Jack told them that Robert Stillington, Bishop of Bath and Wells, had come forward, “because his conscience could no longer carry the secret,” to tell Richard that he had witnessed a troth-plight between Edward and Eleanor Talbot, the daughter of the old earl of Shrewsbury, a few months after Edward was crowned. “Presumably to get into her bed,” Jack scoffed.
Everyone had questions. Why did the lady not come forward at the time of Edward’s marriage to Elizabeth? Where was she now? Did Elizabeth know about her?
Jack waved them away. “I know not the answers, children. I can tell you that Eleanor Talbot has been dead these fifteen years. She died in a nunnery, so it would seem, and never took her place by his side. I can give you my conjecture why the bishop chose not to disclose his secret until now, but I do not know the truth any more than Richard does. It has struck all of us in the council a mighty blow. There is to be no coronation. Instead, Richard will call for Parliament to sit.”
“What is your conjecture, Jack?” Margaret spoke for the first time. “Why did my lord bishop take his time relieving his conscience?”
“I have been pondering Stillington’s actions on the boat ride home. I came to these conclusions. However,” he admonished his wide-eyed audience sternly, “’twould be folly to repeat them outside these four walls. Do you understand me?” They all nodded, and a few crossed themselves. Jack resumed his train of thought. “I believe he was sworn to secrecy by the king and given the office of chancellor as a reward for his silence. This he held until ’seventy-five, when for some reason Edward removed him from office. ’Tis well known he was on good terms with George of Clarence. His diocese sat on Clarence’s lands. Perhaps, from resentment, he unburdened himself to the late duke. Perhaps foolish Clarence threatened Edward with the knowledge, and for this he lost his life. ’Tis an odd coincidence that not a month following Clarence’s death, the bishop himself was imprisoned in the Tower for a spell. It was said the bishop may have been implicated in Clarence’s treason. Now I wonder if ’twas due to a disclosure to Clarence and his imprisonment back then was a warning from Edward.”
“Certes! It makes perfect sense, Father,” John agreed. “The old man was scared back into silence—until after Edward was safely dead, when he finally could not condone Edward’s bastard becoming the Lord’s anointed. To have assisted at such a ceremony would certainly have sealed his fate in hell.”
“Well done, John.” Jack nodded his approval. “I think we have it solved.”
“What does this mean for Gloucester?” Kate asked, tightening the strings of her harp with trembling fingers.
“In truth, I am not entirely certain, Kate. But there is no doubt he has the right to take the crown. He is next in line. Many of us on the council hope he takes it. I cannot tell if he wants it, however. He is as shocked as the rest of us. I do not think he has fully come to terms with Edward’s death yet. He worshipped Edward, you know.”
“I know,” whispered Kate, remembering long-ago conversations in the dark and the pride in Richard’s voice every time he talked of his glorious big brother.
“Parliament will decide. Tomorrow there is to be a sermon delivered by Friar Shaw at St. Paul’s. We shall all go. I shall stay at Baynard’s Castle with Margaret until Parliament sits. Indeed the lords will convene on Monday, and I must be there. There is much business to conduct before the commons take their seats later in the week. And Kate, you will accompany Margaret,” he commanded. Jack rose and paced the length of the hall, the toes of his shoes slapping on the flagstones. All eyes were on him when he stopped, put his hands on his stomach and glowered at them. They waited expectantly.
“Ho, there! Where is my supper!” he shouted.
Relieved, the family laughed and bustled around while the servants ran in to set up the tables.
“BASTARD SLIPS SHALL NOT take root!” proclaimed Friar Shaw to the citizens of London standing to hear his rhetoric on the steps of St. Paul’s Cross in the cathedral courtyard.
