Anne’s eyes widened; shocked, she sat upright, tears springing to her eyes, the coverlet clutched to her breast. “Jesu, such evil! What of young Richard? Is he too…?”
I told her of James Tyrrell’s unexpected find at the Tower and how he had the boy at Gipping Hall under another identity while I prepared to send him to Burgundy or beyond.
“What are you going to do with Edward’s…body?” Anne asked uneasily. “He is…was…a King’s son.”
I sighed, rolled on my back, stared at the ceiling. “I am dealing with it. In secret, naturally. I will have him coffined in lead and brought to Windsor while the Christmas festivities take place and men are distracted. Work is still ongoing on St George’s Chapel; amidst the new building, I will have my most loyal servants slip him inside a crypt adjacent to his father’s, where he may rest unto eternity, God willing.”
“And the other murdered boy, the lad who is not Richard of York? What will you do with him?”
“He will go with him. Edward wanted his friend Hastings buried nearby for he was a good friend to him; likewise, this boy was a good friend to young Lord Edward. Indeed, he gave up his life in his service.”
“But if men ever find out about those two coffins they will think…”
“That both of my brother’s sons are dead? Yes, and perhaps it is better so. Richard of York can then live out his days in peace, hopefully, and even should he cause agitation one day, he would be regarded as naught more than a well-trained pretender.”
“Will you declare the truth about Buckingham to the people of England? It pains me so to know that men point accusing fingers at you.”
“No, it is too late for that. Francis thought I should speak out at Salisbury or Exeter. But would suspicious men believe me? Would they not think I merely made of Harry a scapegoat for my crimes? No, it is best I say naught. Ever. Let the boys’ memories fade away, while I do good deeds for my country so that when I am laid in my tomb, a very old man, my countrymen speak with love of Richard the Good, the Just, the Law-maker—not the King whose nephews vanished while in his care.”
“I pray it is like that for you, husband.” Anne ran her hand over damp eyes. “Poor Edward, for all that he was an unlovable boy, he did not deserve his fate. Ah, the world is so cruel and dangerous. I wish our Ned could stay behind Middleham’s walls forever, under armed guard, and never come to London.”
“I know. But he must come to London now he is the Prince of Wales, the heir to the throne. Indeed, he must be summoned to my first Parliament in January. I dare say he shall find it boring, though.”
“I know well our Edward’s duties.” Anne bowed her head, tousled hair curtaining her features. “Ned knows them too. He is not such a little boy anymore, Richard. He is very bright. Like his father. He may not be as bored as one might think.”
Cold chills swept over me again. It was true, Ned was small in body but not so little in age, and soon he would be exposed to the world, the ugly treacherous world of men. The safe walls of Middleham would protect him not at all when that time came. One day he would be King, unless…I shook the unsettling, awful thought away.
No, if anything untoward happened to me in the days to come, I would make sure he succeeded me even if still a boy. I was rightful King and Edward my legitimate son and heir; my marriage had no taint like Edward’s false one. I would take the lords aside, here in Westminster Palace, and make them swear to accept little Ned as their sovereign should any evil befall me.
I would make my son safe, as best I could.
Money was short. So short. It curdled the wine in my belly to think of Edward Woodville spending the pilfered treasury, perhaps at Henry Tydder’s table in Brittany, but resolved not to dwell on it.
Something had to be done. A King had to live as a King and never be seen as a pauper or a miser by his subjects. If my first Christmas as monarch was not filled with splendour, men would talk. There had already been too much talk.
The best course seemed to be to sell or loan some of my brother’s remaining goods. Edward’s golden helmet, decorated with pearls and gems, was amongst the first to go; a cup graven with images of the Apostles followed, then a salt cellar of gold with rubies on the rim. Edmund Shaa, one time Mayor of London and brother to Friar Ralph Shaa, carted off 275 pounds of silver plate in a wagon that groaned under the weight.
