I, Richard Plantagenet: Book Two: Loyaulte Me Lie

by J. P. Reedman

  Inside the Abbey, I gave belated offerings for the victory of old, then stood in silence by George’s crypt, which lay behind the high altar. Candles burned around the crypt’s entrance, and in the nearby chapels and chantries; the abbey was filled by tentative light, though the corners, the faces of effigies and angels remained penumbrous. Trails of candlesmoke writhed, and for a moment, my prayers for my brother’s soul were disturbed as I fancied I saw George’s envious face half-hidden in smoke and shadow…then it became Buckingham’s.

  Uneasy, I blinked; the disturbing vision was gone. A foolishness born of the trembling candleflames, no more. Presenting the Abbot with a gift of monies that came from George’s estates, I turned sharply to leave, crossing the tiled floor near the High Altar, where, deep under my feet, the mutilated bones of Anne’s first husband, Edward of Westminster, lay mouldering, unmarked, unloved.

  The progress passed on through Worcester, and finally on a day of blue skies and high winds, I spied the mighty bastions of Warwick Castle on the horizon, pennants fluttering on every turret. Anne’s birthplace and a welcoming sight if there ever was one.

  Reaching the walls of the town, the company rode through East Gate, the shadow of its recently built over-chapel falling long upon us. The walls here were somewhat scanty; George had planned to rebuild them all when he was in tenure here with Isabel, but it had never come to pass. George’s mind had flown to treason and then madness instead.

  Turning sharply, the cavalcade rode over the stone bridge near the castle, which, I noted, was in poor repair, its arches crumbling into the swell and twined with greenery—I would have to send stern reminders to the Guild of Holy Trinity and St Mary that it was their duty to provide upkeep for the bridge. Things had declined in Warwick since George’s demise—no more would such laxity be permitted.

  Then we were in the castle bailey, with servants and attendants swirling around us. Hastily dismounting and handing over my steed to a groom, I hurried to the Great Hall. Couriers had told me that the Queen had reached the castle several hours before. When I arrived, I was surprised to see Anne with a tall, lean dark-haired man I did not recognize. He wore an unfamiliar style of garb and had the air of a foreigner about him.

  Anne swept towards me, smiling. “My Lord King, I have brought from Windsor an ambassador from the court of the gracious Queen Isabella of Spain, recently arrived to bring felicitations to the new King of England.”

  “Your Grace King Richard.” The man doffed his hat and swept the floor in a low and graceful bow. “I am called Gaufridius de Sasiola, and I bring greetings from her esteemed Highness, Queen Isabella, to her cousin of England.”

  “Ah, the Queen of Spain.” Years ago, Isabella had been mooted to marry Edward (even I had been seen as a prospective suitor, despite my youth at the time) but when Edward had spurned her suit for a common Woodville, she had taken umbrage and hardened her heart against England, preferring to ally herself to our old enemy, France.

  “So…” I walked around the lean figure of Sasiola, who stood motionless as I observed his demeanour and attire. He was a fine figure of a man, handsome and dashing in the way of many Spaniards, his long limbs clad in black velvet slashed with gold. A thick chain of office hung round his shoulders, rattling with jewels. Spain was a wealthy land indeed. “What other tidings come from my cousin of Spain? Alas, relations between our countries have not been as they should be since the reign of Queen Isabella’s father, Henry of Castile.”

  “The Queen wishes to forge new ties with England, Highness,” said Sasiola. “She has been deceived by the perfidious French, and wishes now to make overtures of peace to England.”

  “Does she?” My heart lifted as it had not since Buckingham’s strange behaviour and unforeseen departure from Gloucester. “I, too, so wish it. On the morrow, I will send to my Chancellor, and dependent upon approval by the lords of the council, a Treaty of Peace may be drawn up between our countries. What say you, Lord Sasiola?”

  The Spaniard grinned, his white teeth flashing in his lean, sun-browned face. “I say my mistress, her most Royal Highness Queen Isabella will be most pleased.”

  Later that night, after we had all dined with the Spanish ambassador, I joined my wife in her chambers. The rooms that had once belonged to Warwick and Anne Beauchamp. From the ceiling, a million carved bears wielding staffs growled down at me. They also snarled from the finials of the end of the huge bed, which had doubtless also once belonged to the Earl. However, the bed now wore a new coverlet covered in suns and roses, which diligent servants had hastily brought in from my train.

