The Rose of York: Crown of Destiny (12 page)

Brampton left the hall and returned with two knights. They knelt at Edward’s feet. “Sire, your royal sister, the gracious Duchess of Burgundy, sends greetings,” one began. Edward burped. Distressed, the man looked to Richard. At his nod he continued, addressing Richard instead of Edward. “As you know, King Louis of France has swallowed up the Duchy of Burgundy and overrun Artois. Flanders is crumbling before him. Therefore, the Duke Maximillian, unable to find allies against Louis, has had no choice but to make peace with France…”

Richard felt himself turn pale. He looked at Edward. He no longer muttered but sat quietly, listening. Richard was unsure how much he understood, for he made no reaction.

“By this Treaty of Arras, Maximillian has agreed that his daughter Margaret shall marry the Dauphin of France, her marriage portion to be the counties of Artois and Burgundy.”

Richard stood rigidly, unable to move. Burgundy, the bulwark of English trade, England’s staunch ally, gone, vanished like a phantom into mist. It wasn’t possible! He saw Edward in his mind’s eye, tall, magnificent, striding triumphantly across the bridge at Picquigny to pick up his French gold. And Louis, shabby Louis, followed by a dog.

Ah, indeed, the spider had woven a fine, silk web…

There was a sudden crash followed by a wailing cry. Edward had upturned one banquet table and was staggering down the dais toward the next, yelling like a madman. Richard rushed after him. He grabbed his arm, but Edward shook him off. Hastings ran to Richard’s assistance. Together they managed to take him from the banquet hall, while Edward muttered to himself. Richard finally heard his words: “So many mistakes, Dickon,” he was moaning. “Too many mistakes… Louis… John… Bess…
Bess
…”

In the antechamber of the royal apartments, Edward sat weeping. Richard watched, his heart breaking. Laughing, golden Edward, whom he had followed as his lodestar. “What are we going to do, Dickon?” Edward asked in a small voice.

“With Burgundy helpless, we cannot fight France. We must press the war in Scotland to a victorious conclusion. That will secure our border and end the drain on our resources. Maybe we can get the Scots to join us against Louis.”

Edward pushed himself out of his chair. Towering over Richard, swaying on unsteady legs, he leaned his weight on his shoulders and looked at him, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I shall have it put before Parliament… Thank you, Dickon, thank you… brother… loyal brother.”

Richard helped him back into his chair. He turned to leave. Edward called his name. “Dickon… As reward, I’d gladly give you my crown, but you would not wish to pay its price, brother. You may have anything else you want… Think on it… dear… loyal… brother.”

His heart twisting in his breast, Richard nodded.

Anne met him in the courtyard at Middleham. “What is it, my Lord?” she asked, taking his arm and leading him into the Keep. He shook his head, unable to speak. In their chamber she dismissed Richard’s squire and removed his boots herself. A tub was brought in and set before the hearth. She helped him into it. He sat naked on a stool while she gently lathered his body with a soapy sponge. After rubbing him dry, she helped him into a woollen chamber robe and had the servants bear the tub away. She led him to their silken pallet, arranged the cushions comfortably, poured the wine, and served him sweetmeats from a silver platter.

“Now tell me what troubles you so, Richard.”

“Edward,” he answered miserably. “The loss of Burgundy has practically destroyed him. He’ll never see Louis’s gold again, nor Burgundy’s trade. And before the world Louis flouted the Princess Elizabeth. It has been a harsh blow.”

Anne smoothed Richard’s damp hair back from his brow. “But he has you to help him recover, dearest.”

“I fear he’ll never recover,” murmured Richard. “He’s ill, Anne.”

Anne drew his head down against her breast. She kissed his brow.

“Anne… He offered me as reward anything I want.”

“Anything?”

“What would you ask for, Anne, if you could have anything?”

She gazed at the fire wistfully. “I’d ask for you. And Ned. And to stay here in the North forever. And never have to go to London again, never have to see court again, never have to see Woodvilles again.”

“Aye,” murmured Richard. “Aye.”