With some money now in hand, I set about preparing for the upcoming festivities. Anne’s Christmas gift was foremost in my mind—I licensed a Genoese jeweller to come to London bearing the latest fashions in gemstones; the licence was issued subject to the King having first choice of the merchant’s wares.
Laid upon a table in my private closet, I pored over the jeweller’s goods, a cavalcade of rubies and garnets, blood-hued; strange swirling opals, sapphires so dark they looked black till you held them up to the light, and many other gems. After much deliberation, I chose a faceted emerald surrounded by diamonds inlaid in gold and with a single pearl tear dangling daintily below. Upon it was engraved, simply, ‘Amor.’
“That’s the one,” I said smugly, pushing the other jewels aside. “Your best price, my good merchant. Think of the honour, to have your work displayed upon the breast of England’s Queen. It will bring you much business. So do be mindful of that, and of my pleasure and gratitude, when you name your price.”
The Genoese jeweller saw the wisdom of my words. The price was right.
My gift for the Queen chosen, I turned my mind from jewellery to the clothes we would need for the celebrations. Summoning Anne to my side, we went to visit the mercers and see what clothing took our fancy. The royal purse ended up £1200 pounds lighter by the time we were done…
Christmas came and snow fell and we all made merry, as if Buckingham had not rebelled, no, had never even existed; as if we had always been King and Queen and not just Duke and Duchess of Gloucester. We endeavoured to forget Dame Grey, still hiding in sanctuary, or the fact that Kent was still seething with fractious souls eager for violence and affray. We said quiet prayers but tried not to think overmuch of the two boys who had lost their lives, too young, and as I had told Anne, James Tyrrell and his henchmen transported the bodies in secrecy to Windsor, coffined in lead, where they would lie hidden near to Edward’s vault for all time. We even thrust aside thoughts of Henry Tydder, creeping around in Brittany, with Edward and Lionel Woodville, Thomas Grey and the pack of rebels who had swarmed to him like flies around dung.
Such bliss did not last long, however. Tydder intruded like some evil wight in a traditional Christmas tale, like the Green Knight who burst in upon King Arthur’s court one feast day and demanded Sir Gawain lay his head upon the block. I expected it was my head Henry wanted on the block, but it turned out that this winter my enemy had more disturbing wants than my mere demise.
“Is it true?” I stalked around the dais before my throne, my ermine-lined robe swishing on the inlaid tiles. I was angered by what I had heard, angry beyond belief.
The spy who knelt before me, still reeking of salty sea-brine from his Channel crossing, shuddered and gazed at me earnestly. “It is true, Dread King. Many witnessed it. Henry Tudor journeyed to Rennes Cathedral and on Christmas morn swore an oath to marry the Lady Elizabeth of York, and unite the Houses of Lancaster and York. His men…” the man’s Adam’s apple bobbed, “his men knelt to him as if he were already King.”
“Pompous, presumptuous little swine,” I murmured. Anne put her hand on my arm, steadying me.
“I will petition Francis of Brittany again” I whirled about to face Frank Lovell, Dick Ratcliffe, and Will Catesby, all of whom had attended the until-now joyous Christmas revels. “I must make him see that an alliance with me would be more beneficial that one with Henry Tydder. Do you, my good lords, believe this can be done?”
Wrapped in a rather old-fashioned green houpelland and looking rather owlish and sleepy, as ever—a trait that hid his deep mind—Catesby nodded. “I think he will eventually, your Grace. Your fleet has bes
ted his at sea and many Bretons and their ships have been taken captive. Money is pouring in for ransom of those men, and the Exchequer is swelled with goods seized from their boats. I believe Duke Francis will sue for peace.”
“Maybe you can do a deal with him over Tudor,” Francis suggested. “I am sure he doesn’t hold much affection for the unpleasant little fellow!”
“Who does?” I shrugged. “Save for his mother!”
“Speaking of whom, what is to become of the Countess of Richmond?” Frank asked. “Ungrateful woman, fomenting rebellion after having the honour of carrying the Queen’s train at the Coronation!”
