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Chapter 14
“Who is he that he should rule us?
Who hath proven him King Uther’s son?”
Illness was nothing new to Anne, but this time was different. This time she knew she was dying. She welcomed it. Death would be a release, not only from the pains of her body, but from something far worse: the affliction of her spirit. As she lay wasting in her bed, she thought of nothing else but the blessed release. It was Elizabeth who turned her mind to one whose suffering was greater than her own.
“My lady, may I speak?” Elizabeth asked hesitantly, wiping Anne’s damp brow with rosewater. She handed the basin back to a tiring maid and knelt by the bed. “There is something you… something which…” she paused, rushed on, “I have no right to speak of it but… but…”
Anne turned puzzled eyes on the girl, who gazed at her earnestly. She blinked. For a moment Elizabeth had reminded her of someone familiar, but she couldn’t place who it was. Then, with shock, she realised it was herself. Elizabeth reminded her of herself when she’d been young! The same colour hair, same honied complexion, same heart-shaped face. Strange that she had not noticed the resemblance before.
“Speak, child,” Anne whispered with great effort, her voice laboured, breathy.
“My lady Queen, forgive me… ’tis about your lord husband, the King.” Elizabeth lost her courage and dropped her lids. Anne gazed at her softly, seeing the lines of suffering that pulled at her mouth, the fingers that folded and unfolded a pucker of silk sheet. Summoning all her strength, she lifted her hand and placed it over Elizabeth’s own. It had the desired effect.
“My lady, I fear for the King. He is in great pain but he mourns in silence. He needs you, Your Grace; he is so alone. The entire way from Nottingham, he rode ahead of your litter and cast back looks of such longing and sadness that I—I—” She broke off again, unable to meet the queen’s gentle gaze. She couldn’t tell Queen Anne how her heart had contracted to see the King’s lonely figure riding ahead, how she had longed to gallop to his side, to take his strong sunburned hands into her own and comfort him. “You must get better or I fear the King… the King…” She swallowed, looked away in confusion.
The dainty hand squeezed her own with a touch as light as a bird’s. “Speak,” commanded the soft voice. Elizabeth lifted pained eyes to the wasted, once-lovely face. “Without you… I fear the King may not survive.” She bit her lip to hold back the tears that threatened.
There was a long silence during which the queen merely stared at her. Then she nodded, tried to say something. Elizabeth bent her head closer to catch the words.
“Thank you, dear child,” the queen murmured.
~*~
For a long moment after Elizabeth had made her revelation, Anne was stung with anger and jealousy. She had immediately seen through the girl’s concern for Richard to the truth. Elizabeth loved him. And why not? Richard was handsome, kind, noble, chivalrous—everything a young girl would admire.
And Elizabeth was beautiful, young. Healthy.
Gazing at the full contours of the lovely face, Anne had been reminded of her own barrenness; that she was useless to Richard and to England. That she was dying, and the world would move on without her. Thankfully, that bitter moment of self-pity was short-lived. There was still enough generosity in her spirit to forgive Elizabeth her rosy cheeks, and Richard for one day forgetting her. She realised how selfish she’d been, and she was grateful to Elizabeth for opening her eyes.
That night when Richard came to her bedchamber at Westminster, she took a long look at him for the first time since Ned’s death. He was dressed in plain black saye, unadorned by a girdle or mantle, and the tight-fitting cote and long hose that moulded his strong muscular body was unrelieved by any trimming. He wore no jewels except the sapphire she herself had given him, the gold griffin given him by her uncle, John, and his own signet ring. Lifting her eyes to his face, she nearly gave an audible gasp. He had aged terribly in the three months since Ned’s death. His complexion was ghastly pale, his cheeks were sunken and sharply drawn, and pain was etched mercilessly in the lines around his eyes and mouth. Reaching out her hand, she drew him down beside her on the silver coverlet. The windows stood open to the warm August night; the gauzy bed curtains fluttered in the breeze, and the candles around the room flickered like tiny stars. She could smell roses and honeysuckle in the dark garden where moonlight cast dreamy shadows.
