I, Richard Plantagenet: Book Two: Loyaulte Me Lie

by J. P. Reedman

  “He neither agrees nor denies it. That is Henry Tydder through and through. He is shrewd, he is devious; you cannot see into his heart, it is like looking into a pool of muddied water.”

  “It is what makes him dangerous,” said Frank quietly.

  “Dangerous…” I was suddenly derisive. I did not want to admit this man was in any way a danger to me. “More annoying that aught else—a nagging gadfly. But Jasper Tydder and some of his other allies, they are dangerous.”

  “And waiting to be rewarded. That is what they want, rewards, and I am sure Henry has promised them plenty. And others besides might be waiting for rewards too.”

  His tone had an ominous ring. “Whom do you mean, Frank?”

  “You know who I mean. Who is married to Lady Beaufort? Who has turned his coat, in out, in out, many times ere now?”

  “Oh, Thomas Stanley of course. I know. I have men watching him…and his oily son, Lord Strange.”

  “Why make him Constable then?” Frank asked.

  “To keep him sweet, to buy his loyalty. I am well aware of how many men he has in his service. Also, to watch him. Keep your enemies near, it is advised.”

  “What of William Stanley, the brother? I see little enough of him these days.”

  “He likes me not, I am aware of that too…” I laughed harshly. “Though he is not, I think, a turncoat in the manner of his kinsman; he was always strong for York. I do not think he would deceive me.”

  “He may see Elizabeth, Edward’s daughter as the rightful heir to York in the absence of her brothers,” said Francis in a low voice. “And he might be willing to accept Tudor as King if she was queen. Remember, Henry has already sworn to marry her and unite the two Houses. I am not saying it is true, but it is something you need to think on.”

  “I have not forgotten. And yes, William Stanley will be watched.” A cold chill ran through me despite the heat of the day. I did not know where it had come from. The Stanleys were problematic, but I had no fear of a Welsh adventurer with only the shakiest claim on the throne.

  But I was a King without an heir and I knew distrust grew about me because of the rumours. Whom could I trust? Who?

  It was in this time, after the Breton ambassador had departed, and Anne, who had recently joined me at Pontefract, was abed and Frank had sought his own quarters, that I sat at my desk, alone, candle burning in the muggy night, and wrote in my own hand a letter to my mother, Dame Cecily, in retirement at her castle of Berkhamsted:

  Madam, I recommend me to you as heartily as is possible, beseeching you your daily blessing to my comfort and defence in my need. And madam, I heartily beseech you that I may often hear from you to my comfort…

  Ink dripping from my pen, sweat dripping from my brow, I paused in my writing. I reached for my wine; my fingers shook. God, how I wanted to spill out my innermost thoughts to her, to implore her for succour in the wake of little Ned’s death, to tell her the cold hard truth about her other dead grandson and beg her forgiveness.

  Desperately I wished she would respond and tell me how she truly felt about my loss, and about all else that had befallen since last June. To know if she, such a holy woman that she lived as Benedictine, blamed me for all the evils that had befallen and withheld her love from me…

  But she was not the kind of woman one could write such things to; she was not a mother who coddled and fussed about her children. Well, maybe George sometimes, only heaven knew why. She was Queen-by-Right and had suffered the loss of husband and sons, and she would only tell me that I must strive on, as it was the will of God…

  I thrust away my instinct to pour out my heart, my grief, and instead filled the rest of my letter with trivialities, asking what she wished to do about a new officer for her Wiltshire manors, since the last one, William Colyngbourne, had gone bad, joining Buckingham’s rebels before fleeing God knows where.

  At the end of the page, I paused again, still wishing to write of yet more personal matters, this once only. But I did not. I finished the missive with nothing but these simple words:

  in the hand of your most humble son.

  Ricardus Rex

  Bad news, it seemed there was never anything but bad news. A black-clad messenger had come, flying in like a wind-battered crow from the coast on a half-dead horse. There had been a foray into open waters; the French, hiding in the mists, had pounced, capturing two of my ships. Two of my finest captains, Everingham and Nesfield, were taken as prisoners; a heavy ransom was demanded. I could not allow these brave souls to languish in French hands, so the amount would be paid—but it was more bloody money from my dwindling treasury.

  Immediately I took horse for Scarborough, along with a large contingent of fighting men. I had intended to return to that seaside town later in the summer to continue manning the fleet and overseeing castle repairs, but the aggressive action of the French forced me to immediate action. No doubt they were in alliance with the Scots; ever had those two nations supported the other against England. I feared it was time to teach the Scots a lesson…again.

  I took Anne with me, riding behind my party in a chariot under heavy armed guard. She had not wanted to come, preferring to retire to York, but when I had insisted she accompany me, she had bowed her head dutifully and agreed.

