To the Tower Born - Robin Maxwell (19 page)

“I beg your pardon?” Richard sounded thoroughly confused.

“Elizabeth Woodville,” Stillington continued, “was apparently not the first woman to withhold her favors from King Edward until a marriage contract had been offered.”

“But this would mean”—Richard was momentarily silent—

“that Edward and Elizabeth’s marriage was
void
.”

“Precisely. Moreover,” the bishop added in the gravest of tones, “all the children born of that marriage . . . are illegitimate,”

“Richard.” Harry Buckingham’s voice was thick with urgency. “Your nephew Edward is
not
the true King of England.” Nell’s knees felt watery and her head was suddenly light. She hardly dared to breathe for fear of missing even a syllable of the conversation in the next room.

“Does the queen dowager know?” Gloucester asked.

“Of course she knows!” said Stillington. “She has known since the time before the Duke of Clarence’s execution. She knew because I told her! She feared more than anything that Clarence would learn of it, for if he did, he would
use
it against her. She went so far as to have me imprisoned to silence me!

And before I could be freed, Clarence was sent to the Tower on charges of treason, and executed,” the bishop added indignantly. He pointed to the document. “This,” he said, referring to the document, “is the
real
reason Clarence died.”

“I always believed that Elizabeth was angry at the accusation of my mother’s adultery,” said Richard, “that Edward and I were bastards, and
he
not fit to wear the crown.”

“That is what the king and queen wanted you to think,” said Stillington. “But here is proof of nothing less than
royal bigamy
.

If you agree this is your brother’s signature, then you’ve no legal right to, next week, crown his bastard son the King of England!”

“Do you realize what this means, Richard?” Buckingham said, unable to control the excitement in his voice. “
You
are next in

line for the succession. My lord, you are the true King of England!”

Nell’s head was spinning. Surely this could not be happening.

“Edward, deposed by a signature on a parchment?” she heard Richard mutter. “Bishop Stillington, we
must
find Lady Eleanor.

Make her swear—”

“The lady is dead, my lord,” said Stillington. “But I myself stood at their betrothal. See my signature there, right under your brother’s? What further proof do you need?”

“My God,” Richard uttered, at a loss for words.

“Richard.” It was Buckingham, even more urgent. “I’ll gather the council. They must hear what Bishop Stillington has to say.

See the precontract with their own eyes. Immediately.”

“I must speak to Anne,” Nell heard Gloucester say with much urgency.

There was silence from Buckingham and Stillington. Nell felt currents of anger, fear, and power pulsing through the door.

Finally Gloucester spoke, his voice frantic. “How can I be king?” he said.

Buckingham was calm and sure. “How can you
not,
my friend?” he said. “How can you not? Come now and we’ll—” Richard cut Buckingham off. “Do what you will, Harry. I must speak to Anne!”

“Very well. Meet me back here at noon,” Nell heard Buckingham say. “I’ll have the council assembled.” But there was no reply from Richard of Gloucester. He had, Nell suspected, already left the room.

“A moment please,” said Buckingham to the bishop.

Nell panicked, realizing from the sound of footsteps that Buckingham was approaching the anteroom she was in. She quickly slipped behind the heavy door and when it swung open as the man entered, it came within a fraction of an inch of her nose. She prayed her crushed skirts would not betray her presence. But a few moments later he was gone, pulling the door closed behind him. Nell sagged with relief, and her jittery fingers dropped the sheaf of papers they held. Heart pounding, she gathered them quickly and, when she surmised all was clear, fled for the privacy of her room.

t was several hours later when Nell reached the hallway Ileading to the king’s chamber. She had a long letter she’d written to Bessie tucked into her sleeve, recounting the conversation she had overhead in Gloucester’s office. The writing had been a painful experience, even as Antony Woodville’s death had been painful. But whilst his ending was heart-wrenching and irrevocable, news of Edward, Dickon, and Bessie’s bastardization seemed to Nell only the beginning of something much worse. And though the intelligence gained in the protector’s anteroom was burned into Nell’s brain, she knew she must not take it upon herself to speak the dreadful news to the king.

