To the Tower Born - Robin Maxwell (16 page)

They would have observed that not only was Buckingham’s influence on the protector vast, and Richard’s rewards to his protégé generous—some said overgenerous—but that everyone was aware that Harry Buckingham’s spies were everywhere.

Nothing happened in the Tower, in London, or anywhere in the realm without his knowledge. Despite his continued deference to Gloucester, many wondered where the true power in England’s government lay. Also present, and prevalent, at the new court were Lord and Lady Stanley. Nell remembered the Duchess of Gloucester’s assessment of Lord Stanley with his ambiguous loyalties, and her outright mistrust of Stanley’s Lancastrian wife, Lady Margaret Beaufort.

In a position so obviously close to the young king, Nell was treated with extreme deference by Lady Margaret. It made her feel queer to have so highborn and powerful a lady treating her so, and she could not help but believe it false. Yet the woman commanded respect, and Nell was strangely awed and humbled in her presence.

One untoward element in Lady Margaret’s orbit was her personal servant, Reginald Bray. Edward had whispered to Nell that the man’s long face and large, square teeth reminded him of a donkey, and that his name was all too fitting. From that moment on, Nell was unable to see the man without imagining a braying ass. Beyond that, though she did not mention it to Edward, Nell found Reggie Bray a sinister character. Why, she could not say. Perhaps it was the way he looked at her—rather,
leered
at her. She sensed above all
disapproval,
that one of her sex should have such intimacy with the new king.

Edward’s and Nell’s joint letters to Lord Rivers were the most difficult of correspondences. Edward was careful to say nothing that would worsen his uncle’s plight. Nell struggled to devise a code whereby she could clandestinely intersperse Edward’s thoughts with her own sentiments of love and continued devotion. Whilst she was never entirely satisfied with her efforts, she was sure that Antony would comprehend her meaning, no matter how clumsy the attempts. Antony’s letters back to Edward—and secretly to Nell—were similarly bland and cryptic. It was not much with which to hold on to their love, but for the moment it was all they could hope for.

A bright note was the late king’s friend Lord Hastings. Whilst being “guilty” of having alerted Gloucester to the queen’s plotting, he had shown himself to be, first and foremost, loyal to young Edward, making many pleasurable visits to the royal residence, sometimes bringing gifts, but more often coming to chat easily and reminisce about their dearly missed friend and father.

Even Nell found Hastings a comfortable companion, and whilst he shared the dead king’s reputation for womanizing, he showed her nothing but kindness and respect.

For her part, Nell, also forbidden to leave the Tower confines till after Edward’s crowning, found many friends amongst the Tower staff, even meeting some of her Totehill Street friends doing business within the palace walls.

Much could be accomplished, she soon realized, with a few well-placed confidants in the kitchen, in the laundry, or in the gardens. Nell took particular care to learn the names of every gate guard and sentry and, with utter discretion, took Edward to meet them as well. They were delighted and deeply honored to make their young sovereign’s acquaintance, and he took great interest in learning something personal about each of his new

“subjects.”

Therefore, the weeks passed with a combination of pleasure and pain, some small, some great. But the solace that Nell and Edward found in each other’s company made everything bearable.

The queen dowager, thought Bessie, had much improved since the frantic day of moving from Westminster’s palace to the abbey’s sanctuary. Her mother was back to her shrewd, icy self, brimming with plots and plans to wrest control back from her unpleasant brother-in-law Gloucester. There was hardly time for the children, who were clearly suffering from their confinement in the dark tower, its few windows mere slits in the thick stone walls. Her four sisters were slightly more content with indoor pastimes than Dickon, for the boy’s favorite games were out-of-doors. Bessie, seeing the queen’s mind elsewhere occupied, took it upon herself to mother her brother and sisters, engaging the girls in bright conversations as they stitched at a family tapestry. She even allowed Dickon to give her gentle lessons in swordplay so that he would have a sparring partner of sorts.

At first it had been well nigh impossible for the queen to receive news from the Tower of London, where all government business was taking place . . . without her. It rankled that even the queen’s men—like her loyal cleric, Bishop Morton—were silent.

