The Rose of York: Crown of Destiny (20 page)

“Aye, my Lord,” said Ratcliffe.

Richard glanced up to see the captain of the guards standing at the door. He flinched. The man paled.

“My Lord,” the captain said nervously. “I come for your instructions on the disposition of the traitor’s body. Is his head to be displayed on London Bridge?”

“No!” Richard drew a thick breath, averted his gaze. “The body of the Lord Chamberlain is to be borne to Windsor and there buried in the unfinished chapel of St. George, close to King Edward’s own tomb, as my royal brother had wished.” The captain bowed, turned on his heel, and was gone. Breathing hard, Richard leaned his full weight on the table, bent his head.

Kendall rose from his writing desk. “My Lord…”

“I’ll be all right, Kendall.” He drew another deep breath. He was drained with fatigue, yet it was early, only midday. He reasserted the discipline of a lifetime and when he spoke again his voice was steady. “Make a note, Kendall. You are to prepare a letter to Lady Hastings as soon as time permits…” He broke off, reminded of something he had forgotten. That Hastings was not only a friend, but kin. His wife was Warwick’s sister, Katherine Neville. Anne’s aunt. He swallowed.

Kendall pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment.

“Offer her my protection. Tell her I am granting her all her husband’s lands and the custody of Lord Hastings’s heir until the boy comes of age. I also grant her the wardship of the young Earl of Shrewsbury, who is married to her daughter.” Was that atonement enough? Would Hastings’s widow forgive him what he could not forgive himself? He paced. “Then draft a proclamation to the people. Inform them of Lord Hastings’s treason and his beheading on the Tower Green. Tell them there is no cause for alarm. The government is secure. Tell them Hastings was an evil councillor to my royal brother, King Edward, that he enticed the King to debauchery and vicious living…” For a moment, a vision of the young maiden that Hastings had raped at Leicester flared in his mind. She had been around twelve years old, Anne’s age at the time, barely older than a child. He halted. “Add this,” he said. “That this very night past Hastings has lain with Shore’s wife, who was herself one of the plotters.”

If he kept reminding himself how debauched Hastings was, maybe it would help.

Exhausted from lack of sleep and the traumatic events of the day, he went with Francis to his mother’s home of Baynard’s Castle where Francis lodged. It was closer to Westminster and he would not have to face Anne there. The hour was late, past matins, by the time they arrived. The household slept but he and Francis both knew sleep was a luxury which would be denied them on this night of nights.

“Treason,” Richard murmured over a cup of wine in his bedchamber. “I remember the first time it reared its hideous head… At Ludlow, when my father’s captain, Trollope, defected to Marguerite taking our battle plans with him. Marguerite’s men burned the town and raped the women.” He gulped wine and slammed the cup on the table. “Once upon a time, honourable men would rather have died than play traitor. But evil times beget evil ways.”

“Have you decided what you’ll do with Morton and the rest?” Francis asked.

“Imprisonment for Morton; a pardon for Stanley.”

“But that’s too lenient! Stanley’s a time-server. You’ll never be able to trust him.”

“By showing goodwill, maybe we’ll win goodwill.”

“Execute Stanley! He’s proved himself an enemy.”

“I can’t. Buckingham’s interceded for both Stanley and Morton. And Scripture preaches forgiveness, doesn’t it?”

“You’d be better served to be more ruthless. A king is his sword, Richard. I fear that by refusing to wield yours, you’ll encourage treason with your leniency.”

Richard lifted his eyes to Francis with effort. “The truth is simple, Francis. I’ve no stomach for more bloodshed. I must atone for Hastings’s death, that’s why I’ll spare the rest—though none of them are half the man he was. I’ll keep Stanley at my side where I can watch him. He’s a wily bastard, that one.”

“What about Jane Shore?”

“She’ll do public penance by walking the street with a lighted candle, and then imprisonment. For a short spell.”

Francis smiled faintly. “A bit mild for treason, wouldn’t you say? But, then, you never could be hard on women. Richard…”

“Aye?”

“Have you decided yet whether you’ll make Stillington’s disclosure public?”

Richard knew what Francis was really asking. Whether he’d take the throne. He shook his head, ran a hand through his hair helplessly. “I thought I knew. Now I’m not sure.”