Parliament met on the twentieth day of January, 1483, and granted to Richard and his heirs after him permanent possession of the West Marches, the city of Carlisle, and possession of all Scottish lands he had conquered and all others he could win from the Scots. It was a great county palatine created out of Cumberland County and the Scots Marches, and though it owed obedience to the English crown, it was virtually an autonomous principality. Richard journeyed to London to receive the honour and, exactly a month later, he bade Edward farewell at Westminster and set out for the North. A light snow was falling. As he rode away with Francis at his side, he looked back at Edward, standing in the court, waving him off. It was something Edward had never done before and it filled Richard with foreboding.

“What’s wrong, Richard?” Francis inquired.

“I don’t know, Francis, but I fear I’ve looked my last on my brother…” He blinked back his sorrow.
We all make our own choices
, he thought. The Woodvilles had destroyed Edward, but he had not been an unwilling victim. As for himself, there was safety in distance. Perhaps now that he was truly Lord of the North, he and Ned would be safe from Woodvilles. He spurred his horse.

~*^*~

Chapter 12

“And shrieking out, ‘O fool!’ the harlot leapt

Adown the forest…and the forest echo’d ‘fool.’”

The messenger galloped up in a swirl of dust. It was Good Friday, 1483, shortly before the hour of Nones, and the Gloucester household was picnicking beneath a stately weeping willow on the banks of the River Ure. Anne tensed and held her breath, then heaved a sigh of relief, for he did not wear the royal blue and wine livery of the King but a topaz tunic and the badge of the Black Bull. It was from Lord Hastings that he had come. She took a bite of marchpane. But her happy munching slowed when he drew close enough for her to see his face.

Something had happened.

The man looked more than travel-worn. He looked deeply troubled and weary to exhaustion. He bowed to Richard. “My Lord Duke, I am the bearer of grievous tidings…” He paused, seemed to brace himself. “Your Grace… I deeply regret to inform you, the King is dead.”

All laughter died; the minstrels ceased their song. Katherine, picking lilies at the water’s edge, straightened. Johnnie, Ned, and young George Neville, playing Knights and Crusaders on the ruins of a stone wall, halted in their steps, and others, in the motion of setting down a game of cards, stilled their hands. Francis turned, his fishing rod limp, and from where he sat on a blanket, Richard stared mutely up at the messenger with unnatural stillness.

It is a tableau I will always remember
, Anne thought. She felt as if she were choking. She fell forward and vomited. The action broke the spell that held them. Life breathed back into the statues and they all moved at once. The Countess kissed her silver crucifix and made the sign of the Cross. The boys drew close, and the friends Francis, Rob, and Sir William Conyers encircled the messenger. Richard rose slowly, stiffly, to his feet. He took a step forward, stumbled, and caught at a branch to steady himself. “But his birthday is in two weeks…” was his strangled response.

It was a senseless remark, yet it made curious sense. Edward was not yet forty-three. Not only was his death premature, but he had seemed invincible. The messenger bowed his head. It was the Countess who had the presence of mind to ask, gently, for particulars.

“The King collapsed while fishing, and a week later—on Wednesday, April 9th—he died of apoplexy at Westminster, my Lady.”

Richard finally recovered his composure. “Why, sir, does this news come to us from Lord Hastings and not from the Queen?”

“Before he died, the King summoned the Queen’s kin and the old nobility to his bedside. Present on one side were Lord Hastings and the Lords Howard, Stanley, and Ferrers, and on the other the Queen’s two sons, the Marquess of Dorset and Sir Richard Grey, and her two brothers, the Bishop of Salisbury and Sir Edward Woodville.”

Richard waited. An unusual step, to have everyone gathered around at the same moment.

“The King spoke to them at length about his fears for the kingdom and told them that unless they put aside their hatred of one another, his son, and the kingdom, they themselves would be brought to ruin. Lord Hastings and the Marquess were moved to tears by his earnest pleas. They clasped hands and swore to love one another. The other lords followed their example.”

“And the Queen?”

“The King did not summon her at the end, my Lord,” he said softly.

A bitter taste came to Richard’s mouth.
So this was how it ended, this grand passion
. Like a torch to dry grass, it had raged and consumed all in its path until nothing remained but ashes.

The messenger’s voice cut into his thoughts.

