To the Tower Born - Robin Maxwell (14 page)

But know that I love you, Nell. That had circumstances allowed, you would have been my wife.”

“In my heart, I
am
your wife.” The bakehouse door was being unlocked.

“Tell your father that I love him.”

“I will.” Tears were coursing down her cheeks.

“Thank him for bringing his press to England. And thank him for giving me you. Now go!”

He snatched his hand back quickly, and as the door creaked open, Nell withdrew behind the wall. She heard the soldiers enter

and roughly manhandle Antony out of the bakehouse. The sound of clanking manacles and chains on his feet broke her heart, and she wondered miserably how so high and proud a man could have, in so short a space of time, been brought so low, When she found the way was clear, she stepped out into the yard and into plain sight, as though nothing on earth were amiss, and made for the stables to find her horse.

he ride south in the gloomy hours before dawn to Stony TStratford was as soul-sickening as the same stretch of road the day before had been magical and filled with light. Nell rode just behind Gloucester and Buckingham. Behind her were their two armies of three hundred each, in one long column. Whilst Nell could hear but occasional snatches of conversation between the two noblemen, she observed them closely, the way Harry Buckingham leaned deferentially toward Richard. How after a long speech in rousing tones by his cousin, Gloucester would sit taller in his saddle, as though Buckingham was buoying him up with potent words of encouragement. There was even laughter between them, which Nell particularly resented. How dare they laugh when, even now, Antony, in chains like a common criminal, was being transported to the far north of Yorkshire?

They arrived at the Stony Stratford Inn just at dawn as the king, his army and entourage were saddling up for the march into London. The cavalry and foot soldiers were making ready for departure, and in the field beyond, the chariots and coaches, now decorated with fluttering silk banners, were being placed in order of the final procession.

Nell spotted Edward and his groom waiting to give him a leg up onto his horse. She watched as the young king waved the man away. Nell imagined that Edward wanted no help into the

saddle on the day he would ride triumphantly in through Londongate, letting his people—
his subjects—
see their sovereign for the first time. See that he was only thirteen, but man enough to take to his horse himself. She watched as Edward flung himself up to sit tall on his favorite chestnut mare and gaze out at the salmon sky, the sun just peeking over the eastern horizon.

His head snapped round as shouts heralded coming riders. As they neared, Nell could see Edward spotting her, then trying to catch sight of his uncle Rivers. Instead, it was his uncle Richard and Harry Buckingham, leading a small army, some of them in Buckingham’s livery.

Gloucester and Buckingham approached the king, allowing Nell to follow. They came off their horses and at once fell to their knees before Edward.

“Your most Gracious Majesty,” the Duke of Gloucester intoned reverentially. “I place myself humbly and completely at your service.”

Buckingham repeated the pledge, adding, “And most grievous condolences on the death of your father.”

“Thank you, my lords. I . . . I accept you into my service.” He looked to Nell, who, try as she might, could not suppress her alarm and misery. Edward attempted and failed to keep the tremulousness out of his voice. “My Lord Gloucester . . . Do you know the whereabouts of my uncle Rivers?” Gloucester rose, then said softly, “I think we must talk, Edward. May I help you down from your horse?”

“I can do it myself.” Edward had gone very pale.

“Let us go back to the inn,” said Gloucester. “We can talk more comfortably there.”

They were walking side by side now—King Edward the Fifth and his uncle Richard. Buckingham came just after, and Nell trailed along behind him. As they made their way through

the army that had escorted him here, Gloucester could not have been more outwardly deferential, directing all the men whom they passed to drop to their knees in reverence to the new king, but the boy’s world was collapsing all round him, and Nell could see that he knew it.

Once inside, the two dukes bade Edward sit, and he did, without argument, take a chair. Though Harry Buckingham pretended the same deference as Richard, it was easy to see a cold anger emanating from the man, a gritting of the teeth behind the false smile. The boy locked eyes with Nell, who tried desperately to remain strong and steady.

“I’m sorry to say,” Gloucester began, “that your uncle Rivers has been placed in our custody.”

“
Why,
my lord?”

