B008257PJY EBOK

by Worth, Sandra

  Richard lifted his head. It was the code of their boyhood dreams. The shape of their lives.

  “Not only are you my King, but my friend since earliest boyhood. Together we listened to tales of King Arthur and together we learned to wield the sword… You are my true sovereign and gladly would I give my life for you. I swear this oath before Christ and His Saints, that I have ever been loyal and will remain so unto death. Loyaulte Me Lie.”

  Richard gave a choked moan. He flung himself from his chair and embraced Francis. An audible sigh of relief swept the room.

  “My lord,” said the royal councillor Catesby, “if you marry off your niece, it would blunt Tudor’s hand. Then he could no longer boast of a marriage that would unite the red rose with the white.”

  A sudden weariness engulfed Richard. His back ached between his shoulder blades and the old wound from Barnet throbbed. He moved to the window, looked out at the mournful river. “You forget, Catesby, the red rose and the white were united long ago when my mother, the granddaughter of the Duke of Lancaster, married my father, the Duke of York. As for marrying off my niece to spite Tudor—” he swallowed, willed himself to go on. “As for marrying off my niece, I won’t give Tudor the satisfaction of thinking that I care a whit for his plans.”

  “But it would be good statecraft.”

  “Statecraft has never meant anything to me. You should know that by now. I’ve given my best. If that’s not good enough for England, then she’s welcome to the bastard.” He strode to the sidetable, swept up his gauntlets, and made his way to the door.

  Ratcliffe called after him. “My lord, what about Elizabeth of York?”

  Richard froze in his steps. His eye went to the tapestry directly in front of him that concealed the door to the chamber. Deer and fern. A knight in golden armour at the feet of a fair-haired maiden. Blazing with the jewel-toned colours of rubies, emeralds and bright blue sapphires, it lit up the grey room like a torch. Tristan and Iseult.

  He shut his eyes.

  “Make a proclamation… There never was, and never will be… plans for a marriage between us.” He flung the tapestry aside and stepped out into the bitter March wind.

  ~ * ~

  Chapter 24

  “Sir, there be many rumours on this head;

  For there be those who hate him in their hearts.”

  Within days it became clear that a written proclamation was not enough. Richard would have to denounce the marriage rumour in person. Summoning the mayor, aldermen, and chief citizens of London, his lords temporal and spiritual, and leading the officers of his household, Richard rode to the hospital of the Knights of St. John in Clerkenwell. He had chosen it deliberately. Students were schooled in the law here, and it was a place familiar to him, one he understood. He respected the law, and law was the foundation of his rule. The people needed reminding of that. In a loud, distinct voice, he stood before them and denied the rumour spread by Tudor.

  Along the way back from Smithfield, through the Strand and the Fleet to Westminster, Richard rode wearily, his heart heavy as lead, and the crowds who stared at the colourful royal procession seemed to him a swarm of flies come to settle on a wound. Later that night he sat at a table in his candlelit solar, sharing a cup of wine with Francis. Sleep seldom came to him these days and he’d dismissed the servants for the night, seeing no need to deprive them of their rest as well. Behind him a fire crackled in the hearth. He had purposely set his chair so that he sat with his back to it and had no view of the silk cushions strewn about the floor where he used to sit with Anne.

  “More wine?” he asked Francis, picking up the ruby-studded flagon.

  “Maybe just one.” Somewhere in the garden an owl hooted. Francis smiled apologetically. “’Tis late even for owls, Richard.”

  It was past the midnight hour and Richard knew he should let his friend go. Francis had to leave for Southampton at first light, to secure the southern coast against Tudor’s invasion. But memories weighed heavy on him this night and he dreaded the morrow. Come morning, there was something he had to do that he couldn’t bear to think about. He poured wine and set the flask down beside the hourglass. From the corner of the room John Neville’s old hound, Roland, caught Richard’s gaze. Roland gave him a soulful look and wagged his tail.