  I wanted her there…needed her more that she could know.

  We entered Scarborough through Newboroughgate, to great fanfare and rejoicing. Gulls wheeled above, wings shimmering, while ahead the castle keep stuck up like a vast sword blade, the clouds black and silver-lined behind it. We briefly toured the town, passing through Beast Market where traders sold flesh and fish and up Ryvauxlane where the monks from Rievaulx Abbey kept their warehouses.

  Then we processed up the cliff, stopping for a few minutes to admire the recently renovated towers of St Mary’s church, and then entered the barbican of the castle.

  “I am not much keen on Scarborough,” remarked Anne, as she disembarked from her carriage with her ladies. “The winds are too sharp; they cut to the bone. If you are to sail with the navy, Richard, I don’t know why you insisted I come along.”

  “You are the Queen. You give the people heart; you will give the sailors heart.”

  “The sailors?” She sidled up to me, her thin brows raised. She looked very small, frail, as if a strong wind of the sea would throw her over the castle walls. “I doubt sailors would look overmuch at a dry stick like me.”

  “Do not speak so, wife,” I chided. “Never let them hear you say such things. You are the Queen. You are higher in grace than all other women! But it is not just sailors who will be pleased by your presence…You will give me heart.”

  She bowed her head, as demure as any maiden. I wanted to touch her pale cheek, rub some warmth into it, but dared not for fear of what the gathered crowds would say if they witnessed such unseemly behaviour between a king and his consort.

  “I have a surprise for you, Anne,” I murmured. “I have had this old place cleaned for your visit. And changed until it is fit for a Queen. Come with me. We will dine together tonight. Not in a feast, though the castellan will expect it. Too bad, banqueting can wait for another day. I would be alone with you.”

  I took her by the hand and walked in stately procession towards the hall block, our servants following as trumpets shouted out a fanfare that sent the gulls screeching from their nest in the highest turrets.

  Inside the castle, the once-dim corridors were lit by scores of torches in new brass sconces fastened to the walls. Years of accumulated soot and black mould had been scrubbed away, leaving the stonework surprisingly pale and smooth. “Oh!” said Anne in surprise.

  “I have done this all for you, Anne,” I told her, “so that we can abide here a time, in the state which we deserve. Look ahead…the Queen’s chambers.”

  An arched doorway loomed at the end of the corridor, its rounded corbels decorated with ancient herringbone patterns and arcane mason’s marks from long ago. The wooden door below it gaped wide in welco
me as pages, ladies, and servants lined on either side, bowing or curtseying as we strode past them on flagstones covered in woven mats of dry reeds.

  I led Anne inside the room. Scents of herbs hung heavy in the air, and rose petals—fittingly white—gleamed in silver bowls within the window embrasures.

  “It is so different to what I remember!” Anne exclaimed, walking on ahead of me, her little jewelled shoes silent upon an expensive ivory carpet imported from abroad.

  The walls were hung with tapestries that stretched from top to bottom—hunting scenes and harvesting, unicorns with their noble heads lying upon the laps of maidens. All were coloured deep blues and reds, rich and sensuous, alleviating the harsh greys of the masonry beneath. Passing through this room, we reached the bedchamber, where the tapestries were of different scenes, feasters and lovers, warm in yellows and golds. A vast wooden bed stood against the far wall, canopied in royal blue with the arms of England upon it; below the canopy, the soft mattress was of samite covered by a blue silk quilt decorated with silver birds. In the windows, repaired and enlarged by my command, thick curtains of purple sindon swayed in the breeze off the sea.

  A table with two decorated chair stood within the room, near the fireplace with its new, sparkling iron brazier. A carafe of Burgundian wine sat upon it, along with a tray of sweetmeats flavoured with ginger, honey, and anise and speckled with caraway seeds.

  “From now onwards these rooms shall be known as Queen Anne’s chambers,” I said. “Now…” I led her to one of the chairs. “You will sit and rest after your journey. And we will dine.”

  Food was brought from the newly replenished kitchens of Scarborough Castle. The cooks were eager to show off to the King, once their lord of Gloucester. It was a fast day when no meat could be eaten so we were served pike in peppery, cinnamon-tinted Galentyne sauce alongside dishes of newly-harvested crabs, cockles and mussels from Scarborough’s own shoreline. To accompany them, we ate ‘false eggs’—shells stuffed full of fish roe and flavoured with saffron, figs and parsley.

  Once the trays were carried away and the fire stoked, I dismissed all the servants, my squires, Anne’s ladies and the lutanists who had played sweetly throughout our meal.

