The Rose of York: Love & War (35 page)

~*~

Edward was elated when the news was brought to him that Marguerite had been found.

“What did the Iron Queen say when you told her that Prince Edouard was dead?” he demanded.

Sir William Stanley’s thin lips, bracketed by a thin ginger moustache and closely clipped beard, curled into a crooked smile. “The iron seeped out of her, my lord. She sat drooping in her chair for a good space, silent as a sepulchre. Then she said to tell you that she is at your command.”

Edward gripped Richard’s shoulder. “Finally we have chastened the Bitch of Anjou… Finally we have avenged our father and Edmund, Dickon.”

Richard tried not to grimace. The shoulder, which had been healing before Tewkesbury, had been made raw by the exertion of fighting too soon in another battle. “Not soon enough,” he managed, pulling away. “Not before she made battalions of widows and left them to mourn their dead.” Tewkesbury field, where so many of John and Warwick’s men died, had run so red with blood that men had renamed it Bloody Meadow.

Edward leaned close. “There’s one more widow waiting to be made, brother—or else more widows may yet be made.”

Richard understood too clearly what Edward meant. Marguerite’s husband must die, for there could be no true peace in the realm as long as Holy Harry lived. He had deep misgivings about such a step and hoped to dissuade Edward, but there was another matter of greater urgency to be dealt with first. Another widow who mattered more to him than a string of Marguerites or Henrys.

“Stanley,” Richard demanded. “What about the Lady Anne? What did she say when she was given the news of her husband’s death?”

“She said nothing, my lord. She stood quite still, with downcast eyes, as if she had not heard a word of it. Until…” a small smile came to his lips, “your name was mentioned.”

Richard turned to the King. “Edward?”

Edward looked softly into Richard’s eyes, his own eyes moist. “Ask anything, Dickon. It is granted.”

Richard broke into a broad, open smile.

~*~

Anne did not ride at the back of the triumphant royal army in the open cart with Marguerite d’Anjou to be pelted with dung and rotted fruit. She was sent a bolt of gleaming violet satin, a fine grey palfrey, and a flask of Damask rosewater for her toiletries, which Richard had great difficulty obtaining. He also sent a letter.

Richard had debated with himself whether or not to go to Anne directly, and unable to decide, had consulted Edward. He worried that Anne did not wish to see him. He was now her conqueror, and the mightiest man in the kingdom next to the King. She was the daughter of a traitor. In agreement, Edward had pointed out how her apparel, torn and filthy from the march, might add to her humiliation by serving in her eyes as a reminder of the gulf that had opened between them.

At his suggestion Richard sent the fabric and rosewater. What really held Richard back, however, was Edward’s warning that Anne, no doubt still in shock, might hold Richard responsible for the fate of her father and uncle. If she blamed him for their deaths, if love had turned to hate, he could not bear it. To see that in her eyes would be worse than any death. And so, while they paused at Coventry, he picked up his pen and scratched out a letter.

My Dear Heart,

I regret all that has happened in these two years since we have been apart, and I would undo all, if I could. You once loved me, but I fear that, too, has changed. My feelings for you are as they ever were. Middleham was always my greatest joy. In memory, and in my dreams, I have returned there often during these bitter years and I am aggrieved with sorrow for the loss of those we loved, may God assoil their noble souls.

The King has made me Constable and Admiral of England, and Great Chamberlain. I go to London with him for one night, then north against the Scots.

As soon as I return, I shall seek you out in London.

You shall reside there with your sister Bella, and there I shall come and beg your forgiveness, and receive your comfort, I pray God.

Know that I love thee, and will always love thee. If you can no longer care for me, you still have a champion who will give his life for your happiness. God and His Blessed Mother have you in their keeping.

Richard of Gloucester

Coventry, 19 May, 1471

Then, with an anxious heart, he awaited Anne’s reply.

~ * * * ~

“These be no rubies, this is frozen blood.”

Leading the King’s army, clarions blowing, battle flags streaming, Richard entered London on the twenty-first day of May. His heart was swept with gladness, for he had received Anne’s reply. There had been no greeting, only a single line, but it had been enough. His hand strayed to the letter inside his doublet.
If it takes forever
, she had written,
I will wait for thee
. A smile lifted his lips. He wished he could go to her tonight…

Not tonight. In an attempt to restore Henry of Lancaster to the throne, the Bastard of Fauconberg had attacked London from the river, firing his guns at the Tower, which sheltered Bess Woodville and her children, and burning London Bridge and the city walls at Bishopsgate and Aldgate. He had been driven off by Anthony Woodville but remained at large off the coast. Edward wanted Richard to deal with him as soon as he disposed of one other matter.

Richard winced.

All along the way to London, as Edward rode through towns and villages, smiling and nodding to the cheering crowds who waved kerchiefs and threw flowers, Richard had argued with him over Henry’s fate.

“Edward, he is a holy man—almost a saint!”

“There’s no choice. You know what’s at stake.”

“Aye. Your immortal soul.”

“A king can’t always be merciful and do the noble thing, Dickon. Sometimes he must simply do what needs to be done to secure a good end.”