“The King then dismissed them and summoned his executors, in which the Queen had been replaced by Lord Stanley. He told them there was only one man capable of ordering the realm and subduing the factions that split the court. It was a man he loved well, and whom he knew loved him…” The messenger knelt. “My Lord, the King added a codicil to his will bequeathing his son and kingdom to the protection of his loyal brother Richard, Duke of Gloucester.”

Anne cried out, a sudden, choked sound, like that of a wounded bird falling to earth.

Richard swallowed hard on the constriction in his throat. “You have not answered my question. Why then is this message dispatched to me from Lord Hastings and not from the Queen or Chancellor Rotherham?”

The man removed a missive from his pouch and handed it to Richard, who slashed the white ribbon with his jewelled dagger and broke the seal. It was from Hastings. There was no greeting and no signatory.

The King has left all to your protection—goods, heir, realm. Secure the person of our Lord sovereign Edward the Fifth and get thee to London!

“This…?” demanded Richard angrily. “What is the meaning of this?”

“As soon as it became evident that the King was dying, the Queen set about arranging matters to circumvent the King’s wishes and rule herself. She has directed her brother, Anthony Woodville, Earl Rivers, to bring King Edward V from Ludlow to London to be crowned immediately.”

Richard took a moment to digest the information. Young Edward’s crowning in itself meant nothing. Kings had to be crowned. If he were in London, he’d attend to it himself as the first order of business. It certainly did not mean that Bess had to be plotting to subvert Edward’s will and set him aside as Protector in order to rule herself. Such a move would have disastrous consequences for the realm, and for Bess herself. Whatever she was, she was no fool. The only possible explanation for Hastings’s panic was that hatred of the Queen and her ilk had led him to misinterpret her intentions. Aye, that was it. The matter was a mere tempest in a wine cup. Relief flooded him and he looked at Anne. She was white as the bark of an aspen tree. A fierce anger swept him. He knew Hastings to be wanton, corrupt, and contemptible but he had never thought him reckless before. Reckless, and stupid—to write such foolery! To alarm them in this manner!

“I see no need for rash action. I shall dispatch a query to Earl Rivers in Ludlow, asking by when and by what route the King will travel to London so that I can join them.” He waved his hand in dismissal. The messenger bowed his head, but in turning to leave, he lost his balance and almost fell. Richard suddenly realised the hapless man must have lashed his horse the distance and may have barely eaten or slept since he left London. “You have done well, sir. What is your name?”

“Catesby,” replied the young man. “William Catesby, my Lord.”

“Good Catesby, there is bread and ale and meat; partake and take rest. You need not leave for London until tomorrow. Lord Hastings can wait.”

Before many days passed, another messenger arrived from Hastings after Vespers. Richard and Anne had retired to the solar to read Sir Thomas Malory’s
Morte D’Arthur
with friends. Richard ripped open the missive. He gave a sigh. Anne placed a gentle hand on his sleeve. “What is it, dearest?”

“Hastings claims the Woodvilles have seized control. Only with difficulty has he managed to limit the size of Edward’s escort to two thousand men. He says I should come strongly armed to secure the King.”

“Do you believe him?”

“I know not what to believe. There’s still no word from Westminster; that does concern me.”

“My Lord,” said Warwick’s old friend Sir William Conyers, “perhaps you should write the Queen and reassure her.”

“A good idea. I shall write the council, too.”

Richard summoned a scribe and dictated a letter to the Queen expressing his condolences and promising to serve her son as he had served his brother. Then he dashed off another to the council. “I have been loyal to my brother Edward at home and abroad, in peace and in war,” he dictated, pacing to and fro. “I am loyal to my brother’s heir and all my brother’s issue. I desire only that the kingdom be ruled with justice, according to law. My brother’s testament has made me Protector of the Realm. In debating the disposition of authority, I ask you to consider the position rightfully due me according to the law of the land and my brother’s order.” He looked at Conyers. “What think you?”

“’Tis reasonable, my Lord. It reminds them that in appointing his sole surviving brother as Regent—as Henry V did his brother Gloucester—that King Edward was following a custom approved over a century of practice… But a warning at the end might be advisable.”

“Add this,” Richard told the scribe. “
Nothing which is contrary to law and to King Edward’s will can be decreed without harm
.” He turned to Conyers. “How is that?”

“The threat should give them pause, my Lord.”