She was thankful that her eldest brother had made away with the Royal Navy, and enough of the English treasury, to help launch a rebellion against Richard of Gloucester when the time came. But she worried most for her son, Lord Grey, and her brother Antony, who languished still in Richard’s northern prisons.

Little King Edward, the queen was sure, was fine.

Bessie had shown her brother’s letters to her mother and found herself quietly angry that the queen dowager seemed to worry so little about the boy. He was well enough taken care of, she said whenever Bessie expressed concern. The detested Richard of Gloucester was many things, but he would do no harm to his precious brother’s son, she’d insisted.

On a warm evening in June, when the airlessness of the thick-walled Sanctuary Tower had kept Bessie tossing sleepless in her bed, she heard a commotion coming from her mother’s tiny chamber—a room adjoining Bessie’s own. She crept from her bed and watched as her mother hurriedly threw a wrapper over her nightdress.

Careful not to be seen or heard, the princess, on tiptoe, followed her in the dark, placing herself where she could observe the faces of her mother’s visitors flickering in candlelight. Visitors who had arrived clandestinely in the middle of the night.

It was Lord Hastings, with Bishop Morton in tow. Her mother, thought Bessie, would be elated by such high drama and secrecy. Indeed, it was soon apparent that a conspiracy was brewing, though at first the queen was sharp with Hastings, mis-trustful. For it was he, prematurely alerting Gloucester to the king’s death, and laying bare her overthrow of the protectorate, who had foiled her original plot. Bessie watched with amazement as Hastings fell to his knees before Elizabeth Woodville and begged her forgiveness.

“Majesty,” he implored. “You cannot fault me for wishing to adhere to my dearest friend King Edward’s will. At his death it seemed as though you were intent upon an opposite course.”

“I was, Hastings. And I’m not ashamed to say so.”

“Now I can see, madam, that you were right all along.”

“ ’Tis very clear, Your Majesty,” intoned Bishop Morton with the utmost gravity, “that the Duke of Gloucester means to destroy the succession entirely.”

“What do you mean?”

“It began with the raising of Harry Buckingham to dizzying heights,” Hastings answered. “Titles, land grants, power almost equal to the protector’s own. He is not simply Constable of the Tower of London, but Constable of England itself. We have all marveled at the trust Gloucester has placed in this arrogant Welshman, who had, until two months ago, played
no
part in government whatsoever.”

“You’re jealous, Hastings,” said the queen, unable to hide her amusement. “Richard has acted ungratefully to you.” He bristled. “That may be so, but ’tis not what brings us here, madam.”

“Tell me,” she demanded.

Bishop Morton leaned in to the queen, and Bessie was forced to creep closer into the shadows so that she could hear his voice.

“Do you remember a man named Stillington, Your Majesty? He is now the Bishop of Bath and Wells.”

“Of course I remember Stillington.”

“He has been to see the protector. Gloucester and Buckingham met with him alone,” Morton said.

From her place in hiding, Bessie saw her mother clutch the table behind her to steady herself, though Morton and Hastings were unaware.

“We believe that on Gloucester and Buckingham’s word, Stillington means to revive the rumors of adultery of our late king’s mother, Lady Cecily.”

“To what purpose?” the queen demanded, panic rising in her voice.

Bessie could see that her mother was trembling. The queen sought a chair and sat herself down. Something was very wrong.

“Perhaps the same as the Duke of Clarence’s when he made the same accusation about his mother eight years ago,” said Morton. “To denounce the legitimacy of your children and claim the throne for himself.”

Bessie’s heart began pounding. She tried to move closer, but feared detection.

“That is nonsensical,” Elizabeth rejoined Morton. “If the rumor is true, then my brother-in-law Richard is a bastard too.”

“Gloucester is a clever man, Your Majesty,” Hastings continued. “The rumor could be ‘revised.’ Few remember the details.

‘Proof ’ could be provided—”

The queen interrupted him. “How long was Stillington clos-eted with Gloucester and Buckingham?”

“ ’Twas a brief meeting,” Hastings replied. “So said the tailor who informed us of it.”

“Brief?” said the queen.

“How long does it take to plant a treasonous thought in a man’s ear?” said Morton.

