He came in to my chamber as fawning as could be, down on his knees before me, almost crawling. Margaret was curtseying with great aplomb; for the first time I truly noticed how tiny she was, like a wizened little skeleton in black gown and headdress.
“Rise, you both may rise,” I said, a little impatiently. “So, what is it, Lord Stanley, Lady Stanley? I am rather busy at present, as you might well imagine.”
Stanley licked his lips; for some reason I was reminded of the way a snake flicks its tongue. He rose, gazed straight at me. “In the past, it has not been…good between us,” he murmured.
“No,” I said. “Did your lot enjoy Hornby castle…and the Hornby heiresses? James Harrington still has an interest in the place, you know.” I grinned wickedly, knowing that Stanley knew James was a good friend of mine…and might well come in for financial rewards, as had many of my other friends.
Stanley’s face flushed. “Your Grace, it is events like the fight over Hornby I wish to put into the past. And that…misunderstanding of recent days. I served your brother loyally.”
“And you will serve me the same?”
“Yes. Of course. But I would like some sureties…”
“Oh would you?” My brows rose. “What, you want to make sure your positions are secure?”
Thomas nodded. “Any wise man would. I pray you understand, Lord King.”
I sat back, a little irritated. “For some strange reason I feel you are threatening me, Lord Stanley. In the politest way possible. Prominence in return for faithfulness. Interesting. You are a brave man.”
Stanley said nothing to either confirm or deny my words. He just looked at me with those deep, hooded eyes.
The earlier grovelling demeanour was gone; I thought here I saw the true Thomas Stanley…and yes, he was threatening me.
He had done it to Ned too, I knew it. And what had Ned done? I felt my chest tighten as I groped for the best course of action. Alienating Stanley further would bring evil; we had been at loggerheads already. If I stripped him of any rank or possessions, his huge northern army would march against me, and I might end up a King without a crown…or a head…in a matter of mere days or weeks. Unpalatable as it seemed, he would have to be pacified. Edward had known it, I needed to learn from his statecraft.
I forced a smile, completely insincere, at the older man. “Your bravery has paid off, my lord. You will be assured of a prominent place at tomorrow’s Coronation, and in my government.”
Stanley’s mouth quirked upwards.
“You are dismissed now.” I was eager for Thomas and his wife to leave.
“Wait.” Stanley held up his hand. “Lady Stanley came here with me tonight on a mission of her own.”
“Oh, did she?” I said, irritably. “Lady Margaret, what is it? Do speak.”
Margaret approached me, drawing almost uncomfortably close. Near, I could see the gauntness of her cheeks (did the woman never eat?) and the cold grey glitter of her eyes. Strange eyes, too fiery and intense for someone who, swathed in her funereal attire, looked rather…dead. “Your Grace, Dread King,” she said in a breathy rush. “I have a boon to ask. I have a son, Henry Tudor, living abroad. He is my only child and greatly do I miss him. I know my Lord-King also has but one son…”
Manipulative bitch! I thought, frowning. You know too damn much…
Margaret continued, wheedling, “Henry has been long in exile, during the reign of your noble brother. Talks were being held regarding his return home. If he were allowed to return to England, I swear that he desires nothing more than to quietly live on his own lands…”
I knew Margaret was lying. Years ago, old Mad Harry Six had mumbled some crazed words to her, which she accepted as some kind of ‘prophecy.’ Words that implied her son could heal the rifts of civil war in England, and that Henry, with his bastard lineage, could somehow be heir to the throne. If Henry returned, the chances of him staying in peaceful solitude on his own manors was as likely as snow in August.
“I am sorry, Lady Margaret,” I said. “I understand you wish to see your son. But no, I forbid it….for all the reasons Edward forbade it in the past.”
Her face crumpled, then became taut and witch-like, those unnerving eyes narrowed to slits. She dropped a low curtsey nonetheless.
I could see Stanley’s impassive visage over her shoulder. Keep him happy, at least for now….”
“But fear not, Lady Margaret,” I said. “You and Lord Stanley are…valuable to me. I promise you a great honour at tomorrow’s Coronation. You will carry the train of the Queen in the procession. How is that, Lady Margaret?”