“You must,” said Francis. “Not just for England or yourself. But for Ned… For Anne.”

Richard frowned. Ned, for obvious reasons—if Bess didn’t kill him, he would end up like George’s poor boy, abandoned and abused, frightened half out of his wits. He crushed the thought. But Anne? “Even Bess wouldn’t execute a woman, Francis.”

“There are worse things. Have you forgotten what they did to Humphrey of Gloucester’s wife?”

Christ, how could he have forgotten? Charged with witchcraft, forced to do penance through the streets of London, she had been imprisoned for life on the Isle of Man!

“Or Bess might force Anne to marry a man she chose for her.”

Richard gave a groan, dropped his head into his hands.

Francis hated what he was doing, but someone had to strip Richard of hope, make him face reality. Only then could he overcome his nature and act against himself, against the loyalty that still bound him to Edward. For if he didn’t take the throne, what in God’s name would become of England? “The best to be hoped for is that she’d be confined into a convent for the rest of her life.”

Richard raised his head, looked at Francis with stricken eyes. “All I ever wanted was to serve Edward.”

“I know, Richard… I know.”

“It isn’t fair!” Richard said suddenly, surprised to find himself voicing the old cry of his childhood. He had forgotten it in recent years. “It just isn’t fair.”

At Buckingham’s request, Bishop Morton was sent to Buckingham’s castle of Brecknock in Wales for confinement, and Stanley was restored to his place on the council. There was still one major embarrassment for Richard that required his attention.

Bess.

Since Richard felt he lacked the eloquence with which to present his case persuasively, Buckingham addressed the council when it convened at Baynard’s Castle on Saturday morning, the day after Hastings’s execution.

“Her behaviour is an insult to our government!” Buckingham declared in his mellifluous voice. “By remaining in Sanctuary she is proclaiming to the world that she has cause to fear us, when nothing of the kind is true…” He cut a fine figure in his tunic of white and gold brocade sewn with gems and fur-trimmed azure velvet mantle. On his golden curls sat a matching blue velvet cap ornamented with a pearl and ruby brooch. He sparkled as he moved with easy grace, and every eye was riveted on him.

“How many times have we offered her our sworn word and assurances that if she removes herself from sanctuary, she will be afforded every protection and honour due a Dowager Queen? ’Tis not fear that keeps her there.” His bright blue eyes blazed around the chamber. “’Tis malice!” The few Nays! were drowned out by a large chorus of
Ayes
!

“Be that as it may, we can do nothing about the former Queen. However, her son Richard of York is a different matter. He must be secured from Sanctuary. The King needs his brother’s companionship. The King needs his brother at his coronation. If Prince Richard does not attend his own brother’s coronation, the ceremony will be blighted by his absence—just as the spectacle of Bess Woodville hiding her children in Sanctuary blights our government in the eyes of Europe!”

Hearty
Ayes!
met this comment.

“Since the Woodville Queen is unwilling to give him up, let us take him from her by force. A nine-year-old child needs no sanctuary and is not capable of wanting sanctuary. Therefore he can be removed without violating the holy right.”

Cheers erupted, followed by a huge clamour as everyone began to talk at once. When the voices finally calmed, a vote was taken. The spiritual lords were divided, but the temporal lords sided with Buckingham. The boy should be fetched.

On Monday morning the councillors were taken by barge to Westminster where armed men surrounded the sanctuary. Richard and part of the council retired to the Star Chamber, and the Archbishop of Canterbury and Howard went to the Abbott’s quarters to seek the Queen. The Archbishop informed her that force would be used if she refused to release her son, and the grim faces of the lords convinced her.

“I ask for a moment alone with my son,” said Bess Woodville.

Lord Howard withdrew with the Archbishop. From the distance he observed her as she knelt and spoke with her child. The boy nodded several times, and several times mother and child embraced. If Howard didn’t know Bess’s nature, he would have felt a depth of pity for her at this moment. Finally she released her son and watched as he walked away. “Dickon, remember!” she cried plaintively.