“’Tis a beautiful world, Richard, in spite of the sorrow.”
Richard did not respond.
“We have overcome much in our lives, you and I. We shall overcome this.” She spoke in a whisper, haltingly, for protracted speech was difficult. “With God’s help, we’ll learn how to live with our loss.”
After a moment, in a low voice, Richard said, “We were young then. We had hope to light the way.”
“My love… we have each other. God has not left us uncomforted.”
“God,” Richard murmured, turning to look at her with a curious expression. “I wonder sometimes, Anne, does God have a heart?”
“Richard, you’ve had much to bear these recent months,” she whispered, in part from shock, in part to save breath for all she had to say. “’Tis why you doubt Him. But He has His reasons for taking our little Ned. One day we shall understand, as Job did when God revealed Himself to him.” Richard looked at her in the dimness. She had lost much weight and was gaunt and pale, more frail than he’d ever known her. Her eyes loomed strangely large in her thin face and her fair hair hung limp in the coils at the nape of her neck. He couldn’t let her go on torturing herself. He had to tell her the truth. The truth about Ned’s death. He swallowed. “Anne… Tudor is not responsible. Ned’s death was God’s punishment on me. I had no right to the throne.”
“You had no choice after Bishop Stillington revealed Edward’s bigamy and—”
“Stillington has naught to do with it!” He ran his hands through his dark hair in abject misery. “I have no right to the throne! I took it anyway and God has made us pay with Ned!”
“No, Richard—” She stared at him blankly, “You have every right; you were next in line, descended from three of the five sons of Edward III. There was no question about your right.”
He cradled his head in his hands. “My claim was false. I am no Plantagenet.” He had never spoken the words in his life and he felt as though he had plunged a dagger into his own heart.
“No Plantagenet—! Richard, my love, what do you mean?”
His head twisted around and he looked at her strangely. “Who is he that he should rule us?… Who hath proven him King Uther’s son?… This is the son of Gorlois, not the King. This is the son of Anton, not the King.”
Stunned, bewildered, Anne finally comprehended. He was quoting King Arthur! Richard had always identified with Arthur, and now she understood why. Like that fabled king, he doubted his own birth. “You think the Duke of York was not your father?” Love give me strength, she thought. Struggling up to a sitting position, she took his shoulders and quoted the lines he had left out, “‘For lo! we look at him, And find no face nor bearing, limbs nor voice, are like those of Uther whom we knew’—is that what you think?”
No response.
“Richard, you are not Arthur!” She caught her breath, rushed on. “Of all your father’s sons, you are the most like him, so much so that Friar Shaa inserted it into his sermon at St. Paul’s Cross to underscore your claim to the throne!” She felt depleted. The strain of speech was draining her, making her heart pound with an erratic rhythm. But she forced herself to go on, to finish what had to be said. “Did anyone laugh? Did anyone deny it? Holy Christ, how can you doubt your birth when no one else does?”
She took his hand in hers, looked into his resistant face. “You were the only dark one in a blond family; that is the reason you doubt. Aye, Richard, others noticed it, but they never doubted. My father once said that you were the only one to take after the Duke of York. Yo
u had his stature, and his temperament, and his heart. He said that had you been born first instead of last, all would have been well for England.”
“He said that?” Richard mumbled. The Duke of York had been an orphan and was raised by the Nevilles. Thrown together since early boyhood, the Duke and Warwick had become devoted to one another. Such a secret could never have been concealed, not from Warwick—there would have been whisperings. Rumours. There were always rumours.
“He said that, my love,” Anne persisted. “And he would have known, wouldn’t he?”
Richard passed a hand over his face, moistened his lips. “He would have known… Your father would have known.” The fog in his mind began to clear.
“Now,” she whispered, straining to touch his cheek with her hand, “think on our blessings… Katherine, and dear Johnnie, and little Edward. Soon Katherine shall be married to fine young Huntingdon, and grandchildren will follow to bring you—us—joy—” She panted heavily, strained by the exertion. “See, Richard… there is much to be grateful for.”
