Royal Mistress

by Anne Easter Smith

  Dickon snorted. “Pah! Those silly girls. Always crying and complaining. I hate them!”

  “You should never say ‘hate,’ Dickon,” Duchess Anne’s quiet voice broke in. “ ’Tis a strong word, and you must only use it when you really mean it.”

  “Our lady mother uses it all the time,” Dickon blurted out, and then he put his hand over his mouth. She used it when she referred to Uncle Dickon, he suddenly realized, and even a ten-year-old boy knew when he had said enough. He looked anxiously at his uncle, but Richard laughed and invited the boys to sit for some refreshment. He told them he would send his son, John, to keep them company if they wished, as he was the same age as Ned and already training to be a knight.

  “But he is a bastard,” Ned sniffed. “I am not sure a king should consort with a bastard.”

  Richard gritted his teeth and chose to ignore the ironic remark, thinking that Anthony, Lord Rivers had a lot to answer for in the arrogant education of the future king. And Anthony an upstart himself!

  “John is well loved by his father here and by me, who does not have to be his mother to love him,” Anne Neville suddenly said, rescuing Richard. “He is a good boy and has royal blood in his veins, just like you.” Ned lowered his eyes and apologized.

  Richard felt sorry for the boy. “Do you know you have another cousin? He is Edward, Aunt Anne’s and my son. He had to stay behind at Middleham when Aunt Anne came to London, because he is only eight and had a cold. Your aunt misses him very much, and so she is happy to see you both today.”

  Ned turned his large, solemn eyes on his aunt and smiled. She was not nearly as pretty as his mother, he noted, but she had a kind face. He longed to know why his mother would not come to see him, and although he understood what sanctuary was, he did not know why she chose to remain there. Uncle Richard seemed kind enough, although Ned would never forgive him for taking away his beloved chamberlain, Sir Thomas Vaughan, at Stony Stratford. He missed his Uncle Rivers, too, but Sir Thomas was as close to a grandfather as the boy had ever known.

  Dickon popped a sweetmeat into his mouth and turned his innocent eyes on Richard. “What will I wear at the coronation, my lord uncle? Will there be enough time for someone to make me a jacket? I should very much like blue. ’Tis my favorite color.”

  Only Ned noticed the imperceptible furrowing of Richard’s brow as Anne replied with enthusiasm, “Why, Dickon, I think blue would be a most suitable color for your gown. You have no objection, do you, Richard?”

  Richard of Gloucester had prayed the coronation would not be brought up at this meeting with the little princes. He was not prone to lying, but he did so now.

  “I agree with Aunt Anne, blue would be very suitable and complement your brother’s white cloth of gold coronation robes.”

  Dear God, Richard thought, when would he be able to bring himself to tell Ned he could not now be king. He would put it off until the last, he decided. First he needed to inform the whole council of the truth. Fiddling with his signet ring, he left Anne to carry the rest of the conversation as he questioned his own conscience while pacing the richly appointed solar. Harry wanted him to be king, he knew, as did Francis Lovell. No one else knew of the precontract yet, except Catesby, but he felt sure Jack Howard and his son Thomas would support him, as would his brother-in-law Suffolk and his nephew John, earl of Lincoln.

  Richard watched as Anne listened intently to the two boys as they chatted and saw that they blossomed with her gentle encouragement. Instinctively he knew she would not want the responsibility that being queen would entail, but she would dutifully follow whatever path he took.

  The larger question was whether he, Richard, wished to be king? Only if it were his duty, he concluded gloomily.

  “Bastard slips shall ne’er take root,” preached the learned Friar Shaw the following Sunday to a multitude crowded around Paul’s Cross beside the cathedral. Londoners had wondered what was afoot when they viewed the bulletins posted on church doors and the standard on the Chepe encouraging all to attend, and those who could read told others that the lord protector would be present to hear the famous orator speak. And indeed, Richard of Gloucester had ridden in solemn procession with many lords and magnates to listen to the mayor’s brother deliver his sermon.