  “I find myself thinking a great deal about my cousin John lately,” Richard said, drawing the hourglass near. Grains of sand drifted down in a fine stream, inexorably marking the passage of time. Nowadays when he looked back, it seemed to him that his path had been paved with graves. Of them all, after Anne and Ned, it was John he mourned most. Aye, ’tis on a winter’s night, when it is freezing, that we think most of the sun… “I owe him my life. If it hadn’t been for John, I’d have died at eighteen.”

  “Aye,” Francis said softly, “he gave his life for yours.”

  “He taught me how to fight with my left hand… showed me how to overcome my handicap.”

  “He was a valiant soldier. A true knight.”

  “I miss him, Francis. Always have… All these years. It doesn’t get better. It gets worse. Edward shouldn’t have taken away his earldom.”

  “A miscalculation. Edward was angry with Warwick. John was his brother. Edward paid for it.”

  A single hoot from the owl sounded again in the night, and another more distant owl answered. Richard looked down at his right hand, at the gold griffin ring John had given him that day long ago at Barnard’s Castle when they had sealed their kinship by mingling their blood. “Brother to Brother, yours in life and death,” they had vowed as the wind blew and the birds shrieked.

  “We’ve all paid for Edward’s miscalculations,” said Richard, with a swallow of wine, “and I fear we are not done yet. John should be here with us now, Francis. Not Percy or Stanley.” He upended his cup and poured himself another. Turning his head, he stared out the window. It was a clear night; a full moon silvered the sky and torches flared along the battlements. Had it looked that way at Pontfract the night John made his decision to trade his life for Richard’s?

  Richard glanced at Roland. The hound returned his mournful look. “John didn’t like Stanley, though Stanley was married to his own sister at the time,” Richard murmured. “‘He’s not a man I’d want standing at my back,’ is what he said. His exact words.” Richard licked his lips. “Exact,” he repeated with a slur.

  “John was right. You must keep your eye on Stanley.”

  “John also said, ‘’Tis not what you are but what you will become that counts.’… What have I become, Francis?”

  “King Arthur, my friend.”

  Richard mulled his wine. “King Arthur failed.” He downed a gulp. “Once I believed winning or losing made no difference, it was how you fought the fight that mattered. Now I know better, Francis.”

  In the morose silence that followed, Richard’s thought churned. Thanks to Tudor’s lies, he was losing the battle for men’s hearts on which he had rested the justification for the crown he wore. He remembered the morning at Clerkenwell, the faces of the crowd watching him as he rode back to Westminster. The crimes of which they accused him! It was in their eyes as he rode past in the streets, and their whispers, which ceased abruptly when he appeared. Every unspeakable crime that could be conjured in the dark corners of their minds—treason, incest. The murder of his brothers, his wife, his nephews. All lies concocted by Tudor. And they believed them. It lifted them up to see another brought low. He was coming to believe that man was a blight on the face of the earth. He slammed down his cup.

  “I know what they say about me, Francis. They call me foolish because I pardon my enemies instead of slicing their heads from their shoulders. They say the world I wish to create is impossible because I believe in justice and fight against corruption. They think me mad for it. No doubt I am.”

  “Your lunacy is to see life as it ought to be, Richard, instead of as it is.” Francis picked up the flask and poured Richard a full measure of wine. He pushed the cup to him.


  Richard drank deeply. “Indeed, until—” until Ned’s death— “recently, I believed that virtue always prevailed—” He waved his cup around, sang drunkenly, “Onward to glory I go—’Tis a damned bleak world in which we live, Francis. The worst crime of all is to be born. For that, you get punished all your life.”

  Francis touched his sleeve. “Nay, Richard. We will suffer. We will despair. But we will go on, and we will be resurrected.”

  Richard shot him a twisted smile. “You have more faith than an archbishop, Francis.”

  They fell thoughtfully silent.

  “It was Buckingham’s revolt that changed everything and gave Tudor hope,” Francis said after a time. “Whatever possessed you to hand him such power, Richard?”

  “I thought that obvious. He was like George.” Richard toyed with the hourglass again. The hour was almost spent, and except for a few grains, the sand lay on the bottom.