I refused to look at my friend; the fate of Margaret was decided and I knew it was not to my companions’ satisfaction. They all thought I should have shown no mercy; that she was as guilty as Buckingham. But I would not harm a woman, even a sly serpent such as Margaret, just as I would not harm a man of the cloth no matter his faults. “She will lose her titles and be on house arrest. Stanley shall have her lands for the duration of his life”
“House arrest! Dickon! She is laughing at you. Stanley will be laughing too!”
“She will be allowed to see none but her husband and her confessor,” I stated grumpily, not wanting to argue the matter. I also did not want to admit the truth; that with his large personal armies alienating Thomas Stanley would be dangerous. He had supported me through Buckingham’s rebellion, despite his wife’s machinations, and he would be rewarded for that…In fact, I had already given him Buckingham’s position as Constable. No reward and Thomas might well start remembering how hard I clouted him back in June, and dwell on events even further back in time, such as the battle over Hornby Castle. I could not forget that veiled hint of a threat on the night before my Coronation.
Francis folded his arms, face tense with annoyance. “What about her man, Bray? He is an evil and conniving little toad, just like his mistress. He should go to the block, or be imprisoned for a long time at the very least.”
“I will pardon him!”
“Richard!” Francis and Anne castigated me simultaneously.
“Be silent,” I ordered. “Thomas Stanley spoke on his behalf and as Stanley supported me well throughout the rebellion, I have agreed to a pardon.”
“He will find a way to serve his mistress again,” Francis warned. Colour was rising in his face; he was usually not as impassioned as this, being of a much calmer nature than I. “He is a cur, and he will bite.”
I tried to lighten the mood, setting my hand on my friend’s arm. “Well, you are my loyal Dog and I’ll wager you would bite him the harder, should I let you free upon him.”
Francis sputtered in indignation. Anne stifled a little laugh with her sleeve.
“I suppose next,” Frank rolled his eyes, “you will tell me you are pardoning Thomas Grey and even the conniving John Morton!”
A bitter smile playing on my lips, I leaned back in my seat. “I will offer them clemency, yes. They are dangerous men, Frank; if I cannot lay hands on them, I would rather make terms with them. Do you understand?”
“No. They will see you as weak.”
“Oh, most rebels will be attainted, make no doubt about it, but if I can show a certain lenience to some, and let them return safely to their lands, I hope to cut off some of the support for Henry Tydder. Destroying his growing power is more important than making examples of traitors. ”
Francis sighed. “That much I do understand. I just don’t trust any of those miscreants and never will, no matter what oaths they swear to you, Richard. And neither should you. But I fear, my dearest friend, sometimes you trust too much. Far too much.”
In the beginning of January, when snow still lay on the ground and the winds blew cold from the north, I decided to go on a brief tour of Kent. That county had ever been of rebellious nature; Edward had often had to quash outbreaks of violence during his reign, sometimes using mass hangings to instil fear and respect. The ongoing antagonism was worrisome to me, as the port of Calais and other strategic seaports lay within that county, and there was always the risk they could be cut off by hostile forces.
As I visited Canterbury and Sandwich, I made proclamations praising the men of Kent and Kentishmen who had remained loyal in these times of trouble, and swore to them that I would swiftly deal with any grievances they presented to me, for I wished my subjects to live in peace, enjoying their lands, livelihoods and possessions. I decided to take a different approach to Ned, hoping that kindness and compassion would turn their rebellious hearts in my favour; my brother’s way hangings and imprisonment obviously had not worked in Kent.
I returned to London for the start of Parliament on the 23rd of the month. As was customary, Parliament was opened in the Painted Chamber in Westminster. This chamber held the King’s state bed, its lavish canopy overhanging a gilded scene of St Edward the Confessor. The ceiling above was a riot of gleaming bosses and skilful paintings—saints and prophets, seraphim, cherubim, angels blowing the trumpets of doom on the final day. On the surrounding walls were huge murals depicting scenes from the Old Testament, Adam and Eve, Noah, Jonah and the Whale, Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego thrown into the flames. Dark, painted eyes, obscured by stains from hundreds of years of smoky torches, peered down impassively as I took my place in state upon a dais.
