. Richard treated Warrick courteously when they chanced to meet, but after the trouble with Lords Dorset and Hastings, all who had been Edward's favorites were now suspect. It was only because of Isabella that Warrick held his place at Court.

They left the palace, chancing, as they passed Garden Tower, to see the two Princes playing on the lawn. Isabella bit her lip at the sight.

"Young Ned does not look happy, does he, Warrick?" she asked.

"Nay, but then, under the circumstances, I'd say that was understandable. He has ever been a petulant, whining lad. Earl Rivers spoilt the boy, I do believe, and indulged his every whim. Doubtless, his changed status in life has been a severe blow."

"It does not seem to have affected Dickon," Isabella observed as she watched the two brothers.

"Nay, but then, Dickon was not reared to think he would someday be King. I wonder how long 'twill be before Gloucester puts them to death."

"Warrick!" Isabella cried with horror. "Do not tell me ye believe those awful speculations! Richard loved Edward, and he loves Edward's children. He would never murder two innocent lads, especially his nephews."

"He can't afford not to, 'Sabelle," Warrick rejoined dryly. "Not now. As long as they live, those two boys are a threat to Gloucester's crown."

"Then 'tis a threat that Richard will live with," the girl stated firmly. "Anne told me he is planning to take the lads north, to his castle at Sheriff Hutton, in Yorkshire."

"That's a fool's notion," Warrick said, "and I do not believe that Gloucester is a fool."

"Ye forget yourself, my lord!" Isabella uttered more sharply than she'd intended. "Richard is no longer Duke of Gloucester but King of England and your liege. 'Tis not for ye to doubt the word of honor of one whose motto is Loyaulte Me Lie —Loyalty Binds Me. Even setting aside his love for and loyalty to Edward— and to Edward's children—Richard knows full well that England would not countenance the murder of his nephews. 'Twould sound the death knell for his crown if he were to be implicated in such a plot. Now, speak no more to me of this, Warrick. Richard is the King and your liege," she reiterated.

"He is King of England, aye," Warrick agreed, "but not my

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liege, 'Sabelle, never that. I am sworn to Harry Tewdwr now, as well ye know; and in Wales, we too have a motto: A man who underestimates his enemies is a man on his way to a grave."

The girl gasped at hearing her worst fears confirmed.

"Warrick," she pleaded, "ye must give up this mad plan to put the Lancastrian on the throne. His claim is illegitimate, and the Stanleys are in disgrace besides."

"Are they?" Warrick queried, lifing one eyebrow with amusement. "They do not call Tom Stanley the Fox for naught, sweetheart; and Margaret Beaufort hides a shrewd brain behind that pious face of hers. Methinks ye will be surprised to learn the extent of her intelligence."

"Oh, she is clever; I'll grant ye that, Warrick. Still, methinks she has meddled once too often to be forgiven yet again. The next time, she might just lose that scheming head of hers; and I do not believe, for all her piety, that Margaret is that eager to meet her Maker. Besides, Richard said one could be certain of only one thing about the Stanleys: Only a fool ever trusts them. And ye said yourself, my lord, that Richard is no fool."

Warrick shrugged noncommittally.

"As ye wish, 'Sabelle"—he spoke. "I only hope our love is strong enough to survive whatever the future holds."

"Oh, Warrick"—the girl looked up at him earnestly—"never say 'tis not. I—I could not bear if ye no longer loved me, and I—I would not even have a babe of your making to comfort me for your loss."

"I shall always love ye, cariad," he vowed softly, taking her face between his hands and kissing her tenderly. "Whatever comes, never doubt that. Ye are mine, forever mine; and I promise, someday, ye shall have the child ye so desire, a dozen if ye like." He smiled. "We have the rest of our lives to see to that. 'Twas not your fault the first babe was lost, 'Sabelle; ye must stop blaming yourself for that."

"But ye wed me to get an heir. That was the whole purpose behind Edward's commanding our marriage."

"But I keep ye because I love ye, sweetheart; and if we never have a child, I shall not love ye any less. Now come, or we will be late for Glou—the King's coronation."

Hastily, they joined Giles and made their way to Baynard's Castle, the home of Richard's mother. Proud Cis, as she was known, Duchess of York. Isabella was slightly in awe of Richard's mother, Cecily Plantagenet, n6e Neville, for she had been a flower who'd bloomed at Court long before Isabella's coming.

The courtiers had called Cis the Rose of Raby, and the girl knew the Duchess was somewhat amused by the fact that they had named Isabella the Rose of Rapture.

The girl swept the Duchess a low curtsy, then turned to greet Richard and Anne. How magnificent they both looked. Richard was garbed in a blue doublet slashed with gold and wrought with nets and pineapples. Over this, he wore a long, ermine-furred robe of purple velvet adorned with over three thousand powder-ings of bogy shanks. Anne too was clothed in blue and gold, the train of her gown sweeping out gracefully behind her.

After all were assembled for the procession, Warrick helped Isabella mount the white mare she was to ride, then kissed her and left to take his own place with the other nobles of the realm. Slowly, the parade began to move through the streets of London toward Westminister Abbey where, in the Chapel of St. Edward the Confessor, Richard was to be crowned King.

First came the nobles, decked out in their finest splendor. Following them was England's new Chancellor, John Russell, Bishop of Lincoln. Then, a little apart, rode Henry Stafford,^ Duke of Buckingham, recently named Chief Justice and Lord Constable for North and South Wales, an appointment that had greatly disturbed Isabella. He was in a blue velvet robe embroidered with golden cartwheels, and his golden-green eyes glittered as they raked the crowd that thronged the streetsides. After him came Lord Francis Lovell, England's new Lord Chamberlain. Behind him were Queen Anne's attendants: five pages in blue velvet and seven ladies-in-waiting in crimson (Isabella was one of these), all on white horses. Anne herself was borne in an ornate litter. There then followed Richard's attendants: seven knights (of whom Giles was one) dressed in crimson doublets and cloaks of white cloth-of-gold. Lastly, alone, came Richard himself, riding his destrier White Surrey, who had been a gift from his brother Ned.

Once they had reached the Westminster Abbey, all dismounted and followed Richard and Anne inside to the chapel; and the lengthy ceremony began. At last, now naked to the waist, the royal couple knelt upon the altar and were anointed with the sacred chrism. Isabella was glad to hear the murmur of surprise that rippled through the abbey, for she knew, from Anne, that Richard had insisted on this part of the rite so all might see he was not the deformed hunchback rumor whispered. Finally, the King's and Queen's bare torsos were clothed in cloth-of-gold:

and they were crowned by Cardinal Bourchier, Archbishop of Canterbury.

The coronation was ended. It was not until they were outside, descending the steps, that a deeply shocked Isabella realized it was Lady Stanley who carried the Queen's train.

They met just southwest of Birmingham, on the road from London to Shrewsbury—a chance encounter, it seemed: for Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, was bound for Wales, and Lady Stanley was en route from Worcester to Bridgenorth.