His pronouncement came at the end of a sermon that told of Edward’s precontract to Eleanor Talbot, alluded to the rumor that Edward himself was a bastard—begun six years before by Clarence—and praised the protector’s good name, reputation and right to the crown. Londoners were suspicious of Richard. He had not lived among them for many years. They were doubly suspicious of someone from the north filling their streets with northern lords and soldiers. They went back to their homes muttering and conjecturing, but with the heavy number of troops assembled in the city to ward off rioting, they did nothing. That Richard would become king seemed a foregone conclusion, like it or not.
Kate stood among the Howard women. Her eyes never left Richard’s face. He seemed impassive as he listened to Friar Shaw. His brow was permanently furrowed now, and his mouth a thin, hard line. I beg of you, smile, she willed him. Show these people your smile. The pain in his face touched her, and she knew the past month had taken its toll on him. Edward’s death, the Woodvilles plotting against him, the Stillington revelation—all were precipitating him towards the throne at an alarming rate. Perhaps ’twas better he did not smile, she reasoned, for Richard is no dissembler. He shows what he feels.
As the lords and magnates threaded their way through the crowd, Kate was able to get a glimpse of the duke of Buckingham. He rode by Richard’s side, a large man in blue, his short, curly blond hair and blue eyes contrasting strikingly with his cousin’s dark looks. His round, boyish face had an open look, and Kate hoped its vacuous expression hid a more intelligent mind. He was all smiles for the people, basking in his newfound power as Richard’s right-hand man.
Someone was waving to her from a chestnut mount. It was Rob Percy. She waved back, and then she saw John riding by Francis Lovell’s side, looking every inch a lord. Her heart swelled with pride.
The Howard party made its way on foot to Baynard’s Castle by the river. Kate looked up at the familiar walls as they entered the courtyard. As one of Richard’s staunchest supporters, Jack had been assigned an apartment for his use during this turbulent time. Richard had need of every level head he could muster. Although Jack found Buckingham immature and an insinuator, he was not jealous of the man. He recognized Buckingham’s royal blood made him a natural ally and confidante for Richard.
The next day, when Kate was walking in the gardens, enjoying the many scents from the array of blooms before her, she saw her daughter come running across the grass. Kate had last seen Katherine at Christmas two years ago when she had been invited to join the festivities at Wingfield. The young woman curtsied and then embraced Kate. “Well met, Mother. John told me you were with the Howards. I am right glad to see you, and I have so much to tell you. Come, let us go to the solar above the hall, where we shall not be disturbed. The Lady Anne’s women are still in attendance on her.”
“If you think it is seemly for me to go, Katherine. First, let me feast my eyes on you. Sweet Jesu, how you have grown!”
Kate found herself in awe of her daughter’s beauty, unaware that she was looking at a mirror of herself at fifteen. Only the dark gray eyes gave away her father’s identity. Katherine was taller and less voluptuous than her mother, but she had a noble bearing learned from her years with Elizabeth of Suffolk and now with Anne of Gloucester. For the first time, Kate regretted her own lack of breeding. She had not felt that way with John, but he was younger and less confident than this elegant creature in front of her.
“Come, Katherine, take me to the solar and tell me about all the squires John says are in love with you.”
Katherine blushed and emitted some high-pitched giggles. “Wait till I see that wretch! He will be sorry he said that. Oh, Mother, you cannot believe how kind Aunt Anne is to me.”
Kate’s mouth hardened, but she took her daughter’s hand and walked up the steps to the door of the great hall. As they made their way through, she told the girl of their last visit there. “Your father was wounded at the great battle of Barnet and fainted right over there by the dais upo
n arriving home. The room was full of wounded soldiers, and the floor all slippery with blood.”
“Ugh!” Katherine shuddered. Other than seeing her father ride out and back to fight the Scots in the last two years, she knew nothing of war.
“So you do not remember sitting on that throne and falling asleep when I forgot you were with me?”