  “Are you well now, Anne?” Once her ladies had left, curtseying graciously, I gazed upon my wife with concern. She still seemed thin and frail to me, but the fever-reddened cheeks and pain-filled eyes were gone.

  “I am fine,” Anne smiled. “Although there are still marks upon my legs, the fever and aches in all my limbs are gone. I am so glad to be back here at Warwick, where I was born. I was only a little girl when I left but I can still remember being taken out in a boat upon the river with my nurse, and the townsfolk cheering when my father paraded me and Isabel through the streets, and Isabel telling me ghostly tales of Guy of Warwick that set my teeth chattering like some ninny. How she must have laughed at me! Oh Richard, I do miss Isabel so. I wish I could have come with you to her tomb in Tewkesbury.”

  “We will go another time. I have said prayers for her on your behalf. I am just glad you are hale.”

  “I had to get well, Richard; I had to join you as your wife and your Queen. And soon…soon, we will be with our son again. I’ve worried about little Ned these long weeks; I hate to be away from him.”

  “I’ll order a chariot to bring him from Middleham when we reach Pontefract Castle,” I promised, “then we can all, as a family go in triumph into the city of York.”

  “I cannot wait!” Anne flung her arms around my waist and drew me into her embrace. Suddenly she drew back, gazing into my eyes. “Something is wrong. I can feel it in you. Your shoulders feel taut beneath my fingertips and there is worry in your eyes.”

  I sighed, stared at the floor. I had not wished to tell Anne about my last meeting with Buckingham and about Edward’s sons. I had wished to spare her any anguish or worry, while recovering from her ills. But it could not be. She guessed true.

  “Anne, listen to me.” I guided her to the edge of the huge bed, sat her down upon it, sat beside her and held her hand. I told her. Told her of Buckingham’s thwarted plans to marry his daughter to our son, of his presumption at moving the princes from the Tower. Told her, with my head bowed, that I was not truly certain where the boys now were.

  “But Harry wouldn’t harm them, would he?” Anne’s eyes were huge in her thin, pale face. “I never liked Harry Stafford overmuch, you know that, I saw too much of George of Clarence in him…but he is their uncle too.”

  “Of course he would not harm them,” I said, but suddenly I remembered his impassioned words in Windsor. Do the Deed! Yet why would he take such a sin upon himself, other than to discredit me, to make of me a monster? Unless to make himself….

  I would not think of it! It could not be. He had acted rashly in Gloucester and before, but we were all under strain from the events leading to the Coronation and the plots and disruptions still occurring. Once the Bohun lands were safely in his grasp, approved by parliament, he would be happy. Surely, surely, his lands and new positions would be enough even for a proud man like Harry.

  “Richard!” I heard Anne’s voice, as if from a great distance or under water.

  I started, stared over at her worried face. She was holding both my hands. “Your face, it looked so strange, haunted. And your hands, although it is warm tonight, they feel like ice!”

  “I am tired, that is all.” I rose. “I am glad your health has improved, Anne. I will see you on the morrow.”

  She looked disappointed that I would not spend the night with her in that huge bed with its quilt of suns and roses. But t
here were too many ghosts around that castle, Warwick and George and Isabel. I did not want them to intrude upon our intimacy. Nor did I want Harry Stafford’s spectre to be there, looming in the shadows.

  Do the deed!

  Shivering, I left Anne to seek my own quarters for the night.

  With Anne now accompanying me in a chariot rigged in gold, the progress of King Richard III fared onwards from Warwick to Coventry and then Leicester. In the rambling castle on its steep motte, with St Mary Castro, where my father was knighted, standing next the walls and the bustling Newarke down the street, I set upon many tasks dealing with matters of state.

  Foreign affairs in particular.

  King James of Scotland sent a peace proposal; I mistrusted it, for James was a weak king, but gave him my word that his ambassadors would have safe passage in England should he wish to send them. The Duke of Albany, who had once again quarrelled with his brother and fled to England, was travelling in my entourage. He glowered at this news, for it made him uneasy; he was like a ball, being kicked from one side of the border to the other. He knew I mistrusted him after his double-dealing ways on my Scottish campaigns several years ago and if the Scots wanted him for any outstanding mischief—they could have him.

