To the Tower Born - Robin Maxwell (15 page)

“Listen to me, Bessie. Your father has not even called
me
to his bedside. His council has been called. His ‘friend’ ”—she spat the word—“Lord Hastings is in there now. But he’s not called to see his wife.” Tears had threatened in the queen’s eyes, but she refused to let them fall. “Go to your sisters and brother and comfort them as best you can.”

“Mother—”

“Just go. I’m busy here. Can’t you see!” The queen had turned back to the scribe. “Are you finished?”

“Almost, Majesty,” he mumbled, head still down over the parchment.

“Wait. I wish to amend what you’ve written. Just say to bring

‘as great an army of loyal men as you can gather.’ Change that.

Be quick about it, and send the letter to Lord Rivers by our fastest courier.” She beckoned to a servant just entering. “Tell my son Lord Grey to attend me, and Bishop Morton as well.” Head spinning, Bessie had stumbled from the royal chamber.

Her dear father lay dying within, and she was barred from seeing him.
How can this be happening?
she’d wondered. A chill on a fishing trip! It was not possible.
And why had Father so disrespected
her mother?

Her brother Edward would, at the moment her father drew his last breath, become King of England. Soon he’d be in London. And Nell. She’d be returning too. Once again Bessie had been racked and torn by opposing emotions—the crushing pain of her father’s imminent loss, and joy at the return of two people so near and dear to her heart.

Later that day her father, a mighty and beloved king, had passed away. His body had been stripped and washed and anointed with holy oil. Then, naked but for a cloth covering his

lower parts, he had been laid on a bier in Westminster Abbey for all to see he was indeed dead, and to prove he had died of no violent causes.

In the days following, Bessie had kept her eyes and ears open, just as she knew Nell would have wanted her to. Indeed, she began writing everything down, every detail, every smattering of gossip, every overheard conversation, though she knew there would be no way to communicate with Nell until her return to London.

She learned through the abbot—virtually their only visitor in sanctuary—that Uncle Richard had seized control of the king, claiming himself sole protector. Her mother’s brother Edward Woodville—surely on the queen’s orders—had quietly made off with much of England’s treasury and all the ships in the Royal Navy—a circumstance that seemed, even in Bessie’s political naïveté, a desperate act, and one of which her father would not have approved. Her stepbrother, Lord Grey, had been taken into custody, but most disturbing was news that her uncle Rivers had been arrested by Gloucester and sent to a prison in Yorkshire. Poor Nell must be frantic.

Her uncle Richard, thought Bessie, was acting like a man possessed either by the devil or by the certainty of his rightness.

She was fraught with terrible images, uncertainties. All the worst that could happen. And all at the hands of the man she loved. Bessie was sick with the thought that her mother, so often ruthless and self-serving, had somehow done wrong during the transfer of power after her father had died. Now this scene from hell—the frantic rescuing of the family fortune, the shell-tering in sanctuary, and her mother sitting disoriented in the rushes—was confirmation that her fears were justified.

And what of Edward? What must he be feeling, now in the charge of a relative he already blamed for the death of his

beloved uncle Clarence? His stepbrother, Lord Grey, was arrested, but worse, his adored uncle Rivers was en route to a northern prison, charged with treason. Here Edward was, the king, and perhaps the most unhappy child in all of England.

She needed desperately to talk to Nell. That steely mind of hers would be clearer than her own. If only they could meet.

Somehow they would devise a plan. Make things right again.

Bessie was a
queen,
Nell had told her—or at least one day would be a queen—the player with the greatest reach and power on the game board. She must stop acting like a mere pawn and begin asserting her will. Otherwise, thought Bessie, she deserved to be tossed and battered by the Fates.

She gazed with loathing at her mother, sitting glaze-eyed amongst the rushes, and saw the soul price Elizabeth Woodville paid for her evil ways. In that moment, Bessie swore to herself that whilst she would steer her own course and destiny in life, she would harm no one and strive always to retain her dignity.

Now if she could only find a way to meet Nell.

The blast of trumpets was deafening, so deafening, Nell realized, that the drums and shouts of men and women, thick upon London’s walls just ahead, could not be heard above the din. She thought in that moment of Jericho, the city besieged by Joshua, its walls blown down by loud trumpeting.