  “Aye. That he was,” said Francis. “Like George.”

  Richard threw him a look. Francis was not thinking of smiles and golden curls. “I should have known, should have seen it, Francis. But I wanted George back as he used to be. I thought I’d found him in Buckingham. I couldn’t let myself see… I couldn’t let myself see a lot of things.”

  Francis dropped his gaze. Richard gave the hourglass an angry shove; it slid along the table and came to a halt perilously close to the edge.

  “The trouble with learning from experience, Francis, is that we always learn too late.”

  ~ * ~

  After a wretched night of little sleep and bad dreams, Richard felt a desperate need for confession. Maybe that would gird him with the strength to do what had to be done this day. He summoned his confessor, Brother John Roby, to his private chapel.

  “They say the grey whale travels thousands of miles in winter, seeking warmth and sunlight. Where do I go, Brother?”

  The friar regarded him gently. “The cold will not last forever. ’Tis the wild beast’s utter faith in the return of spring that enables him to survive the winter. The sun will come again. Frozen rivers will melt. Flowers will bloom….Faith will sustain you.”

  Then he listened to Richard’s anguished confession about Elizabeth and murmured soothing responses about sinful thoughts, assuring him they were deplorable but human, and that God would forgive in the face of true repentance.

  “I have another confession… My hatred for Henry Tudor.” The man who had poisoned his peace; who had filled his days with vile rumours and his nights with demons. “I’ve fought a hundred enemies in the field. But this malice, this slander—it has no face, no name— it maims without killing—” He looked at the friar with pained eyes, “How do I fight this?”

  “You fight lies with truth,” replied Brother John, “and with goodness. If these are not enough to win, then perhaps the test lies in the battle itself.”

  “Battle,” echoed Richard, seizing on the word, giving it an interpretation the friar had not meant. “Battle—” In the outcome of battle lay the judgement of God. Redemption or Death. Soon there would be battle between him and Tudor. Aye, there was the answer! Battle that would end his torment. One way or the other.

  “Remember,” Brother John warned, “evil can be more powerful than good, yet you must not fight evil with evil. Hold on to virtue at all cost. That is the true test, and the hardest one of all.”

  But Richard did not hear. Like a man in a trance, he repeated, “Battle… True test is battle… Redemption or death… Battle.”

  Brother John regarded him with a depth of pity. After a moment, realising he could offer no further comfort and all else was useless, he made the sign of the Cross.

  “Dutiful child of God, I grant you absolution—Nomine Patri, Filii, Spiritus Sancti.”

  ~ * ~

  Chapter 25

  “There will I hide thee ’till my life shall end,

  There hold thee with my life against the world.”

  Richard stared at the small group he had summoned to the royal suite. He stared at them in order to imprint their image on his mind, as indelibly as it was imprinted on his heart.

  The Countess wore her dark robes of mourning. Beneath her wimple her face was aged, deeply etched by sorrow, but she held herself gracefully erect with the same dignity she had always shown. Little Edward stood at her side, dressed in black velvet. He was nine now, and nothing in his face or manner resembled George or Bella or his proud grandfather Warwick, for there was nothing gay, or proud, or bright about him, and he did not dream great dreams. But his heart was gentle and would always remain so, since it would forever retain the blessed innocence of childhood.

  His son, his love-child, John of Gloucester, would be fifteen in May. How time sped past! It seemed only yesterday that he stood in Kate’s house, gazing on his new-born infant. Johnnie was a mixture of Kate and himself, with his own dark hair and her green eyes and rosy cheeks. A handsome boy, he realised suddenly, taking in the strong, square jaw, the broad shoulders, the long muscular legs in blue hose. He would be tall. The thought gave him pride. Aye, Johnnie held great promise. He had a fine mind and he could laugh as easily as Edward had. His cheerful disposition would stand him in good stead. God be thanked, there was no need to worry. No one would hurt him. There was no purpose in it. He had no claim, no rights, no lands, nothing. He was a bastard.

  God be thanked for that.