The boy turned, tears glistening in his eyes. “I shall remember, my dear lady mother,” he said. Then he gave his hand to the Archbishop who led him into the vast empty hall of Westminster Palace where Buckingham awaited to take him to meet Richard.

In the Star Chamber, Richard greeted him affectionately, talked with him for a while, and gave him over to the care of the Archbishop, to be taken to join his brother in the Tower.

The coronation was postponed, Parliament was cancelled. Rumours ran rife in London. The young King was seen with his brother playing ball and shooting arrows on Tower green while whispers said he wouldn’t be King much longer. For once, however, there was also good news. There were no disturbances, no demonstrations against Richard in London or anywhere in the land. No lords gathered their retainers and rushed to hide in their castles, and no new plots were discovered. Few knew Richard outside the North, but all knew that in his own region he ruled with a just hand. They were willing to wait. And while they waited, Stillington’s secret was disclosed carefully, first to a few, then to more and more. During the week following Hastings’s execution, streams of lords, prelates, and influential men of London flowed into Crosby Place and Baynard’s Castle to be informed of the pre-contract between King Edward and Lady Eleanor Butler. More and more of these returned to inform the council that they would support Richard’s assumption of power.

They would support him. But his mother would not.

Standing on the wall-walk of his mother’s castle, Richard looked out at the Thames, inky black in the dead of night. He had written her at length, appraising her of events, of his fears, of the terrible dilemma he found himself in. He had begged for her advice.

Her reply had arrived late that evening. Under no circumstances was he to reveal Edward’s pre-contract. Under no circumstances should he accept the throne. She gave no reason.

Why had she urged him against taking the throne? Was it because she knew something no one else knew?
Was he the true son of Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York?
For if he were not, he had no more claim to the throne than his brother’s bastards. He looked up at the dark sky. There were no stars, just clouds. He leaned on a parapet, the night breeze stirred his hair. His childhood nightmare had finally forced itself to be examined, weighed, and answered. But only his mother held the answer. How could he ask her? Even if she agreed to come to London, which she had not. That one brief response was all she cared to give. The affairs of this world no longer interested her. Neither the death of her eldest son, nor the torment of her youngest.

The clock at Westminster struck the hour of three. Tomorrow he had promised the council a decision. Wearily, he pushed away from the parapet and made his way down the winding tower steps to his bedchamber, where candles had been left burning for him near the door.

In the dark shadows behind their flickering light, Anne watched Richard. All day—as she went about her business, receiving petitioners, welcoming guests, visiting friends and selecting gifts to be sent to well-wishers—her thoughts had been on him, on what was happening behind the barred doors of Crosby Place and across the way at Baynard’s Castle where Richard was to be found more and more. Worried about him, anxious to see him, she had come to Baynard.

She watched as he shut the door gently, careful not to awaken her. Did he really think she could sleep through this misery, when such decisions were being made that would affect the course of their lives? Did he think that by not sharing them with her, he would spare her the agony? She watched as he made his way toward the garderobe. His face was white and haggard, his dark hair in sharp contrast to his pallor. The expression on his face struck at her heart.

Richard lifted his head and saw Anne. He halted in surprise. “My dear love, ’tis late. You should be asleep.”

“Nay, my Lord, not on such a night. I’ve been waiting to know… Have you made a decision?”

He inhaled deeply. “Anne, I have no choice. There is but one decision that can be made. I must take the throne.” He attempted a smile, forced a light note into his tone. “Think, my beloved Anne, you shall be Queen of England…”

Swept by black, icy fear, Anne could not move from where she stood. A fierce shivering seized her and her teeth chattered. If she had been handed a sentence of death, she could not have been filled with more terror. Richard went to her, enfolded her into his arms. “My love… my love… you know I don’t seek this burden!”

“Then give it up, Richard!” she whispered. “I pray you—for me, for Ned, for us—give it up!”

“Hush, my love… Here, you’re cold, take my mantle… Let us sit.” He covered her with his crimson cloak and guided her to a silken pallet by the empty fireplace. “I’ve weighed this from every angle, my love. I do it for the realm, aye, and for myself, so I’m not murdered in my sleep by Woodvilles. But there’s one other reason far more compelling to me. It’s precisely for you and Ned that I must accept the crown.”