“What about principles, conscience… mercy?” Richard ground the words out between his teeth.

“Easy for you to judge me! Do you really think I want to kill the doddery old fool? I don’t relish it, but it must be done. A land with two kings is a land with naught but strife. If Henry were dead, would the Bastard of Fauconberg have attacked London? While his son lived, nothing was to be gained by his death. Now…” He looked at Richard. “I’ve learned something being king, Dickon. Conscience is a disability, so are principles… and mercy. I was always ready to forgive, to trust. It almost destroyed me. A ruler must be ruthless. Otherwise he can’t survive.” Under his breath, he added, “To be a king, you have to kill a king. ’Tis the way it has always been.”

Richard averted his face. Aye, the deposed kings Edward II and Richard II had been put to death to make room for Edward III and Henry of Bolingbroke. Henry of Lancaster had been allowed to live years longer than either of them. Maybe he was foolish, but he hadn’t truly expected Holy Harry to share their fate. Never in history had there been two anointed kings in one realm. Since the old rules no longer applied, he had been lulled into believing Henry could continue to live in captivity.

They rode along in silence. “What will you tell the people?” he demanded at length.

“I’ll tell them he died of grief,” Edward replied. “As he damned well should have, for all the grief he’s caused.”

Richard’s ruby ring caught the sun’s rays and glinted on his little finger. He thought of blood. Blood kept seeping around them; Barnet and Tewkesbury had not yet staunched the flow. When would it end? What was enough? Edward would do what had to be done, but he himself could never accept the deed, though he understood the necessity for Henry’s murder, and understood that Edward liked it no better than he did. Regicide was a mortal sin in God’s eyes and repugnant to a man of honour. He tightened his fists around his reins and clenched his jaw until his muscles quivered.

Edward said quietly, “Very well, Dickon. I’ll hold a meeting to determine my councillors’ feelings on the matter.”

“Your councillors will agree with you, naturally.” Richard met his eyes without flinching.

Edward drew a long, weary sigh. “If they do, you shall come with me to Henry tonight to see for yourself that there’s no way around it… Lucky for you you’re not king, Dickon. You wouldn’t last the turn of an hourglass.”

~*~

As Richard expected, the verdict of the council was unanimous. Henry must die.

Richard looked around the table, at Hastings, Howard, Anthony Woodville. At Edward’s Chancellor, Robert Stillington, Bishop of Bath and Wells, to whom Edward had given the Seal he took back from Archbishop Neville. He looked at his brother George, and his brother by marriage, the Duke of Suffolk, John de la Pole, married to their sister Liza. Of all the men gathered in the council chamber at the White Tower, only Howard had voiced an objection, one quickly withdrawn when Edward turned on him angrily. No one but George drank his wine; no one but George moved. No one spoke—George from obvious indifference, though the others looked uneasy. Anthony Woodville and Suffolk had once been Lancastrian and had sworn an oath of fealty to Henry. At one point Anthony Woodville did open his mouth as if to protest, then shut it without uttering a word. Stillington, the cleric who should have pointed out the appalling enormity of the sin they were about to commit, made no effort to dissuade Edward, though he trembled visibly.

It was dark when the meeting ended. With grim faces, the men descended the steps of the Keep in silence and disappeared into the soft night. Guided by a torchbearer, Richard strode shoulder to shoulder with Edward across the inner ward, then up to Henry’s apartment in the Wakefield Tower. A guard unlocked the heavy door with a jangle of keys and swung it open.

The vaulted stone chamber was dark, pervaded by a stale smell. Candles burned in the oratory opening on the east side and Richard could make out a dark figure kneeling at his devotionals. A green linnet fluttered on a wooden perch by a bed beneath a great stained glass window, watching as they crossed the room. Their boots clicked against the tile but the monk-King didn’t turn. The bird squawked once, then fell silent.

“Forgive the intrusion, Henry, but I fear we do not have all night,” Edward announced.

Bringing his prayers to a close, Henry of Lancaster made the sign of the Cross, shut his Bible, and heaved himself up from the tiled floor. He was dressed like a cleric in a long dark robe, and beneath his cap his hair was spare and grey, but he looked younger than his fifty years. He came to them, a smile on his mild face. He was of a good height, but stooped. Richard, who had no memory of the king he had met in his infancy, thought Henry’s head too small for his body, and that it was strange he should resemble Edward.

“Ah, my dear Cousin Edward, you are welcome,” said Henry. “’Tis a while since we last saw one another, is it not?”

“Aye, and much has happened between,” said Edward dryly. “This is my royal brother, Richard, Duke of Gloucester, whom you met when he was a babe.” Edward laid his gauntlets down on a table.

Henry of Lancaster turned his dim eyes and kindly smile on Richard. “Fair cousin, we greet thee well.”

Richard inclined his head in acknowledgement.

“Do you like my bird? His name is Becket. He is good company.”

“He’s a fine bird,” Richard replied, feeling oddly embarrassed.

“Our gracious cousin of Warwick gave him to me. How fares our Cousin Warwick?” Henry said, addressing Edward.