  Ireland came in for attention also. My father had been well-loved there, George was born at Dublin castle, and I desired to strengthen such ties yet again; they had been torn asunder during Edward’s reign, when he sent his hated deputy, John Tiptoft, to bring the Irish to heel.

  James, the Earl of Desmond, I hoped in particular to woo, for he had suffered great evil due to the machinations of Dame Grey and her followers. Tiptoft had beheaded his father Thomas FitzGerald at Drogheda, and his younger brothers, mere children, dragged from their lessons and put to the sword—officially, it was punishment for rebellious behaviour, but FitzGerald had been a great friend of Ned’s and like many Irishmen unable to hold his tongue when silence might have been the wiser course. When in his cups, he had asked Ned, with all solemnity, what he saw in Dame Grey and told him that men called her ‘The King’s Grey Mare.’ Ned had laughed off the remark; Elizabeth Woodville, however, had not, and her fury at the slight had led to revenge…

  With passion roiling within me, I wrote to Desmond of how we shared private grief;

  …your father was most extorciously murdered by certain persons having the governance and rule, against all manhood, reason, and good conscience. Yet not withstanding the resemblance of what happened since within this realm of England, as well as of my brother, the Duke of Clarence, and other kinsmen and friends, the King’s grace will continue to have inward compassion for the death of your father…

  I went on to gift Desmond with gowns, bonnets, hose and a gold collar with an attached boar pendant; in return, I asked that he would swear loyalty and cast aside his native Irish garb to dress like an English lord and supporter of the House of York. Whether he would agree I knew not; the Irish could be stubborn and wild and had great love of disharmony, even the greatest amongst them. For the last few years certain Irish troublemakers had maliciously minted false silver coins to mingle with legitimate coin and cause harm to the merchants of England; I was determined to halt to that unfair practice, with legitimate mints operating only in Dublin and Waterford, and I needed the backing of men like Desmond to see that no more forgery or other dishonesty took place.

  Early in my progress, I had also received a scrawled missive from Louis the Spider. The old French monarch was sliding towards the grave, his body wracked with illness, but he still found time to send a rather insulting and careless note about my accession to the throne. He sounded utterly disinterested and nonchalant, as if he were asking me if I wanted a noxious French cheese instead of future friendship between our countries.

  Monsieur mon Cousin, Louis began, not even deigning to use my name or proper titles, I have the seen letter sent by your herald, Blanc Sanglier, and thank you for your news. If I can be of service to you, I will do so willingly for I want your friendship. Adieu, Monsieur mon Cousin.

  Needled by his clear disinterest, angered burn in my belly. If Louis cared so little, why should I pander to him? I decided to send him a letter much as his own, like to like, showing that if he had no real interest in me, I had even less in him and his affairs:

  I have seen the letters you sent me, whereby I understand that you wish to have my amity, of which I am very glad, for I do not mean to break such truces as have been concluded between the late King, my brother, and you, for the term of the same. Nevertheless, the merchants of my kingdom, seeing the provocation your subjects give them by seizing their ships, fear to go to Bordeaux and elsewhere. They need to be assured they may safely exercise their rights to sell their merchandise according to the said truces, and are not deceived by the shadow of this unhappy situation. I pray you that my servant, the bearer of this letter, one of the grooms of my stable, you will let me know your full intention, and at the same time I you desire anything from me, then I will do it with good will. And farewell to you, Monsieur mon Cousin…

  Was it a wise thing to send such a missive, mocking Louis’s blasé note with open mimicry, with a lowly bearer plucked from my stables? Maybe not, but I wanted to impress upon him that although I was new to kingship, I was aware that unfriendly harassment of my subjects was taking place in French waters, by his leave, and against the terms of Edward’s truce. Let the ailing old wretch make war if he was offended by my words! I would take it to him if need be, and not accept bribes such as Ned took so long ago, especially with Isabella of Spain offering new alliances to England.