Katherine’s eyes sparkled with delight at this tidbit. She could not wait to tell the other ladies. They entered the quiet solar, where the morning sun was streaming in through the clear-glass casements onto rich Turkey carpets, and settled into the window seat’s soft cushions. Kate gave Katherine news of Suffolk and went into more detail over Martin’s death than she had with John. Katherine remembered Martin fondly, and Kate’s description brought tears to the girl’s eyes. “His beard was soft when I kissed him. It always surprised me, for I was sure every time that it would scratch. Funny the things we remember, is it not Mother?”
Thus, mother and daughter lost track of time and were laughing heartily at an anecdote about Molly when they became aware they were no longer alone.
“Aunt Anne! I do heartily beg your pardon.” Katherine jumped up from her seat and curtsied low. “I was talking to my mother. Have you need of me?”
Kate was on her feet and sweeping Anne her finest curtsy. Her heart was beating hard, and she could not find her tongue.
“I am glad to meet you, Mistress Haute,” Anne said cautiously. “Your daughter has told me much about you.”
“Oh!” Kate’s face registered horror that Katherine could have been so tactless. “I fear my efforts to curb her boldness were in vain. My pardon, Lady Anne.”
The two women faced each other, and as all rivals do, appraised each other thoroughly. Anne saw a woman past the first bloom of youth but still extraordinarily lovely. She was fascinated by the tawny eyes that gazed in interest at her, in their turn seeing a petite, fashionable woman with an attractive smile that creased the corners of her blue eyes.
Anne was the first to look away. “Richard tells me ’tis your boldness Katherine has inherited. Is that true?” She swept past Kate and sat down. She did not invite Kate to sit but gave her a haughty stare. Two of her ladies stood about, feigning lack of interest.
Kate bridled. “Aye, your grace, I suppose I am known for my plain speaking. I beg your pardon if my daughter offends you.”
“Nay, Mistress Haute, she does not. Both Katherine and John are part of the family now. Katherine, my dear, go and fetch us some wine.”
The girl curtsied and ran out.
Anne concentrated on straightening her skirts to hide her nervousness. “I did not want to say anything in front of the child, madam, but I know not if Richard would condone your visit. Although no one forgets the children are bastards, I do not encourage them to remember their lowly beginnings. You do understand, ’tis best for them.”
“I do not believe Richard would be so cruel as to deny me my children!” Kate retorted, forgetting she was addressing a royal duchess.
Anne was taken aback but summoned up her courage before stating, “I am Richard’s wife, madam. You no longer have sway with him. I have taken your children under my protection, and that should be enough! I am sorry for you, but there it is.”
Kate’s moist palms and rigid back betrayed her mounting ire, but she dutifully inclined her head in response. There was a frosty silence, and Kate became aware of the other women’s curiosity, as well as a quivering of Anne’s chin and a nervously bitten lip. Why, Kate thought, she is afraid of me! Then Richard is not entirely hers, she exulted. She took a deep breath and changed her tone. “I must thank you for your kindnesses to my daughter, your grace. I trust her father is pleased with her.”
“You need have no fear on that score, Richard dotes on her.” A note of resentment tinged Anne’s response, and Kate suppressed a smile. “Pray be seated, Dame Haute. We do not want Katherine to think we are not civil with each other, do we?”
“Nay, your grace. Katherine holds both of us in too high regard.” Kate took a seat and folded her hands in her lap. She was keenly aware of the social gulf between them but was determined Anne would not find her manners deficient. And thus Katherine found them a few minutes later when she returned with wine. After they had sipped some and made small talk about children, the weather and the overcrowded city, Anne rose to leave.
“Come, Katherine, say good-bye to your mother and follow me. Farewell, Dame Haute, I am . . . glad to have met you.” As if the forced effort was too much for her, Anne began to cough. “Silly of me. It must be the London air. I find this castle very damp,” she apologized after the fit passed, annoyed to have shown Kate any weakness.
“Aye, ’tis so close to the river. I feel it, too.” Something about Anne’s frailty aroused Kate’s sympathy, and she spoke kindly to her. “A hot posset of sage, mallow, coltsfoot and comfrey three times a day might soothe you, your grace.”