“You are too generous, your Grace.” Her tone was flat, emotionless. “Too generous.”
“My Lady wife is very grateful indeed,” said Lord Stanley, taking hold of Margaret’s arm and propelling her from the chamber. She shook him off, looking like a furious crow.
I watched them go, faintly disturbed. But no one ever said being King would be easy.
London was full, the inns and taverns bursting at the seams as people from far and wide crowded in to see the spectacle of a king crowned. Innkeepers struggled to prise out extra pennies from their guests as they thrust latecomers into haylofts and stables. I ordered a ten o’clock curfew in case riots or fights broke out amidst opposing factions, and at the same time decreed that foreigners visiting the city were to remain unmolested—we sought to encourage trade with strangers from afar, not rob them and make them speak ill of England. To make sure there was as little disruption as possible, I also placed a ban on the carrying of weapons outside of my own contingent.
At midday I descended the Tower stairs in slow majesty and began my journey to Westminster, where we would spend the final night before the ceremony. A flowing gown of purple velvet cascaded over my doublet of blue cloth of gold decorated with nets and pineapples. The gown was trimmed with ermine, worn only by highest royalty, and decorated with bogy shanks taken from the legs of lambs. Gilt spurs gleamed on my boots and the garter of the order of St George tied fast around my left leg. Pages clad in crimson satin and expensive white cloth of gold gowns attended me. A canopy of red and green baldachin was carried above my head.
As befitted a Queen, Anne travelled in a horse-drawn litter covered in damask and white cloth of gold. Seven of her favourite ladies were with her, including our kinswomen Alice Fitzhugh and Elizabeth Parr, and five sturdy henchmen. Her robes were of dazzling white cloth of gold furred with miniver and ermine and decorated with gold and ivory tassels. Glowing fire and honey in the sun, her hair hung loose, while upon her brow rested a circlet of pearls and emeralds.
Buckingham rode on my right, head held high, virtually commanding all to notice him just by his presence. And who could fail to notice him? My cousin Harry wore a gown of midnight-blue velvet covered in a twisted mass of golden cartwheels picked in threads of real gold. It must have cost him a fortune; I, as King, would not have looked out of place in such an ornate creation.
The crowds swarmed around us, held in check by my northern soldiers. Shouts, hurrahs and cries greeted us; flowers were thrown and young children held up to see us ride by. People hung from rooftops and out of windows, waving and shouting. “God save the King!” one man bellowed, and the cry was taken up and went down the lines of people in great waves of sound.
Buckingham grinned at me, but, oddly, his mouth seemed somewhat tight, making his grin fierce, like that of the traitors’ heads tacked to London Bridge. A horrible trick of the light as clouds scudded over the face of the sun? “See, they love you, Richard!”
They did.
God had truly smiled upon this small, lowly Son of York at long last.
My true destiny had been revealed.
“This is such a great honour, Richard…your Grace.” Harry Stafford glanced at me as he primped at his locks and straightened his hat. It was early on the morn of the 6th, and he was readying himself to oversee the Coronation procession into the Abbey. In truth, this was not a role he should hav
e had—John Howard was Earl Marshall and High Steward of England and that honour should by rights have been his task, but Buckingham had come before me and insisted, pleaded, cajoled.
“I want to do this for you, Richard. As a token of my esteem, my love. We have been together from the start of this great journey, like the loving cousins that we are. I beg you; allow me this one honour before all others.”
Despite the impropriety, he had taken hold of my hand, his grip hard, almost crushingly so. I wriggled my fingers free, wanting to tell him that, this one time, another must take precedence over him, for tradition’s sake. But somehow I did not, could not deny this bright man who had aided me in winning a throne.
“So be it, Harry,” I had said with a sigh. “I can see this means a great deal to you, and I do…I owe you everything. However, it is highly irregular, and John Howard will not be pleased, but he is a sensible man. He will accept the change in plan, as it is my will.”
“Yes. He must.” Buckingham’s voice had been whiplash sharp.
I frowned slightly.