Of prime importance in this sitting of Parliament was the confirmation of my right as King—in a document known as Titulus Regis, the Title of the King. It outlined, once again, the facts of my brother’s unlawful marriage to Elizabeth Woodville and how such an invalid union made Edward’s children bastards under canon law.
I also dealt with Buckingham’s rebels, attainting over one hundred of them, including three treacherous bishops, and gave their lands to men that I deemed more honourable and trustworthy.
Law-making was high on the agenda too; like most in the land, I abhorred the ‘benevolences’ that Ned had used to raise quick money when he needed it. Benevolences were called ‘free gifts’ but they were not; to me, the entire policy smacked of extortion. So I outlawed them, although Will Catesby, who was now Speaker of the Commons, whispered to me, his pale face grave, “I understand your wish, Your Grace, but remember, your Highness may need money at short notice one day.”
I ignored his worries. I was clever and would find another way.
Corruption in office was another concern, as it had been in Winchester, and hence I insisted that from now onwards all jurors must be men of good repute. Sheriffs and bailiffs were to screen their juries and if they allowed in untrustworthy men, they were to be heavily fined. Charges in court were to be read in English, so that even the most lowly could understand what complaints were being brought against him, and I added modifications to the ancient laws of bail, making sure that not only were those under suspicion but not convicted permitted to be bailed by their kin, but that their goods would not be seized or pilfered in the interim.
Trade was important too, of course; the life’s blood of the economy. In earnest, I tried to protect the English merchants from dubious practices brought in by traders from abroad, forbidding imports such as ribbands, nails, leather purses, and painted glass, all of which could be crafted by local artisans. What I refused to restrict, however, was the sale and distribution of books. Edward and I had often spoken of the new printing presses and the spread of learning that could come through them, and I would not impede the progress of the written word by imposing restrictive laws.
Into my tract on prohibited items, I added a clause definitively stating that books were exempt of any stricture: Do not let any hurt or impediment come to any merchant stranger, no matter what nation he comes from, should be bringing into this realm, selling by retail or otherwise, of any manner books written or imprinted…
As a final thought, I added that booksellers, even if foreign born, could abide unrestricted in England.
An England that would become a place of great, unrestricted learning, instead of a place of constant dynastic war…That
is what I desired most.
“I cannot believe it!”
I flung a sheaf of papers across the room, and raked my gnarled fingers through my hair in agitated fury. I did not know whether to collapse in maniacal laughter or to throw a Plantagenet rage and chew rushes on the floor. Except there were no rushes here; I thought them terribly dirty and old-fashioned and had a very expensive carpet on the tiles instead.
Rob Percy, dicing with Francis at a table, raised a dark eyebrow. “Your Grace…Dickon? Whatever is amiss?”
“I have had…a request…” I kicked at the papers on the ground, wishing they were something more substantial. Like a certain thick head. Or a backside. “A request from my Solicitor, Thomas Lynom.”
“Lynom.” Catesby raised his head from the manuscript he was poring over, set open in his lap. “A good fellow, your Grace. Always very pleasant. What can he have done to upset your Highness?”
“You will not believe it, any of you.” I shook my head in outraged despair.
“He has not…not gone over to Henry Tudor?” Francis asked nervously, suddenly dropping his dice. They clattered on the floor.
“No, no, nothing like that, Frank. This…this…is stupid…unbelievable…The man is a bloody lackwit!”
“Please enlighten us, your Grace.” Always eager for a bit of sport or ribald amusement, Rob Percy looked at me with growing interest. “I would never have described Thomas Lynom as a lackwit. As Catesby said, a nice enough fellow if rather earnest, even dull.”
“You remember Jane Shore?” I said, my eyes flashing.
“How could we forget Shore the Whore,” Rob murmured, with a hard little smirk. “Half the noblemen of London won’t be forgetting her, either….”
I, Richard Plantagenet: Book Two: Loyaulte Me Lie Page 20