The first—and indecently speedy—consequence of young Edward’s demotion became apparent as Nell approached his apartments and found that the set of guards who regularly stood sentry at the outer chamber door were entirely absent. She pushed open that door, praying that within would be standing the pair of soldiers who guarded the inner door. These sentry posts were also empty. Indeed, the door stood slightly ajar.

From inside she could hear the two boys speaking together in normal tones. No alarm. No hysteria. They were yet unaware of the change in their circumstances. Nell walked into the room, trying valiantly to suppress every emotion that threatened to spill from her. The king sat at his writing desk, with Dickon hovering over him impatiently. They noticed her entrance, but Nell’s presence had become so natural to them that they continued their conversation unself-consciously. She busied herself with an imaginary task, her back to them, trying to gather strength for the terrible moments ahead.

“Edward, hurry. I want to go see the lion while he’s being fed.”

“A moment more, Dickon.”

“What is taking so long?”

“I’m writing to Bessie.”

“May I write something to her as well?”

“You take forever with writing, Dickon. Tell me what you want to say, and I’ll say it for you.”

“All right, tell her . . . tell her that we’re very, very sad about Uncle Antony.”

“I’ve already told her that,” Edward replied, pain evident in his voice.

“And that we’re exceedingly angry with Uncle Richard.”

“I’ve told her that too.”

Though he lowered his voice now, Nell could hear Dickon say, “You didn’t tell her that I cried, did you?”

“No, Dickon, I didn’t.”

“Good. Crying is for girls.”

“Well, you cried,” Edward said quietly, “and so did I. What else would you have me write?”

Dickon’s voice returned to a normal pitch. “Have you told her all the fun we’re having exploring the Tower?”

“Some.”

“You must tell her about the armory and the treasury, and the
dungeon
!”

“Give me a minute,” said Edward.

“What about all the animals in the menagerie? The lion and the white bear. And the black-and-white-striped horse?”

“Dickon! How can I write when you never stop talking? Why don’t you go outside,” Edward suggested. “I’ll catch you up at the lion’s cage.”

“And shall we play ball on the green after?”

“Yes, Dickon, we’ll play ball.”

Nell took this opportunity to intrude upon their conversation and turned to face them. It was with awful irony that she curtsied formally to the king and addressed him as “Your Majesty.” She performed a smaller obeisance to Edward’s brother.

“Nell.” Edward spoke her name with incredible warmth.

Dickon smiled shyly.

She noted that Edward had moved the little table with the new inkwell replacing the old one so it faced away from the window on Tower Green. It was the one from which he and Nell had witnessed Lord Hastings’s execution. The broken glass had since been repaired, but the boy king could no longer bear to gaze out that window. It still haunted him, he’d told her, the vision of spurting blood, the lifeless torso. And now to that was the added thought of Uncle Rivers, who had died the same way, so far from his family and friends, alone in a Yorkshire castle yard. Edward could only imagine his death, and Nell was sure his imagining was worse than the real thing. Rivers had been such a greathearted man, Edward reasoned once to Nell, that the fountain of his blood must have spurted farther and longer than Hastings’s. She begged him not to dwell on such gruesome thoughts, but the boy claimed he was helpless from preventing them coming into his head.

And the hatred that welled up in his soul for “that foul creature Gloucester,” as Edward now called him—he could barely call him uncle—was so violent that the king confided to Nell that he worried it would damn his own soul. This fury was so overwhelming that Edward dared not even confess it to his chaplain, and apologized to Nell for burdening her with it.

Revenge was brewing in Edward’s head, Nell suspected. He had only to wait for the right time. Unconscious of his sister’s feelings for Richard, Edward had written Bessie that once he’d taken power as king, Richard, Duke of Gloucester, would feel cold steel at his own neck. That that eventuality was the only reason Edward relished the thought of his coronation. It brought him that much closer to taking his revenge.

“Mistress Caxton,” said Dickon, bringing Nell’s attention to the younger boy. “Will you not convince my brother to come outside?”

“I shall do my best,” she said, and forced a smile.

Dickon took his leave. So intent upon play and a sunny afternoon that the little prince, on walking out the door, failed to notice the absence of the guards. Nell and Edward were alone.