He stretched out beside her and laid his cheek against her soft hair. She snuggled against him and he slid his arm around her bosom to hold her close. A great weariness engulfed him; he shut his eyes, and they fell asleep in each other’s arms, in the position in which they had always lain together.
~*~
It is as if Satan has heard us, Anne thought. Within five days, Westminster had filled with tears and the smell of incense. Fourteen-year-old Katherine was dead. She had caught the sweating sickness that claimed its victims within twenty-four hours. In that time, a person either recovered or died. In London, the sickness was prevalent, and two London mayors had perished within months of one another, the last only a day after Katherine’s death.
Richard had attended both funerals. Katherine was buried in her bridal gown, her corpse strewn with flowers, her auburn curls streaming around her. While young Huntingdon wept, she was laid to her rest in a stone coffin at Westminster Abbey. That night Richard sat by Anne’s bedside and gazed at her with hollow eyes. “I have fought all my life for what I believed right, and what has it brought me, Anne? I’m too weary to try anymore.”
“No!” she cried out.
“’Tis hopeless, Anne…”
Anne reached up with a feeble arm to grasp his black cote, her mouth working in agitation. He bent his ear to her lips. “Never give up… to give up is to admit you’ve failed… we are God’s soldiers and in the end what counts is how we fought His fight—” She fell back, gasping, spent.
His own words thrown back at him. The underpinnings of his life. He swallowed his choking misery, rose and brushed her cheek with his lips. He dragged himself over to the window seat. Taking his lute into his hands, he looked up at the dark heavens and strummed her favourite melody, one he had composed for her when they’d been newly wed: Aye, aye, O aye… A star was my desire…
~*~
Anne directed all her energies into getting better and forced herself to take nourishment. Though it made her nauseous, she swallowed hot broth, ate honey, and chewed boiled nuts and raisins. Exertion was taxing to the point of pain, yet she rose from bed and struggled to stand on shaky legs. She even managed to drag herself around. Richard was elated.
“My dearest,” he said joyfully, taking her both her hands into his own, “now that you’re better, we’ll leave for Nottingham! I had no wish to leave earlier—” He broke off, averted his eyes. The truth was, doubting Anne would get well and facing a bleak future without her, it hadn’t mattered much to him whether or not he met the threat of Tudor’s invasion. “I know Nottingham is a gloomy place, but it’s an invincible fortress in the middle of the country, and from there I can be anywhere on the coast quickly. At least there’s Sherwood Forest, Anne.”
Anne attempted a smile, but inwardly she felt the nauseating sinking of despair. His joy in finding her better was so poignant, it broke her heart. Whatever she had, it was fatal. What would become of Richard then? A suffocating sensation tightened her throat. She looked away.
Thinking he understood the reason for her sudden wretchedness—Nottingham was where they had received the news of Ned’s death—Richard said gently, “We don’t have to go directly—Windsor is on the way—we’ll stop for a few days. We can celebrate the Feast of St. Bartholomew at Windsor. You’ve always enjoyed Windsor, my love.”
The plaintive edge to his voice made Anne ache. Not trusting herself to speak, she threw him a quick smile and blinked to banish the memories. Only last year, in July of ’83, soon after the coronation, they had spent three delightful days there on their way north for their progress. North to Ned.
“The gardens are splendid this time of year, and the fresh air will do you good,” Richard added brightly.
~*~
While Richard was kept busy with state affairs, Anne, drawn by the beauty of Windsor’s scenery with its rolling hills, emerald woods, and serene river, sat outside thumbing Richard’s book, The Vision of Piers Plowman, about the weary plowman who dreams of a better world, one where injustice is remedied. Like all Richard’s books, the flyleaf bore his signature, as was his custom, and the cover was plain, unadorned by precious gems, for he chose his books to read, not to impress. Its well worn pages declared to the world how dear the book was to Richard’s heart. Here lay a smudge, there a notation… Aye, he heeds its lessons, tries to remedy injustice wherever he finds it, Anne thought, but it has done him little good. Last night, in his sleep he had clearly spoken a line from the poem—the saddest line of all. Anne forced the memory away. It pained her too much that he should feel this way, after all he had been through, all the good he had tried to do…
On the second day of their visit, with Elizabeth’s help, she managed a short stroll along the river’s edge and around the manicured hedgerows. Leaning heavily on the girl’s arm, Anne reached the pleasure garden near the Round Tower. “What is the date today, do you know? I seem to have lost count,” she said.