“Obstructing the will of your father, the late king,” Richard replied.

“But he is my
governor
. My friend. I trust him with my life!

And my mother the queen is even now making plans for my coronation.”

“Your mother”—Buckingham fairly spat the word, confirm-ing Nell’s worst suspicions of him—“has no rightful authority in this. The ruling of the land is reserved for men, not women.” Nell bristled, deciding in that moment that she loathed Harry Buckingham—a low cur, and treacherous in the extreme.

“You see, Edward,” said Gloucester more gently, “your father added a codicil to his will on his deathbed, and in that codicil he named me, and not your mother, as your sole protector.”

“
You,
the protector? But my father always entrusted my mother and her family with my care. She was once made regent in his absence.”

“That is true. But think on this. For whatever his reasons, the protectorship was placed in my hands before your father’s

death, yet your mother did not, nor did Lord Rivers, inform you of my protectorship. Worse still, the queen never even informed me of the king’s passing. This must be considered a conspiracy.” Richard paused to gather his thoughts. “Your Majesty, you are very wise for your age, and you are my sworn sovereign, so I will attempt to explain the changes in circumstance.” Edward’s face had set into a hard and very cold expression.

“There are two factions at court,” Richard began. “First, those noblemen and clerics who support your mother and the Woodville family, of which she is the undisputed matriarch. They are content to allow the queen to rule your fate till your majority—”

“Queen
dowager,
” Buckingham dared to correct him.

“Indeed, now that her husband is dead, your mother is no longer Queen of England, but queen dowager. In any event, a second faction, of which your father’s dearest friend in life, Lord Hastings, is the leader, is determined—like myself and Lord Buckingham—that your father’s will be carried out to the letter.

It was Hastings who had the sense to send a message to me at York about my brother’s passing. This faction understands your father’s intent in his deathbed codicil—that only one man in the kingdom has the proven strength to govern England until your maturity. Only one man in whom he could place his entire trust. One man of the York blood. That man is I, Edward. I say with pride and certitude that I was, and remain, your father’s most devoted servant.” Richard’s face contorted with anger.

“Your mother and her family began plotting against him the moment he drew his last breath.”

“Or before,” Buckingham added. “And we’ve reason to believe that an attempt will be made by them on the Duke of Gloucester’s life.”

“In any event,” Richard continued evenly, “they attempted to seize control for themselves, and deny the king’s will.” He paused and held Edward’s eyes. “Where do
you
stand, Your Majesty?

For or against your father’s wishes?”

Nell saw Edward rub his forehead. She wished she could go to him. Comfort him. Give him counsel. But she knew if she uttered a single syllable she would be ejected from the room.

“Of course I will obey my father’s will and wishes,” Edward managed to utter.

“Then ’tis decided,” said Richard quickly.

“But what of my Lord Rivers?” Edward demanded.

“He defied the king’s will,” said Buckingham sharply, “and that is why he has been arrested for treason.”

“Treason!” Edward cried. “Treason . . . no, Uncle, please . . .” He implored Gloucester now.

“It had to be done, Edward.”

“But I am the king and I command you to release him!”

“Do calm yourself, nephew,” said Gloucester.

“Where is he? Where is my uncle Rivers!”

“He’s been taken to Yorkshire and will be held there until your council is chosen and a determination can be made as to his punishment. Your mother’s son, Lord Grey, also a conspirator, has been taken into custody as well. I must also inform you that the army that accompanied you from Wales is, even now, being disbanded and sent home.”

“I want to send word to my mother,” Edward said with all the authority he could muster.

“Of course. Buckingham,” said Richard in a calm aside to his accomplice, “will you have writing materials brought to His Majesty?”

Buckingham bowed deeply and backed away.

“Mistress Caxton,” said Richard in the politest of tones.

“Would you leave us? I need to have a word in private with the king.”

Nell’s mind raced, trying to find a word to say, a plea to stay with Edward, but she knew it futile. With a curtsy to the boy and a look that spoke of her commiseration, she turned and left the room.

How has it come to this?
she thought to herself.
And what in
God’s name will happen now?