Today, this city’s vanquisher was England’s protector. He was Richard of Gloucester, riding in the somber black of mourning at the right hand of King Edward the Fifth, the boy clothed in royal-blue velvet as he prepared to enter the capital, to the great joy of his subjects. To Edward’s left rode Harry Buckingham, also in black, but somehow managing by the haughtiness of his posture and expression to appear more proud and resplendent than either king or protector. Behind them were members of the Ludlow Court, of which Nell rode as one, and six hundred gentlemen of Yorkshire and Wales.

What a vainglorious man Harry Buckingham is,
Nell thought as she trotted along behind him. Since that terrible night at Northampton Inn, he had clung to Richard’s side like a barnacle to a boat’s hull, whispering in his ear, urging him to ideas and decisions that he allowed Richard to believe had been his own.

Buckingham had also begun flaunting his much-despised marriage to the queen’s sister Catherine Woodville. Before, it had been a curse. Now it allowed Buckingham to call himself “the king’s uncle.”

Nell clearly saw a great gaping wound in Richard’s heart at the loss of his brother, and a sincere deference to his nephew. It was also clear that Gloucester honestly believed that, by his actions, he was honoring the dead king’s will. With Buckingham, these were altogether false sentiments—a devious man acting sad, humble, and indignant, somehow managing to be believed.

So whilst Nell inwardly raged against Gloucester’s imprisoning of Antony, she knew—for she had heard it with her own ears—

that
Buckingham
had been the instigator.

Nell watched as the great London gates swung open and a fabulous procession came out to see them through. It was the mayor and the alderman, followed by London’s most prominent citizens. They, and their horses too, were dressed and ca-parisoned in matching fur-trimmed scarlet satin.

When the royal procession had passed through Londongate, the crowded city streets within exploded with cheers and cries of “God save the king!” and “Good King Edward, long may ye live!” As they approached Westminster, Nell felt her heart beating faster, for the thought of seeing her dear friend Bessie, surely on the palace wall, there with her family to wave as her brother passed, had been her greatest anticipation, greater even, she thought guiltily, than the sight of her father.

But as the cavalcade reached Westminster’s wall, she could see many noblemen and women standing atop it, cheering and crying out, but Princess Bessie was not amongst them. Nor, in fact, was any member of the royal family—not the queen, nor Dickon, nor the princesses, nor any of the Woodville relations.

The situation, bad as it had seemed, Nell realized, was far more grievous than she ever could have imagined.

“Nell, Nell!” The sound of her name being called roused her from her grim torpor. She turned to see Jan de Worde waving madly at her from the roadside. There beside him, a sight so welcome it brought instant tears to her eyes, was her father.

The expression on William Caxton’s face was indescribably complex. It spoke of his great relief at her return. It confirmed Nell’s most dire fears of the present circumstances, and promised her a loving haven from which to weather what would surely be the catastrophic storm to come.

t was to the Tower of London that Edward was taken—“for Ihis protection,” his uncle Richard proclaimed—before the boy’s coronation. Nell Caxton, begging no one’s permission and barred by no one’s decree, accompanied him there. Openly she was the king’s Latin tutor, but in a silent agreement between the two of them, she stayed as his nearest friend in the sad absence of their mutually beloved Rivers.

True to Edward’s word, the Tower was a luxurious royal home, much more than Ludlow—a mere provincial castle—

had been. Ancient and foreboding though the outer bastions and the White Tower in the center of the yard were, the royal residences, as well as the chapels, and the immense great hall where all meals were taken, had been renovated by England’s two previous kings. The place was therefore filled with carvings on every pillar, with tall expanses of stained glass in chambers and chapels, and sumptuous wall hangings. The ceilings glittered with golden stars, painted lions of red and green, and flowers of every hue and description.

The inner wards of the walled fortress were bustling and festive, more so now that the official court had been moved from Westminster. That palace was now a somber and lifeless place, what with the remains of the royal family hidden away in the abbey’s sanctuary. On Tower Green were dozens of tents and awnings, stables and wooden stalls, with fishmongers, pie makers, mercers, and millers hoping to obtain large orders from the palace steward.