Buckingham’s demeanour changed at once as he saw my face darken; once again, he was all charm. “I only meant that he must obey the King, as must we all. My King…my dearest cousin Richard.” He gripped my hand again, pressed it to his lips, almost too long, too fervently.
Harry would have his way.
And so I walked unshod toward the towering façade of Westminster Abbey, treading carefully upon a length of deep red cloth that seemed to stretch for leagues, a ribbon of blood. Before me, a throng of abbots and bishops bore aloft a great Rood, shimmering with jewels, and after them strode the highest lords of the land—Henry Percy holding the Sword of Mercy, its tip deliberately sheared off; then Thomas Stanley with the Mace of High Constable (grudgingly, I had accorded him this honour after our recent meeting). The Earl of Kent, and my dear friend Francis Lovell came next, bearing the Swords of Justice; they were followed by the Duke of Suffolk holding the Sceptre and my youthful nephew John, Earl of Lincoln with the globus cruciger, the cross-bearing orb that symbolized Christ’s dominion over the world. The Earl of Surrey held the Sword of State, its point upwards within its ornate sheath, and at the end of the procession came John Howard, faithful Norfolk, who with great care carried the Crown.
I walked several paces behind John, slow in my heavy purple robe, my eyes locked on the Crown, the prize so many men had died for over so many years, as it moved on ahead of me, the sunlight flickering on its studded jewels. Soon it would be upon my brow, symbol of power but likewise of care.
Harry was close at my back, holding my train, and then came my Queen’s procession, with the Earl of Huntingdon holding her sceptre, Viscount Lisle the Rod and Dove, and the Earl of Wiltshire her Crown. Two bishops flanked Anne on either side as she glided forward on the red cloth, wearing her purple velvet robe, kirtle, over-surcoat and mantle, all furred with royal ermine and shimmering with tassels of gold. Her huge, extended train was held by the diminutive Countess of Richmond…that is, Lady Stanley, Margaret Beaufort, as recently agreed. She wore a face that would curdle milk.
Anne and I were guided to St Edward’s shrine, where we sat in amongst the carven pillars of the kings and listened to the first service of the day. Once that was done, we walked alone to the high altar, where a host of attendants removed our outer garments. We were left near enough to nakedness, wearing just loose under-linens that had special slits and openings in them, where the Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Bourchier, would anoint us with the Chrism of St Thomas Becket’s holy oil.
Humble in the sight of God, we knelt and the Archbishop came forward with the holy oil in its crystal vial and anointed first Anne and then me. In six places the Chrism was placed upon my flesh, on my head, on my chest, on both shoulders, on my back between the shoulders (I tried not to flinch here, as the Archbishop literally touched upon my shame), on my arms and on both hands.
Almost in a state of mystical rapture, I prostrated myself before the altar for a time, grovelling as I asked God to give strength and wisdom to his frail subject, a mortal King weak and powerless before the Almighty King of Kings.…Jesu, Jesu, it was as if Our Lord himself set his hand upon me in that moment, making me strong with His grace, empowering me and bestowing the gifts that would help me rule. I was no longer just a man; I was an anointed King….
Garb of cloth of gold was brought to Anne and me and draped upon our bodies, and Thomas Bourchier, in great solemnity, set the crowns upon our heads. Music burst throughout the abbey, a thunderous song of joy, and the monks sang, fair as God’s angels to my ears:
O Lord, save thy people:
and bless thine heritage.
Govern them: and lift them up for ever.
Day by day: we magnify thee;
And we worship thy Name: ever world without end.
Vouchsafe, O Lord: to keep us this day without sin.
O Lord, have mercy upon us: have mercy upon us.
O Lord, let thy mercy lighten upon us:
as our trust is in thee.
Once the song was over, Anne and I returned to our seats in St Edward’s shrine. High Mass was spoken. Harry Stafford stood on one side of me, John Howard the other, while the Earl of Surrey stood afore holding the upright Sword of State. Leaving our places, the new Queen and I once again approached the glory and sanctity of the High Altar, where we took Communion… and then it was over.