Bessie’s mother sagged visibly. She was relieved by something that had just been said. That much was clear to her daughter.

Hastings went on, quite oblivious to the change in the queen’s posture. “We believe Gloucester and Buckingham will move within days. Disseminate the gossip, furnish their proof.

But I have a large army of loyal men at my disposal, madam,” said Hastings. “Lord Stanley will stand with us as well.” Bessie was startled to hear that Lord Stanley would so easily betray Gloucester, but remembered Aunt Anne’s suspicions of him.

“We have met several times in secret,” Hastings continued.

“All it will take is my word, and the protector can be deposed . . .

and otherwise ‘removed,’ backed by my forces. You, madam, will again be in command of your child’s fate.” Now the queen was peering at Hastings very closely. “You have no evidence of Gloucester’s plot. Just a report from a court tailor of a ‘brief ’ meeting between Gloucester and a discredited priest.”

“But Buckingham—” Hastings began.

“Why should I trust
you,
my Lord Hastings?” she said. “You betrayed me once already. I may loathe my brother-in-law Richard of Gloucester, but I trust his motives toward my dead husband’s son more than I trust yours.”

“Your Majesty—” Hastings implored.

“No, you listen to me. I watched helplessly for years whilst you encouraged my husband’s debauchery. You
shared
women with him. And you hated me, always. Heaven knows what ridicule you heaped upon me, gleeful at my humiliation. He loved you so much. Before his death, the king requested that
you
should be buried beside him. He said nothing of me. You are hoping that in displacing Richard, you will also displace Buckingham. With them gone, a great void at the highest places in government will need filling, and you are hoping that I, controlling my son’s destiny, will allow
you
to fill that void.”

“Your Majesty,” said Morton, interjecting. “You are most correct with regard to Lord Hastings’s past behavior, and perhaps even”—he looked at his cohort—“even his future desires.

But why else would Stillington—”

“Is my brother-in-law proceeding with the coronation plans?” the queen interrupted.

“Outwardly it appears so, but—”

“Do nothing, then. And pray that the crowning goes on as planned.” Her tone changed slightly when she added, “Do watch

carefully to see if Stillington returns. If he does, send a message to me at once. And prepare your troops to move. Until then, my lords”—the queen stood, tall and imperious—“a good night to you.”

As the men departed, Bessie scurried as quietly as she was able through her mother’s chamber back to her own. She waited for the sound of her mother retiring as well, but it never came.

Bessie lay awake the rest of the night whilst Queen Dowager Elizabeth Woodville, her head filled with conspiracies, sat silent and contemplative until well after the sun rose over the June morning.

Please, if you would, lift your arm, Majesty.” Nell, looking up from the writing table, saw King Edward sigh deeply and raise his eyes heavenward. The tailor had sworn he was nearly finished with the fitting, but that had been three quarters of an hour ago. She marveled at the boy’s patience and good nature through the endless fittings for his coronation raiments. There were close to a dozen robes and tunics and capes, hose, slippers, and caps that would be worn over the space of the weeklong festivities, and despite the upsetting circumstances of his accession, Edward knew that he must appear very grand for his coronation. He had admitted to Nell, though, that he was more eager at the thought of seeing his family again than even at the thought of Saint Edward’s crown being set upon his head.

Princess Bessie had written that the royal family too were having their fittings, the queen dowager having agreed that they would all, herself included, come out of Westminster Sanctuary long enough for the occasion. It was incomprehensible that Elizabeth Woodville would not come to see her son crowned king.

She believed there was little risk that Gloucester would do violence to her with all of England’s nobles watching. After the ceremony, Bessie said, they would hurry back to seclusion, for their future was still uncertain.

Bessie’s letters had grown very serious since the family had gone into sanctuary, and Nell sensed that her friend was matur-ing quickly, her worldliness and sense of politics growing more sophisticated with every passing day. There were some, Bessie wrote, who agreed with her mother that Richard of Gloucester’s protectorship should end with Edward’s coronation, no matter his age. But any fool could see, Bessie added, that the intent of her father’s deathbed codicil could not have been to place his devoted brother in power for a mere month or two.

Nell knew Edward was similarly aware of this circumstance.