Scurrying importantly from round the Tower grounds were all manner of household functionaries, all under the supreme command of the Constable of England—and therefore the Tower—

namely Harry Buckingham. Below him was the chamberlain, Lord Hastings. There were Knights and Squires of the Body who saw to the personal needs of the king, some sleeping on pallets in his room and helping him dress and undress. There were Yeomen of the Crown, and Grooms and Pages of the Chamber, and even a special servant who saw to the cleaning up of the messes made by the castle dogs.

The nighttime ritual required two squires at the foot of the bed, and two at the head, a man to carry in the bedclothes, and one to hold back the curtains. But before Edward was allowed to climb in, the sheets, cotton blanket, and ermine counterpane were laid out and smoothed
just so,
the pillows beaten, and holy water sprinkled on the final product.

When the king dined, each dish was presented with high ceremony. Always in attendance at meals was a servant with towel and basin, a “Doctor of Physique” who stood behind the boy advising him what and what
not
to eat, thirteen minstrels to play throughout the meal, and a jester to make Edward laugh so his food would properly digest.

Despite the attention paid him, Edward had remained so gloomy since his arrival that every day Nell would coax him out of his quarters to visit the dairy or pigeon loft, the bakery or forge. She’d expected him to enjoy the menagerie more than he did, but he claimed that seeing the great cats and bears and long-legged ostriches caged reminded him of what he saw—splendid as it was—as his own imprisonment. She tried to have him view his stay here as but temporary. That soon after his coronation he would be returned to Westminster and surely reunited with his family.

But Edward was haunted first and always by the thought of his uncle Rivers alone and imprisoned in Yorkshire. The passing of letters between them was permitted, but whenever Edward asked his uncle Richard about Antony’s fate, he was told only that as long as Rivers stayed far from any of the queen dowager’s plotting and conspiracies, he was safe.

The ruthlessness of his uncles Gloucester and Buckingham in that affair filled the boy with a dread of them, a mistrust from which he could not be dissuaded. Nell had attempted to draw a distinction between the two men, giving Richard more credit for honesty and good intentions. But there was the fact of Edward’s prior loathing of Gloucester in the matter of his uncle Clarence’s execution, which had never been resolved. In the king’s eyes, Richard was untrustworthy and sinister, and Nell’s words fell on deaf ears.

Besides Rivers, the boy missed his family horribly, particularly Bessie and Dickon. Edward’s favorite occupation was writing letters to them. Nell and he would sit on opposite sides of his writing table, and these were some of the only happy times they had. They shared the lead inkwell, laughing when they sought it at the same moment, sometimes having silly duels with their quills. And despite the anger at his apparent powerlessness, he took great pleasure in signing his letters “Edward Quintus.” There was much news to write to his family—how Edward’s coronation plans were forging ahead, with endless fittings for his robes and Nell’s gowns. Knowing how sorely his nine-year-old brother must be suffering in the confines of the grim, win-dowless Sanctuary Tower, Edward spent particular effort in buoying Dickon’s spirits. He related anecdotes about his new court jester, whose after-dinner banter was far more ribald than their mother would have approved of, and promised that after the coronation, they would visit the Tower menagerie as often as Dickon pleased.

Resuming communication with Bessie and her father had felt to Nell like the first rush of spring. In the past dark days she’d forgotten how airy and optimistic was her friend’s spirit. And despite Bessie’s severely reduced circumstances, indeed confinement, there was not a mote of anger or cynicism in her letters. Nell’s father also knew instinctively to delete any hint of politics or opinion out of his letters to her. They were newsy and filled with gossip from Westminster precinct, the printshop, and Totehill Street. But for both Edward and Nell, there were terrible constraints at all times hindering them. They could never be sure if the letters they sent or received were opened and read by the protector, or his “incubus”—as Edward called Harry Buckingham.

Had the king and his tutor felt they had a freer hand, they would have described to their loved ones the strangeness of the new court, Edward’s new council cobbled from both the Gloucester faction and Woodville supporters, and how the loyalties of the two flowed in and about each other like the waters of an estuary—salt and fresh.