Princess Bessie could hardly believe her eyes. Stone dust was flying as workmen with massive sledgehammers pounded away at a common wall connecting Westminster Castle and the sanctuary tower of Westminster Abbey. Piled up nearby were all the goods of the queen’s household—boxes and crates of clothing, plates, hangings, and even furniture. Arriving from the Tower of London every few minutes were cart-loads of treasures—jewels, caskets of gold and silver coin.

There was panic in the air. Two of Bessie’s youngest sisters, toddlers Katherine and Bridget—were standing by, crying, Dickon attempting to comfort them, though he himself appeared disoriented by the scene of confusion. Stewards and maids, cooks and laundresses carrying the tools of their trades, were making even more piles to either side of the workmen.

Though it seemed impossible, they were all waiting for a hole to be knocked through the sanctuary wall.

Sanctuary,
thought Bessie
. The royal family is being forced to take
sanctuary in Westminster Abbey!

With a great cry, one of the brawny wall-bashers broke through, and soon stones were being pulled and knocked away, the hole widened enough that the goods could be carried through.

“Quickly!” The palace steward clapped his hands twice. The treasure went in first, then the gold plate. Bessie saw four men struggling with the enormous canopy of the eleven-foot-square Bed of State. She waited for a break in the parade of servants carrying goods. Then gathering up her brother and sisters, she bustled them through the opening.

There awaited an even more alarming sight. Her mother, the once-proud Queen Elizabeth Woodville, now sat upon the rushes on the floors, a desolate and dismayed expression distort-ing her still-beautiful face.

Bessie went to her quickly, worried that the pathetic sight would further frighten her brother and sisters. “Mother, come, get up. Let me find you some cushions.” But Elizabeth shook her head and, with glazed eyes, stubbornly refused to budge. The pale, brown-robed friars of the abbey were now coming to peek into the sanctuary, where their new guests were setting up household.

The panic had begun the day that Bessie had taken Dickon with her to the Totehill Street market. When the guards had found her at the almshouse, distributing food and gifts to her pensioner friends, and begged her to come quickly back to the palace, she’d not immediately realized that something was terribly wrong.

Bessie had arrived at her parents’ apartments as the physicians were leaving, shaking their heads hopelessly and murmuring amongst themselves.

“What’s happened?” she’d demanded of Dr. Argentine, the physician she knew best, called most often for the royal children. He had always been a font of information, which he prof-fered with great good humor. That day his expression had been pained. He’d grasped Bessie’s arm.

“ ’Tis the king. He is not long for the world. You should be with your mother now.”

“What! Dr. Argentine, what has happened?” With a look of sadness and dread, Dr. Argentine clamped shut his mouth and turned away, following his cohorts out the apartment doors.

In the royal bedchamber’s anteroom Bessie had found her mother, not as she might have expected—prostrate and weeping quietly—but upright and in constant motion, dictating to a scribe and giving orders to the stream of servants and messengers flowing in and out of the room.

“Mother—”

The queen looked up, saw her daughter, and, barely acknowledging her, went back to the scribe to whom she was dictating. Bessie had not been deterred. She moved closer.

“Gather as many troops from Ludlow as you can find,” she’d heard her mother say to the scribe. “Four to five thousand mini-mum, and hie to London promptly with my son.”

“Mother, you must answer me!” Bessie had cried. “What’s happened to Father?”

The queen’s face when she addressed her daughter was hard and angry. “The king caught a chill whilst fishing. They’ve brought him home. Put him to bed. There’s nothing more that can be done for him. He’s in there dying.” Elizabeth thrust her chin at the bechamber door.

“But—”

“He brought his council together round his bed not an hour ago, and amended his will.” Elizabeth Woodville tried hard to remain calm. “Whereas I had previously been named your brother’s protector until his majority, the new codicil names as Edward’s sole protector . . . your uncle Richard.” Bessie had been confused. “Why did Father do such a thing?” The queen’s fury had grown. “How should I know! What I
do
know is that his decision cannot be allowed to stand.”

“I want to see my father!” Bessie had cried, tears stinging her eyes. “Mother, you must let me—”