With great solemnity, I spoke to the room of justiciars and craning spectators. I wanted them to know I would be a good King, a King bound by the law, who espoused fairness for all within his realm.
“My lords!” My voice rang through the pillared hall. “It is my will that in this land of England, all men must be treated as equals before the Law, be they of high estate or low. I bid you remember this, you judges, in all the decisions you make, showing neither favour, nor yet letting fear dictate your decisions.”
I then sent for Sir John Fogge, who had lain hidden in sanctuary with the Queen, but had recently come out seeking reconciliation. Flanked by two guards, he slouched across the polished flagstones, a saturnine man with a pinched, weasel-like appearance. Distantly related to the Woodville family, Fogge was one of the prime participants in the disgraceful raid on the house of Thomas Cook. Fogge stood nervously before me, licking his lips, unsure where to look or what to do. I suspected he thought I might have chosen him for an impromptu beheading.
With a small, benign smile, I extended my hand to him. “Sir John Fogge, will you not take our hand this day in friendship? I extend mine own, in clemency and good will, so that conflicts of the past may be buried forever.”
Fogge blinked, stunned…and then thrust out his bony claw in my direction. It was shaking as if palsied. I took it, clasped it as firmly as I might. “Before all, we are now reconciled,” I announced. “Sir John, as a token of my esteem, and to show the world all ill feeling is behind us, I will make of you Justice of the Peace in our county of Kent.”
Fogge looked even more thunderstruck. He went down on his knees, head bowed and bobbing on its skinny neck. I rose and swept past his crouched form with Howard, Suffolk, and Buckingham in my wake, seeking to do my final duty of the day, the magnificent, momentous day.
God had rewarded me. I would journey to Westminster Abbey and give thanks for all that had befallen at the tomb of Edward the Confessor, both saint and King, venerated above almost all other saints in England.
The Confessor’s shrine stood upon a tiled floor wrought by Italian craftsmen and inlaid with shards of onyx, porphyry and serpentine. Glass patterns swirled from the roundel in the centre of the floor, sparkling blue, red and turquoise in the light from the abbey windows. Atop a mighty slab of Purbeck marble gleamed the gold feretory holding the Confessor’s coffin, guarded by statues on plinths that depicted St Edward and the Pilgrim. A canopy stretched over the top of the entire tomb, skilfully rigged so that it might be raised to reveal the coffin on special occasions. Six gold statues of kings surrounded the edge, their crowns inlaid with gems, while more gemstones glittered in the lattices between them. Great gifts were strewn all about the shrine, given by the grateful monarchs of the past: bowls of silver, in which flames flickered, illuminating the stern faces of the gilded kings; a stone bearing the footprints of Christ; a fragment of the girdle of the Blessed Virgin; the crown of the Welsh King Llewellyn and, ‘twas rumoured, even a beryl seal once owned by King Arthur himself.
Sinking reverently to my knees, I bowed my head in fervent prayer and thanksgiving. The air trembled about me, heavy with the scent of tallow and incense; and in my ears rose the singing of the monks: Te Deum laudámus: te Dominum confitémur.
Te ætérnum Patrem omnis terra venerátur.
Tibi omnes Angeli; tibi coeli et univérsae potestátes.
Tibi Chérubim et Séraphim incessábili voce proclámant:
Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus, Dóminus Deus Sábaoth.
Pleni sunt coeli et terra majestátis glóriæ tuæ.
Te gloriósus Apostolórum chorus;
Te Prophetárum laudábilis númerus;
Te Mártyrum candidátus laudat exércitus.
Te per orbem terrárum sancta confitétur Ecclésia:
Patrem imménsæ majestátis; Venerándum tuum verum et únicum Fílium;
Sanctum quoque Paráclitum Spíritum.
God had laid his hand upon me, allowing me, his most humble servant Richard, a day of triumph and honour. By His might, I would lead England onward into righteousness, serving Him as best I could.
Tu Rex glóriæ, Christe….The chanting of the monks went on, rising to the ceiling of the abbey and carrying out into the golden afternoon to the ears of all men.