“I’m just finishing a letter to Bessie,” he said.

“Excellent,” said Nell, trying to keep her features even and her demeanor calm. “I have one for her as well. Perhaps your courier will take them both. Edward,” she said carefully. “Are you aware that you are . . . unguarded?”

“How do you mean?”

“Look outside your door.”

The boy stood and moved to the doorway. He looked puz-zled. “The outer door?”

“There’s no one there either.”

“How peculiar.”

“Why don’t you seal your letter and give it to me. I’ll take it to my friend at the Iron Gate.”

“No worry. I’ll call my courier and he’ll take them both.” Edward gazed at her. “You have the strangest look on your face.

Are you entirely well?” Before she could answer, voices were heard outside the door.

“There are the guards returning now,” he said.

But the door opened and Dickon, looking angry, walked through, followed by his uncle Richard.

Nell could see the king’s hackles rise. He sensed something wicked was afoot.

“Would you excuse us, Mistress Caxton?” Gloucester said.

“No, Uncle. She stays. Whatever you have to say to me”—he regarded his brother—“. . . to
us,
may be heard by Mistress Caxton as well.”

Richard began to speak—bravely, Nell thought—and re-layed the worst news that Edward, in his whole life, would ever hear. His face was rigid and ashen. Dickon wept quietly. Nell stood still as a stone.

When he was done Richard asked gently, “Nephew, do you understand what I’ve just said?”

“No, my lord, I do not,” Edward replied smartly. “For you have told me I am king no longer. Have never
been
king. Just a bastard boy, like my poor brother, whom you have made to weep.”

Edward put a hand to his ear that had been sore of late.

Then he went to Dickon, placing an arm round his brother’s quaking shoulder.

“This was not my doing,” Richard said. “You must believe that.”

“So you will take the throne in my stead?”

“It has been offered to me.”

“And
that
is not your doing either?” Edward added harshly.

Nell saw Gloucester wince, and for a moment she believed she saw true remorse in the man’s expression. She remembered that Stillington’s revelation had at first evoked horror in Richard.

“The law is the law,” he said. “All are convinced—the council, the clergy, the lawyers—that the precontract is valid. Edward, your own mother does not deny this.”

“Our mother who was never queen,” Edward replied bitterly.

“No one planned this, I swear it.”

“Get out.”

“Please, Edward . . . Dickon.”

The younger boy began to sob.

“Just leave us!” Edward commanded.

Gloucester stood and covered his eyes with his hand. He stood that way, unmoving, for several moments. The he swiveled on his heel and was gone.

“Nell?” Edward’s voice had lost all of its authority. He was terrified. Confused. “What are we to do?” he whispered.

Nell gathered the two boys together and hugged them to her. She prayed for a modicum of control and evenness. “We’ll think of something,” she finally managed to say.

“But who is left to help us?” Dickon pressed her. “Everyone who loves us is dead or confined to sanctuary.”

“It’s all right, Dickon.” Nell’s heart broke as she heard the king summoning strength and courage back into his words.

“Everything will be all right,” he said. “I promise. I promise.” everal hours later the Tower staff was yet unaware of SRichard of Gloucester’s usurpation of Edward’s throne.

Nell, unable to stay still or remain in her room, had come outside and now strode about the grounds trying in vain to ease her raging emotions. The walled fortress suddenly felt a grim, even sinister place. Whilst she wished desperately to speak to her friends there—gatekeepers, cooks, stewards—she was certain that she must remain silent until a formal announcement had been made, or face the most serious of consequences.

Her sense of isolation and dejection grew when she passed the royal residence and chanced to look up at Edward and Dickon’s window. Heaven only knew what depths of loss and grief they were feeling now. Her own loss she refused to dwell on, or risk losing her ability to function altogether. Without that, she would be unable to bolster the boys and that, thought Nell, was her God-given duty. Wandering round the Tower yard was pointless, she finally realized, and climbed the stairs to her room. Upon entering, she was startled to see a man standing by her desk with his back to her. He appeared to be rifling through her things.

“Sir!” she said sharply.