“The twenty-second of August,” replied Elizabeth.
How fast the summer was drawing to a close! Her last summer. She glanced up at the vivid turquoise sky. No trace of a cloud. “Such a beautiful day,” she whispered, almost to herself.
“You shouldn’t be out, my lady, you should be in bed,” urged Elizabeth. “The wind is chill. The King will not be pleased.”
“The wind is chill, but the sun is hot.” Anne smiled at her young niece, swept with affection. Lately Elizabeth had taken upon herself many of the duties of a lady-in-waiting, though Anne had summoned the girl to her side not to toil, but for companionship. “Don’t fret, child. I can’t stay in bed on such a day.” She halted on the high grassy slope, suddenly winded. “We shall await my lord here.”
Trailing servants set a high-backed chair next to a stone bench and withdrew a respectable distance. As she settled into her chair, Anne’s glance swept the garden where she herself had directed the planting of flower beds and hedges the previous summer. It was alight with roses, lilies, and violets. Wood pigeons, wagtails, and larks chirped around her, and from the pastures outside the castle came the bleating of sheep. A yellow butterfly flitted past and she followed it with her eyes until it disappeared around the hedges. Down on the river’s edge, two white swans glided in the jade waters. Swans mated for life; what did they do when their mate died?
She looked back at Elizabeth. The girl was standing stiffly, clearly ill at ease about the whole business. Anne forced a smile. “I can manage the King, dear child, and in any case I shall be all right. ’Tis warm even for August. The air will do me good. Now sit down.”
Reluctantly Elizabeth bundled Anne’s furred velvet cloak around her frail body, smoothed her own skirts, and took a seat on the sunny stone bench. She gave Anne another anxious look. “’Tis not what the doctors say, my lady. They say the air is bad for your fever—”
“Fie on the doctors; they would deny me everything. They think me already dead—” Anne broke off, shocked at her o
wn bitterness. “Nay, anger serves no purpose. They mean well, but they can’t help me. Only God can help any of us.” She looked up at the sky where a flock of blackbirds soared with shrill cries. “And in this lovely place, I feel His presence.” She moved in her chair and a white rose from a nearby bush caught in her cloak. She took it into her hands, bent her head to inhale its fragrance. It was in full bloom, the heart exposed. A pity, she thought; it won’t last the day. She released it with a gentle touch, and the petals spilt to the ground.
She sank back in her chair wearily. At some level deep within herself, she realised she had always sensed how her life would play out. Maybe that had been the source of her childhood fears; the reason why Fortune had tried to keep her from marrying Richard; the reason why she had always feared for Ned. Because she knew it would come to this.
To this.
She became aware that Elizabeth was watching her, and with an expression that spoke far more than words. The child has a good heart, she thought. Raising a hand, she touched the girl’s soft fair hair. With a sigh, she closed her eyes, lifted her face to the sun. For a long while she sat, quietly drinking in its drowsy warmth until, at length, men’s voices and the trample of horses’ feet shattered her peace. Opening her eyes, she squinted into the sun, in the direction of the noise.
From where she sat with Elizabeth, high in the pleasure garden near the Round Tower, she had an excellent view of the main entrance. A small troop of men-at-arms had appeared through a distant archway in the castle wall and begun a descent to the Norman Gate. In their midst a lone woman rode pillion. Thin, rigidly erect, wearing a wimple and dressed in black, there was no mistaking Margaret Beaufort. As if sensing Anne’s attention, Stanley’s wife turned her head and stared directly at her.
Anne shivered.
Elizabeth also watched uneasily as Margaret Beaufort and her escorts descended to the main gate.
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