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CHAPTER THREE: RICHARD, BY THE GRACE OF GOD
My Coronation was set for July 6. London heaved with activity as emergency preparations were made. Tailors, skinners, cordwainers, silversmiths, goldsmiths—all manners of trade and craft people were drafted in to prepare for the most lavish Coronation ever to take place in England. Ostentatious perhaps, but it was what I wished for, to take the people’s minds off the uncertainly of the past few months and show them that I would be a magnanimous lord, generous and as worthy as my ancestors. There was no money in the treasury, since Edward Woodville had pilfered it, so I paid the costs from my own pocket. Such loans could not continue, my own finances had always been shaky, but soon the tide must turn and the coffers fill again, the product of trade and peace rather than from taxation. I would make England prosperous again, and the people would love me.
John Russell was confirmed as my Chancellor; his commitment had been great since Rotherham was replaced. William Catesby, the crafty lawyer, became the Chancellor of the Exchequer. I released the prisoners who were involved in Hastings’ plot, save for Jane Shore and Bishop Morton, who I decided should be sent far from court to Buckingham’s remote castle at Brecknock. If Morton loved Woodvilles so much, he could talk the ear off Harry’s wife, Catherine, the sister of Dame Grey (there would be no more calling Ned’s leman Queen Elizabeth or Dowager Queen.) I had already freed Thomas Stanley several days prior; all along, he denied furiously that he had taken part in any plot and I had no hard evidence against him. He was one lord I needed to keep on side; his holdings in Lancashire were huge and his personal army vast; he was even known as the King of the Isle of Man! I knew how fickle he could be, too, and devious, along with his pinch-faced wife, Margaret Beaufort.
For his loyal support, John Howard received the Dukedom of Norfolk—the cap of maintenance, coronet and rod of gold; I set a sword about the waist of his son Thomas, and he became Earl of Surrey. I thought John would weep with joy, he looked so joyous and grateful. He thought he had lost his Norfolk inheritance forever due to Edward appropriating the lands by Anne Mowbray’s marriage to his younger bastard boy.
My reinforcements from the north finally arrived, marching steadfastly towards the walls of London. Not wishing to alarm the citizens, who were already in a state of high excitability, I ordered my men to set up camp in Moor Fields, well away from the heart of the city. The Londoners flocked to gawp at them, seeming to imagine they would be no better than Scots; they laughed at their accents and at their old-fashioned and sometimes rusted armour and weapons.
That pained me, for these northern levies were good loyal men, and so I took it upon myself to visit the encampment and greet them in person. With my head bare like any common man, I rode through their ranks and gave them my heartfelt thanks for their loyalty. I then chose the best amongst them to accompany me back to Baynard’s castle; such men would be useful to control of the Coronation crowds; Londoners tended to riotousness on occasion, and Woodville supporters were still amongst them.
That done, I sought out Northumberland and Ratcliffe, who had journeyed with the northern contingent, and with the chosen Coronation guards protecting us, returned to Baynard’s Castle. Percy was his usual dull, dour self, his features grown more stolid and jowly, with two heavy lines running from nose to square chin. Thankfully, he had decided to abandon his ancient, outmoded haircut, and wore his hair long in the current fashion for gentlemen. My own hair was curling around my shoulders and suiting me well; Percy’s looked rather like lank dark curtains on either side of his sunburnt face.
“Greetings, cousin, how was the journey from Pontefract?” I asked when
we had dismounted and entered the castle. “Tell me the news of all that has befallen in the north.”
He glanced at me, mumbled something appropriate and then decided he needed to find the privy. If Percy had felt uncomfortable that his kinsman from the south had gradually grown into the Lord of the North, he was twice as uncomfortable now that I was King!
I decided more information would be forthcoming from Dick Ratcliffe who was, after all, my man of some year’s service. With a curl of my finger, I beckoned him into a corner away from the others thronging the Hall. We would be feasting long into the night. He was blinking at me like an owl, just as amazed as Percy that in the space of a few weeks, his lord the Duke of Gloucester had mysteriously shifted into the person of the Dread Sovereign of England, France and Ireland.