  It soon became plain why the preacher had chosen that particular biblical text. He began by praising the late duke of York, founder of the ruling house, and quickly brought the focus of his speech to Richard, duke of Gloucester. He exhorted that Richard was the only one of York’s sons to have been born in England, the only one who resembled his royal father, and of such noble character that he was worthy of the crown.

  Richard sat stoically on his horse and people watched him curiously. One of those was Kate Haute, standing with Margaret Howard and listening to the extraordinary sermon. Kate hoped he knew she was there, but she dared not reveal herself. Her heart went out to him, knowing how he hated these public occasions. He would rather be hawking in the dales, she was ready to wager.

  Richard knew what Shaw was about to reveal to the citizens, and he judged from the lowering brows, mutterings, and stony stares that the tenor of the crowd was not friendly. His cousin Harry had suggested he should attend the event that Harry had orchestrated. He had entrusted his cousin with the crux of Shaw’s sermon, but in what terms the news would be couched, only the preacher knew. Richard had longed to stay away, but Anne had prevailed, reminding him that when duty called, Richard would not disobey. Thus he heard, along with his fellow Englishmen and women, how the late King Edward had been betrothed in secret before his marriage to Elizabeth Woodville, nulling the second marriage and making bastards of their children. Gasps and clucking followed the news as now the spectators began to understand where the friar’s words were leading.

  However, Kate was shocked when Shaw proclaimed, “It is said even the late king was not born of his father’s blood.” Then the loud voice of the preacher was drowned out by the angry protestations of the crowd who defended Cecily of York’s reputation as a pious, honorable consort of the late duke of York. It was too much for some, and several people began to turn away. Kate saw Richard flinch at the damning words about his mother and give Buckingham an irate look. She guessed they were none of Richard’s writing, and yet who would believe him when this event had so obviously been planned. Aye, Kate thought sadly, he could say nothing without calling the whole sermon into question as Friar Shaw continued, “And as the offspring of King Edward are illegitimate and the duke of Clarence’s son attainted through his father’s treason, the only true heir to York and rightful king of England must be Richard Plantagenet, duke of Gloucester, now named protector.”

  A stunned silence came over the crowd as every head turned to look at Richard, unsmiling upon his mount. Kate willed him to show the world the face she loved, but instead she could see his pain plainly. Buckingham tried to raise Richard’s arm in the air to receive accolades at this pivotal moment, but other than a few cheers from those planted in the crowd by that duke, the citizens quietly went back to their homes to mull over this unexpected turn of events.

  Richard gave Friar Shaw a salutary nod, swiveled his horse, and returned to Westminster the way he had come, along Bower Row to the Ludgate, where he looked up at the window of the gaol, unaware that Jane Shore was watching.

  Elizabeth’s shrieks of rage and despair rent the cloister’s tranquil silence, causing monks to hesitate in their prayer and laymen to stop their labor. The young priest who had brought her the news of Edward’s disinheritance ducked as a cup of ale was flung at his head. He tripped on his robe as he raced from her presence, and sprawled onto the flagstones before scrambling away. The queen had finally gone mad, he decided, congratulating himself on his escape.

  Her daughters and her ladies rushed to her aid, and it was a good half an hour before Bess could calm her mother and discover the cause of her distress.

  “It must be a lie!” Bess cried. “Father would not have endangered us like th
is. Surely a proper marriage supplants the precontract?”

  Elizabeth stopped crying for a second and admitted: “We, too, were married in secret, Bess. As much as I want to shout ’tis a lie, your father was not above deceiving desirable noble ladies to get into their beds. I am proof, God damn him to hell,” she said and she began to sob again. “Your father was a monster. We are undone! Do you not understand? We are destitute. His lust has reduced us to nothing. I hate him, I hate him!” she spat. “May he rot in hell!”

  “Did you know about this, Mother?”

  “No, I did not!” Elizabeth averred, and she beat her pillow. “I would have taken care of it long ago, had I known. Your father was a fool!” She turned onto her stomach and motioned them all away. “I want to be alone.” How many other secrets had Edward kept from her? she wondered. He could have confessed it to her when he learned of Eleanor’s death. They could have sorted it out, surely. Could they not have remarried and this time in public? Ah, but now it was too late. The dreadful deed was done, Edward was dead, and the whole world knew her children were bastards.