Organ music thundered and swelled, trumpets blared a merry fanfare, and King Richard and Queen Anne followed the ribbon of red cloth back out of the abbey to Westminster Hall.
Once back in Westminster Palace, we were allowed a small respite where we were hustled away to our chambers to rest before the night’s Coronation banquet, a lavish affair unlike any other, where there would be forty-nine dishes served.
Like a man in the heat of battle, I was filled with so much fire I could not rest at all, and sought my lady in her quarters, dismissing all her servants and ladies with a sweep of my robed arm, even my own sister, Elizabeth. Margaret Beaufort was there, purse mouthed, leaving with a curtsey and a less than friendly smile. Or maybe I was being uncharitable, as I had no right to be on this wondrous day. Perhaps her smile was strange for no other reason than she had wretched black teeth.
Dressed simply in her kirtle for the moment, Anne looked both pale and tired. She had washed her face free of all paint and her cheeks were colourless.
“Anne, are you hale?” I asked in concern
“I am just a little weary,” she said, smiling. “So much noise, all those people. I will grow used to it. I must. Oh how I wish our Ned could have seen us.”
“I wish he could have too. But there will be other times of ceremony where he can be with us. I promise you that, my beloved.”
“Richard, I am glad you have come here. I have something for you. A present for the King’s coronation.”
“A gift? Bless you, Anne.”
She reached into a carven oak chest and brought forth a neatly folded bundle. Lifting it up, she unrolled it to reveal a long gown of purple cloth of gold lined with damask. White roses were broidered on the sleeves and hem, and across the sweep of cloth were the insignias of the Garter: an image of St George slaying the dragon, George’s Cross, and the words Honi soit qui mal y pense.
I took the gown in my hands and stared down at the cascade of fabric, worth, indeed, a king’s ransom.
“Do you like it, husband?” Anne asked shyly, as if she were a young girl speaking to her lover and not the Queen of England before her husband, the King. “I had Peter Curteys make it; his reputation in cloth-making is very fine.”
“Anne, it is more than fine. I will ever wear it and think upon this day, when God raised us to this estate.”
“My father would be so happy to have seen me Queen…” She shut her mouth with a snap, realising that she spoke unguardedly. Her father was a traitor.
“Do not worry, my wife,” I said quietly. “I loved him too, once. And while what
he did was ill advised and void of honour, he was yet right about Edward’s marriage to Elizabeth Woodville. A disaster for England, though we have this day turned that disaster to our benefit.”
I took her hand, stroked it; her fingers were bird-bone fine, so thin. “Call back your ladies, my beloved, and bid them make you ready. It is almost time for us to go out to the banquet. It will be the greatest Coronation feast ever seen in England! Harry has been in the hall for hours, overseeing all the preparations.”
Anne smiled, kissed my cheek lightly. “I cannot wait to see…as I sit by the side of my husband, Richard, Third of the Name, King of England, France and Lord of Ireland.”
Food! Food! Food! I had promised the very best, and so it was delivered, brought to the dais where I sat in the middle with Anne upon my left. Beef, mutton, stuffed venison, suckling rabbits, frumenty, brawn, capons in lemon, chicken in bouillon, garnished rosettes, meat decorated in silver strips, pies shaped like crowns. Pike in sweet and sour sauce, roe, carp and bream in foil, crayfish, sturgeon dashed with fennel. Cygnets, pheasants, herons, egrets, partridge, quail—and a peacock with its head and bright feathers on display. Savoury foods were not all. For those whose taste ran to the sweet, there were sliced jellies, fritters flavoured with rose and jasmine, tarts, jelly enhanced by cinnamon and violets, summer apples, quinces, oranges, and of course a selection of marvellous subtleties—crowns, castles, boars, that made the onlookers gasp in wonder.
Whenever Anne and I raised a morsel to our lips, cloths of estate were lifted high above us. Frank Lovell and Rob Percy, my old, dear friends, served me on platters of silver and of gold. Two young squires lay stretched out as if they were hounds at my feet, unmoving, ready to leap into action should I want for aught.
I, Richard Plantagenet: Book Two: Loyaulte Me Lie Page 11