Anne acknowledged the suggestion with a smile and then she was gone, Katherine and her ladies trailing behind her.
Kate poured herself another cup of wine and wilted into a chair.
THREE DAYS LATER, Margaret and Kate took a walk on the terraces that ran along the water, holding their headdresses fast against the wind that filled the sails of the ships skimming down the shimmering river towards the sea. They turned and meandered back to the outside staircase intending to return to the apartment. They had climbed to the second floor, when the sound of a noisy crowd reached them from below. They leaned over the banister to see what was afoot. Parliament had begun its session the day before, and everyone was on edge, wondering what would result. A group allowed into the courtyard appeared to be of the gentry, as far as the women could make out from so lofty a perch. Margaret suggested they go down to the next level to get a better view. By this time, people crowded every window and stairwell, and Kate and Margaret had to squeeze themselves in front of two burly men to see.
“’Tis Buckingham!” Margaret said, pointing to the central figure. “And there is Jack. If I am right, ’tis the lords and commons. What can this mean?”
“Richard of Gloucester!” cried Buckingham, his voice matching his size. “Come forth and be recognized.”
The guards had been unable to stem the flow of curious onlookers who pushed through into the courtyard from the street, and now a sizable mass of people faced Richard when the massive door swung open and he appeared at the top of the steps. Those in the castle gave him a rousing cheer, which was taken up by some of those who had entered from the street.
Buckingham held up his hand for silence and unrolled a parchment.
“My lords, members of the council, members of the commons, citizens of London and all present shall bear witness that this day Parliament petitions that most mighty Prince Richard, duke of Gloucester, take to himself, as is his right, the crown of England.” He paused and the crowd gasped. Richard did not move as his cousin continued. “We consider that in the reign of King Edward the Fourth, late deceased, after the ungracious pretended marriage made between King Edward and Elizabeth, late naming herself Queen of England, the order of all politic rule was perverted. The marriage was made privately and secretly, without the issuing of banns. . . .” Buckingham read eloquently, his strong voice carrying to the ramparts. The petition declared the king and queen had lived in adultery and therefore their offspring were bastards, “unable to inherit the throne.” It went on to rule out the claim of George, duke of Clarence’s children by reason of their father’s treason and subsequent attainder.
“Beyond this,” he now addressed Richard on one knee, “we consider that you are the undoubted son and heir of Richard, late duke of York, truly inheritor to the crown and dignity royal—”
He got no further. A roar of approval rose from the assembled lords and gentry.
After the noise had died down, they awaited Richard’s response. He gazed around at the myriad faces waiting expectantly, his eyes traveled up to those leaning from the windows
and parapets, and finally, bowing his head, he walked down the steps until he stood level with the crowd.
“If it is the wish of Parliament, lords and commons”—his voice was quiet but firm—“and of the people of this land, I will accept the crown.”
Those closest to him who had heard his modest response set to cheering, and soon the castle walls were ringing. “God save the King! God save King Richard!”
Once again Kate stood crying in the stairwell of Baynard’s Castle, her heart filled with pride—but this time also with fear.
21
Suffolk and London, July to October 1483
Inside Westminster Abbey, Kate waited with the hundreds of other guests for the procession to arrive. At first, she heard a faint cheer, with the blare of trumpets and beating of tabors rising above it. Like a roaring river edging closer to the falls, the cacophony gradually swelled until it forced its way through the wide open doors and deafened the congregation.
“God save the king! God save the king!” The chant was clear now. Bursting forth from unstopped pipes, the music from the mighty organ filled the air, echoing among the vaulted arches a hundred feet above the packed throng and giving Kate a thrill of expectant pleasure. Her heart pounded to the rhythm of the music, its bass notes vibrating up through her body from the floor. As the music thundered to its climax, the trumpeters and clarions arranged in front of the rood screen let blast a fanfare. The first members of the procession that had wended its traditional way from the Tower more than two hours earlier stepped into the interior of Westminster’s great church of St. Peter.
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