  She lay weeping for most of the day, but then, experiencing a moment of brilliant clarity, she sat up. “Christ’s nails,” she said aloud, “Edward was not confused at all at the end. He was trying to confess the secret plight-troth to me right there on his deathbed, not ask Nell’s forgiveness.”

  The inmates of the Ludgate had not been able to hear the speech from Paul’s Cross, but their gaolers were happy to impart all the news that was racing around the city. Boredom became a thing of the past. They heard that not only had the late king’s children been declared bastards, but also that the duke of Buckingham had used his oratory, on Monday, to persuade Parliament and, on Tuesday, the members of the all-important guilds gathered at the Guildhall that Richard of Gloucester should be proclaimed king of England.

  Jane was not as surprised as the rest of her fellow prisoners, for if she weighed all the extraordinary events that she had heard firsthand from Will, the news of the precontract and Richard’s attempt to connect her to the queen in a plot, she could see where it all would lead. The question for her was, would Richard now let her rot in gaol, as he had more lofty goals to achieve, or would he now have the authority to punish her more severely? If he were king, he might accuse her of treason, as he had done so falsely with Will. Jane knew she might face the stake, and, shivering, she stared around forlornly at her bleak surroundings and felt chilled.

  At the end of the tumultuous week, when Londoners heard Richard accept the crown offered by the duke of Buckingham on behalf of a great crowd of lords and commons who had gone to Baynard’s to beg him to take it, word was brought to Elizabeth that her brother Rivers, her younger Grey son, and Sir Thomas Vaughan had been executed at Pontefract Castle for treason. Her tears spent for her little boy lost, she could only fall on her knees and pray for the three men’s souls.

  Then she turned her focus to her own fate. Witchcraft, if it were proved, would mean burning at the stake. How she wished her mother, Jacquetta, had not been so boastful of their ancestor, Melusine. Had those potions Jacquetta had given Edward actually caused the king to fall in love and marry her? Richard had seized his opportunity to charge Elizabeth with witchcraft just as Warwick had done with her mother fifteen years before to no avail. Certainly Richard had used the well-worn story in his proclamation against Elizabeth. Pah, she thought, where was his proof? Since her mother’s death, there had been no whisper of Woodville witchcraft. It was just an excuse, she decided, although why he had not leveled the charge of conspiracy and treason on her if she was supposed to have been embroiled with Hastings, she could not fathom. No matter, she thought, as either an accusation of treason or of witchcraft carried the same punishment for a woman—the stake. She shuddered and prayed fervently that none of her adherents would turn against her. They had indeed been plotting to overturn Richard’s protectorate and restore her young son to the throne, which reminded the queen of her duty as a mother.

  “And may God have mercy on my young sons,” she begged the miniature of the Virgin and Child from whom she found comfort, and, railing at herself again for letting Dickon go, she added, “and keep them safe.”

  Surely, under Richard of Gloucester’s care, they would come to no harm.

  SIXTEEN

  LONDON, JULY 1483

  Despite their initial misgivings, Londoners could not resist a festive occasion, and they flocked to Westminster to catch a glimpse of the new king. They watched as Richard, clothed in purple and heralded by trumpets and tabors, walked barefoot along the red carpet from the palace to the abbey, followed by the highest magnates on his council bearing the royal regalia: the swords of state, justice, and mercy; the mace; the scepter; and at last the jeweled crown borne by the newest duke in the kingdom, John Howard, now duke of Norfolk. Henry Stafford, duke of Buckingham, had the honor of carrying Richard’s train, and Margaret Beaufort, Lady Stanley, carried the queen’s.

  When the great bells of the ancient abbey dedicated to St. Peter signaled the new king was anointed and crowned, carillons from the hundred churches throughout the city pealed in unison. Not long afterward, Richard and Anne stepped out through the west door, their crowns glinting in the July sunshine, and a roar of “God save the king” filled the dusty, unpaved streets of Westminster. Richard waved right and left as he walked back to the palace great hall under an elaborately embroidered canopy held by the wardens of the Cinque Ports.