  From Leicester I moved on to Nottingham, and thence to Pontefract, where Anne and I greeted our little Ned, who had arrived by chariot shortly before us. He was brought before our seats in the hall, clad in white velvet and silver cloth of gold, his hair brushed into soft curls that touched his thin shoulders. Amidst all the hurly burly he seemed smaller than ever and, I thought, paler. His growth seemed to have stopped, after a single youthful spurt; he seemed much younger than nine. His once blond hair was darkening, as mine had, taking on a rich brownish hue which shimmered in the daylight streaming through the lancet windows.

  He stared at me in my ermine robe, with my massive collar of gold gleaming on my chest, and a jewelled band upon my brow and he said, “Sir, is it true you are now King? And I am a royal prince?”

  “It is true, my beloved son,” I told him. “Today I shall officially create you Prince of Wales and Earl of Chester. On the morrow we shall far forth to York, where I will have you formally invested as Prince of Wales.”

  “Men came to Middleham,” Edward said excitedly, beginning to lose his initial awe of his kingly father. “The Mayor of York and others, all dressed very fancy! They brought me demain bread, like a true grown-up lord, and bowed to me and kissed my hand. They brought wine too, and lots of rabbits and birds to eat, and everyone was happy and dancing and singing! The bells rang out in the church all day!”

  “The people of York are good to us, my Edward, as we are to them. They are our most loyal followers.”

  “I went through York on my way to Pontefract.” Edward was almost climbing on my knee and I wished we were in private quarters, so that I could raise him on my lap and Anne could fuss over him as I knew she wanted to do. “Look what I brought when I passed through.” He held up an object wrapped in black satin. “I have a new primer and a Psalter!”

  “Your mother the Queen and I will look at it with you later, Ned,” I said softly, reaching out to tangle my finger in his hair for one brief instant.

  Then his nurses were leading him out of the hall and Anne and I had to continue the duties of the day, receiving lords and dignitaries and supplicants from all around.

  When we finally got to see our son, he was tucked up in his bed, lying curled on his side, sound asleep. The primer and Psalter lay next to him, its silk covering pulled back to that he could look at it.

  “He is so small, Richard.” Anne knelt by hi
m, making sure she did not wake him. “I am so sorry I have not given you a healthier son. Or any other sons.”

  “I was small,” I said to her. I had said it a thousand times over the years, convincing Anne, convincing myself. “As for the other, it is of no importance. I have a son, I have an heir.”

  “But what if…if…Hard as it is, we must think of these things even more now, Richard.” She wrung her hands together, seeming as if she would weep.

  “Do not speak of dire ‘what ifs’, Anne; to speak it might bring ill luck.” I knew not why I snapped at her so, for I was not a man of great superstitions.

  “Let us go then,” she whispered, eyes downcast, “and pray in the chapel for the health and safety of our little son, Edward Prince of Wales.”

  York beckoned. It was the Day of the Feast of John the Baptist, an auspicious and well-starred day, to be sure. Against the blue sky the magnificent spires of St Peter’s Minster gleamed white-gold, the jewel in the crown of the city. The city walls, their foundations built by the Romans, flared with banners and pennants. Micklegate reared up, stern gateway guarding the town; I stared up at its high crenels with sense of both sadness and yet sweetness too—My father, I thought, your head once sat atop this gate wearing a paper crown. Now I, least of yours sons, ride through with the crown you were denied upon my brow…

  Inside the gate, the procession halted and a pageant performed to please us; once it was over, we moved on to the bridge, where another pageant took place, and then to Stayngate, where there was a third. Here the Mayor of York came forward in his scarlet robes and doing obeisance, bestowed a golden cup upon me filled with one hundred marks. Anne was presented with a hundred pounds.

  Through streets garlanded with flags, my Queen and I rode slowly, savouring the adulation of the masses, surrounded by throngs of great lords and bishops, by bannermen and standard-bearers, and heralds in bright tabards. Eventually, we reached the mighty front doors of St Peter’s, where the Dean and the Canons awaited our arrival, vested in deep blue robes that fluttered like tents in the rising breeze. When we had dismounted, the clergy clustered around us, sprinkling holy water upon our heads, and swinging censers around us, that billowed out the pungent fragrance of incense.