“Dick, Dick, I must know about the north. They are behind us still?”
“As ever, your Grace.”
“And the executions in Pontefract. You oversaw them?”
“Personally, your Grace, and tended to the burial.”
“And…” I took a deep breath, “did they die well? Woodville and his allies?”
Ratcliffe hung his head, nodded slowly. “The old soldier, Vaughan; aye. Richard Grey wept but was a man at the last. Earl Rivers went quietly with no protest…and beneath his finery, we found upon his body a hair shirt!”
“A hair shirt! Was that through his piety? Or was it worn through guilt, as a penance?”
“It may well have been either, Your Grace. But that is not all. He wished for you to action his will, and for you to hear his last poem, written the night before he died…”
Not more of his poetry, I thought uncharitably, then braced myself to hear it, for I knew I must, since it was Rivers’ last and I had condemned him to die. Most of it was standard fare, bemoaning his fate in mournful tone, but the last verse struck at me, a dagger in the dark, as Dick read it haltingly from the scroll in his hand:
My life was lent
Me to one intent.
It is nigh spent
Welcome, Fortune!’
Welcome, indeed. Dame Fortune’s Wheel had spun and cast Anthony Woodville into the darkness, while I was carried up, up on its spokes into the light, unto the highest reaches known to man.
I prayed I would not fall like Rivers.
“I must speak with him, Anne. He deserves to be told to his face.” I stood in my quarters at Baynard, being readied for a journey I found difficult and unsavoury but one that could not be avoided. My squires scurried round me, fastening, buttoning, tying, shining my long leather boots until they gleamed.
“But he will be angry. And upset.” Anne appeared worried. “And it will upset you, husband. You have much to think about before the Coronation. Let another do it.”
I shook my head; leaned over slightly so a squire could set my velvet cap upon it. “No, it must be done and it is only right I should do it.”
I left my wife and the safety of Baynard’s with a small, trusted entourage of my northern men. People in the streets waves flags, called out, and gawked at my guards, snickering at their rusty sallets and outmoded weaponry. My destination was the Tower. I would soon be going there anyway, for it was usual for the monarch to spend the night before the Coronation in the royal fortress, but this journey was not on business relating to that forthcoming event.
Reaching the Garden Tower, I passed the heavily-armed door wardens, and ascending a spiral staircase, entered a pleasant chamber well-decked out with tapestries and filled with all sorts of boys’ games and toys—chess sets, wooden swords, bows and butts, quarter staffs. There were several leather-bound books with gold clasps, all highly valuable, and a stack of ledgers to practice writing in.
By the barred window stood my eldest nephew Edward, who was once to have been king of England. His personal physician, Dr Argentine, hovered in the background, face sour beneath his straggling grey beard.
Edward turned to face me. His appearance shocked. Since I had seen him last he had lost weight, and he looked as if he had many a sleepless night. Most strangely, he had cropped his long locks—it appeared as if he had done the job himself, with shears—leaving his remaining hair standing up in hacked tufts all over his scalp. His lip curled in a sneer as I strode in his direction.
“Have you come to finish me off, uncle?” he said bitterly. “What shall it be? A dagger or maybe poison?”
“What are you talking about?” I said crossly. “I have come to attend to your well being.” I glanced angrily over at Argentine. “Argentine has been remiss in that regard, I see. Why have you not done your job as physician? Why did you not tell me earlier how it is with him?”
Argentine’s neck bobbed as he swallowed; sweat dribbled between his eyes. “The Lord Edward asked me not to, Your Grace. He…he has been so fearful, believing he is like a lamb…a lamb…” He swallowed again, sputtered, as Edward cast him an evil glare.
“A lamb to the slaughter,” I finished for him. I folded my arms across my chest. “Edward, nephew, look at me.”
The boy stared at me, loathing oozing from his pores. “You stole my crown. Why should I look at you, except to do this…?”