  He let his gaze pass to Elizabeth, but only for a moment, for the sight of her brought heavy woe. She wore his favourite robe of deep green, and her pale hair shone in the dimness. That was all he would allow himself to see.

  “You must go to Sherriff Hutton, you’ll be safe there,” he said thickly, avoiding Elizabeth’s eyes, “all of you.”

  Elizabeth nudged little Edward forward. He fumbled with his hands shyly. “Uncle, I would s-seek… a favour of you.”

  Richard’s heart ached for the boy. Gently he said, “Dear nephew, whatever it is, you know I will try to grant it.”

  “I w-w-wish I c-could fight for you…” Edward drew a deep breath, made fists with his hands in an effort to suppress his stammer. He succeeded, and the words poured forth like a waterfall, “I wish I could fight the bastard Tudor, dear lord Uncle, but as I am too young to help you slay him, will you take my banner into battle instead of me—?” He hung his head, embarrassed by his emotion and the effort it had taken him to get the sentence out.

  Elizabeth placed her arms around his little shoulders, nodded to a servant in the corner of the room. The man brought the folded banner to Richard, knelt and unfurled it. A blaze of gold tassels and golden embroidery on white silk shot across the carpet. In the centre stood a nut-coloured cow.

  Richard stared at the Dun Cow of Warwick. When he had last seen that emblem, it had been in the fog of Barnet and he had fought on the opposing side. He winced.

  “We’ve been working on it all winter,” Elizabeth said. “Cousin Edward helped in the design. He is talented in things artistic.”

  Richard knelt, took the child’s hands in his own. “I shall bear your banner at my side and my thoughts shall be of you, Edward, and of your noble grandfather, Warwick the Kingmaker, and all those of the House of Neville whom I loved so well.” A loud sob escaped from the boy. Richard pulled him close in a last embrace and felt the wet of his tears against his neck, then realised that they were not Edward’s, but his own. He swallowed, clenched his jaw, imposed iron control on himself. He would have need of his strength a while longer. There was still Elizabeth.

  He rose stiffly. “Go now, Edward. Worship God devoutly, remember to apply yourself to your studies, and never forget knightly conduct. For there is wisdom in prayer and learning, and a great lord has need of both.” He gave the boy’s hand to the manservant and watched him leave. His heart contracted violently in his breast and he felt a sudden need to call to him, “May God be with you, fair nephew!”

  One sad backward glance, and Edward was gone.

  Richard looked at John. “Fat
her!” his boy cried on a sob. Richard clasped him to his breast, long and silently. Then he forced himself to loosen his grip. “Fare thee well, my dear son,” he said, his voice cracking. John fled his arms, stifling a moan as he ran.

  The Countess stepped forward. They gazed into each other’s eyes a long quiet moment. “Dear lady, whom I have loved as a mother,” Richard whispered, taking her gently into his embrace. “I thank you for the comfort and the love you have ever shown me.”

  Tears sparkled in her eyes, rolled slowly down her cheeks. “You were the son I never had, Richard.” Her voice trembled. “I shall pray for your victory.”

  He bent his head and stood motionless as she left him, and in the rustling of her garments he heard the rustling of the wind through the trees of Middleham, the call of the wild, the rush of the rivers. He bit his lip until it throbbed like his pulse. When he had regained control of himself, he lifted his head and looked at Elizabeth. Her eyes were red-rimmed, swollen. With a motion of the hand, he dismissed the servants and waited until the door thudded shut behind them.

  He said thickly, “I regret the death of your uncle Anthony. I know now he bore me no ill will. He was but an unwilling pawn.”

  “Aren’t we all?” she whispered.

  “Can you—can you forgive me, Elizabeth?”

  “I forgive you, Richard,” she said, gazing at him through her tears. “Because I love you.”

  “No!” he said roughly, sharply. “No, don’t—I’m old, finished. God has taken everything from me, left me alone, barren. But you are young. You have your life before you. You’ll change. You’ll forget me.”

  “You can’t believe that! This is no childish infatuation. I’m a grown woman and I love you, Richard. Anne wanted us together—she made me promise—”