  Elizabeth, ensconced in her sanctuary on the other side of the wall in the abbey, hid her head under a pillow and begged her daughters to sing songs as loudly as they could to drown out the joyful bells and earsplitting cheers.

  As a “Te Deum” from the choir filtered through the ancient stones at one point, she cried, “It should have been for my son. It should have been for Ned.” All she could hope now was that Richard would release her boys to her, but she had not heard another word from him since she had been demoted to plain Dame Grey. And stubbornly, she refused to leave sanctuary.

  At the other end of the city behind the high gray walls of the Tower, her son, who had been denied his throne and even a place at the coronation for fear of confusing the populace, sank to his knees upon hearing the bells and feared for his and his little brother’s future.

  A few days later, the royal household floated in a colorful flotilla of pageantry down the Thames to Greenwich to plan the route of Richard’s royal progress through England, and London returned to its routine.

  When Jane heard from Sophie that Richard had left Westminster, she panicked. “Sweet Jesu, what is to become of me now?” she asked her friend. “Am I to rot here in Ludgate for the rest of my days? I cannot believe it has come to this.”

  “Hush, lieveling, all vill be well,” Sophie soothed. “You vill not be forgotten, you see. I have prayed to Saint Catherine for you,” she added, knowing the saint especially favored spinners like herself. Sophie had a hard time not wrinkling her nose at her friend’s rank odor. She could not begin to understand how Jane had borne her new circumstance so valiantly after the life of luxury she had led. All Sophie could do was bring cheerful news of the Vandersand family and gossip from the market and the Mercery.

  “Your Tom has been good to Jehan, Jane. He is pleased with the Pope’s Head lodging, and he has asked me about you,” Sophie told the listless Jane, whose face lit up at the mention of his name. It was true, Tom had enquired about Jane’s whereabouts when he had first arrived at the Pope’s Head after finding the Thames Street house vacant, but he had not been by St. Sithe’s Lane since. Sophie did not think Jane needed to know all that, so she held her thumbs at the white lie.

  “Do you think he will come here, Sophie?”

  Sophie shook her head. “You must not hope for it, lieveling. He must be hidden.” After a few days, it had seemed to Sophie that Richard had given up the search for the marquess, supposing he would have fled to Europe by now. But still, Tom could not afford to wander the streets. S
he quickly changed the subject. “Here, my dear, have some good bread from my oven,” she said, and she took a loaf wrapped in a cloth from her basket and pressed it into Jane’s hands. “I must go now, Jane. I come back very soon, ja.”

  As soon as Jane returned to her pallet, she began to break up the yeasty bread to share with the other prisoners. She did this anytime a visitor brought her food, and even the hardened strumpets had warmed to the king’s whore. For all her fine clothes, Jane did not put on airs, big-bosomed Betty had decided, although after almost a month, Betty had teased Jane, the one-time favorite of the king looked just as bedraggled as the rest of them.

  Jane lay down on her straw and nibbled at her bread although she did not feel like eating. Why had Tom not even sent a letter with Sophie? What had he thought when he learned she was in prison? He had found a way to escape sanctuary; could he not find a way to free her? She had helped him; why could he not help her? She did not dare wonder if he had used her. Thoughts of him and a reunion were the only rays of hope for her in these dismal surroundings.

  Dear God, how had she sunk so low? Her sinful life must have led her here, she determined, and had more than once promised Him that she would reform once she was at liberty. But then why was she imagining lying with Tom? She had squeezed her eyes shut and was trying to pray when the warden unexpectedly appeared at the barred door to the large cell.

  “Jane Shore, step up. The king’s attorney is waiting to question you,” the man barked, startling Jane from her trance. She rose, gave Betty the pieces of bread to parcel out, and smoothed out her soiled skirts.

  “Good luck, Jane!” several inmates called after her as the door was unlocked and she slipped through to follow the warden.

  Thomas Lyneham was staring out of the barred slit of a window when Jane was shoved inside a small holding room. Chestnut hair curled thickly from under the lawyer’s tall felt hat, the latest fashion from Burgundy, and Jane noticed his strong shapely hands clasped behind his back before he swung round to greet her.