He spat at me, like some ill-bred street urchin. So much for Anthony Woodville’s urbane scholar. Slowly I wiped the mess away from my sleeve. In some ways, I could hardly blame him for his reaction. To have reached so high, and then be thrust so low by fate…
“Your father was not legally married to your mother, that is the hard truth of it, Edward. It was not of my doing. I was younger than you are now when the wrongful deed was done.”
“It is a lie!” he screamed, and he began to fling himself around the chamber, hurling gameboards and gaming pieces and goblets and ripping at the tapestries with clawed fingernails. “You made it up! You’re a liar and thief. A usurper!”
“You would question the word of a bishop, one of God’s appointed?” I asked. “It was Bishop Stillington who told me.”
“Father hated Stillington!” wailed Edward. “I wish he had imprisoned him forever. Or cut off his head!”
“Edward, enough of such talk. I have told you the truth, and you are old enough to start behaving like a young man and not a spoilt babe.”
“Maybe I would not behave so if I was let out of this accursed hovel of a tower? When are you going to let me out? When? I know…NEVER!” He threw back his shorn, tufted head and began to laugh shrilly.
“You will be moved, at some point. When it is safe to do so and not a moment before,” I told him.
Slyly he looked at me. “Why not now? If am just a worthless bastard, why can I not be freed and sent to live in some house with a guardian? I know why. Because many still support me, and hate what you have done! They will try to break me out of this prison, I know they will! They are moving even as we speak. You’ll need to fear every shadow, uncle! And when I am restored I’ll see your head on Tower Bridge and I’ll give aunt Anne to some fat old lord and keep your son as a prisoner, just as you’ve kept me!”
I could abide his threats against me but not Anne and my child. “You’re raving! I will pretend I heard not those words against your lawful King. I will forgive only because of your tender age, but do not try me…”
Dr Argentine scurried forward, a small black rat, and pawed at Edward. “My lord, my lord, be still, I beg you; it is for the best.”
“Yes, see to him, he is clearly unwell,” I commanded. “Where is his brother, Richard? Why is he not here?”
Argentine’s little pale mouth worked. “After a few days the two young lords fell to fighting, Your Grace. As young siblings ofttimes do…”
“Indeed.” I thought of George’s torments and of how I usually came off the worst in our childhood sparring.
“So young Lord Richard has found other playmates amongst the children of the Tower staff and has been given his own small room separate from Lord Edward. I hope that is acceptable, your Grace?”
“Yes, yes, it is acceptable.” I was ter
se. Outside the window I caught a glimpse of the boy, playing with several other lads under close supervision. You could hardly tell my brother’s son from the other common children as they rolled and tussled together on the lawn. A few soldiers with bills patrolled in the background, keeping things in order.
“Tend to the Lord Edward,” I then repeated to Argentine. “Make sure he understands his exact position and what is and is not acceptable.” The physician bowed. Edward glowered, arms folded defensively across his gangly body.
Without a farewell, I turned and exited the Garden Tower, storming across the bailey while the denizens of the household bowed and curtseyed around me. Mayhap Anne was right; I should not have come. The child was angry, trying to sting like a disturbed wasp…and his barb had hit home. Were there Woodville supporters just waiting to rescue him from the Tower? Traitors waiting to depose me before my reign had even begun, and not only slay me, but also destroy my wife and my son?
And what would I do with Edward and Richard? Keep them in confinement until they were old men? At one time, bastard sons and those with little inheritance would be forced into the church. It was hardly likely to happen nowadays. They would grow, and their bitterness would grow towards me. Edward purported to be a son of York, base-born or no, but I could see naught but a Woodville.
They had to go….One way or another. But I had no time to think of my options now, with the most significant day of my life before me.
For several days before the Coronation, I resided at the Tower, as was customary. Strangely, Lord Stanley had asked for an audience, along with his wife Margaret Beaufort. Bemused, I agreed, wondering what they were about. I thought Thomas would want to keep his head down after last month’s unpleasantness.
I, Richard Plantagenet: Book Two: Loyaulte Me Lie Page 10