  “Now, Anne…” As the last footsteps died away in the hall, I leaned forward and lightly kissed her lips. She sat rigid but unresisting. My hands drifted lower to her slim midriff; she had grown so tiny since Edward’s death, I could span her waist even with my small hands. “I pray you will not nay-say me this even…”

  “I am your wife; you may do with me what you will, as is your right.” She gazed past me, over my shoulder; I saw tears standing in her eyes. We had not lain together since little Ned had died in April; the desire had been ground out in me, and I had no doubt it was the same with Anne. Although she had resumed her duties as Queen, she still seemed oddly listless and quiet, picking at her food and allowing her maids to do for her things she had once preferred to do herself. She never laughed anymore; I had not heard her sweet laughter for so long.

  “I don’t want to do anything with you just because it ‘is my right’!” I said, much more harshly than I had intended.

  She flinched as it I had struck her and I cursed myself inwardly for my impatience. But I had sore reason to be impatient. God help me, I needed an heir. Anne was still young enough. Maybe now that God had punished me for all my sins and presumptions, he would allow her to conceive again and my dynasty, my bloodline, would continue. I would build a thousand chantry chapels in thanksgiving should that happen.

  “Anne, forgive me.” I kissed her neck. She leaned against me, slack, unresponsive, but at least her arms tentatively encircled my back. “We…we need to try…for another babe. It is not impossible. It must be…good between us, the doctors say, in order to ensure conception.”

  “Richard, it has been so long since I last conceived.” Her voice wavered. “The fault is with me. Somehow I fail you.”

  “God in his eternal goodness can aid us, you know that,” I said desperately. “Remember the words in Genesis, about Rachel, who was barren? Then God remembered Rachel, and God gave heed to her and opened her womb.”

  “But will God remember Richard and Anne?” she whispered.

  Despite her mournful words, she softened then, reaching up stroke my hair, twisting a curl round her finger. “I am sorry, Richard; of course we must try.”

  “It is I who should be sorry. Perhaps all that has happened is my fault, for what I set in motion…”

  “Hush!” She brought her finger from my hair to my lips. I took her hand away, kissed the palm, and then bent to kiss her mouth.

  She was still oddly languid, not like the old Anne who despite her demure appearance met me with equal passion, but she made no protest as I struggled with the lacing on her gown. “Jesu, perhaps I should not have insisted you dismiss your ladies. This is more difficult that I remember!”

  “I can call them…”

  “No…”

  I soon had the laces untied and she lay in my arms, so thin and pale, a flower touched by frost. I wanted to warm her.

  It had been such a long time….it seemed eternity.

  I struggled to remove my own clothes; once again clumsy and struggling, not used to undoing the points myself. My fingers were shaking. I felt like a gauche untried boy, not the King of England.

  So much depended on my ability to beget an heir. I knew of the cruel whispers, the rumourmongers who spoke the terrible thing I feared in my own heart—that Edward had been taken from me as punishment. That my line would wither and die for disinheriting, perhaps killing, my brother’s progeny.

  I had to prove that latest rumour was not true. That, if I had sinned, I was now absolved…

  I pressed my face against Anne’s belly, so flat, almost sunken, and kissed her pale flesh. I felt her tremble. I did not know whether it was with desire…fear…sorrow. Closing my eyes, I let mouth and hands sweep over her body; it was almost a ritual, my heart was hammering with fear as much as carnal longing… For a moment, I did not know if I would even be unmanned and made unable by the sheer terror I felt. (I thought, with brief sudden horror, of Jane Shore’s forgotten husband, discarded because of his impotence. How much worse, a king lacking manhood, lacking an heir…)

  Then Anne drew me down upon the fair white roses of her breasts, and her hands stroked my flanks, my thighs, and I felt alive again, in a way I had not for so many bitter months. I slid my hands below her, drawing her up to me, and as I claimed her body, I whispered in her ear, “We will have another son, Anne. We will…”

  The navy sailed from Scarborough upon a Thursday morn, striking out onto a choppy sea with rain blowing like darts from a layer of flat grey clouds. I took command, but Jockey Howard, with his naval skill, was the true leader of the expedition. Despite the fact I had been appointed admiral of England in my youth and had borne that title long, most of my fighting had taken place on land.

  Wryly I grinned to myself inside the safety of my helmet. Long, long ago, when I was very young and newly rewarded with my northern holdings, I decided to mount a minor raid on the Scottish border in retaliation for some skirmishes that had destroyed several villages. At the same time, I would take one of my ships and do a little privateering to the detriment of my Scottish foes. Albany, then still in his brother’s favour, was up at Lauder with some vessels of his own, protecting the Scottish interests.

  Wicked, foolish sport? Some would say so, but many sailed the sea for a bit of plunder and sport; Warwick had done it often, and Edward Woodville’s naval activities had involved not only hauling the royal treasury off to Brittany but also attacking English ships in the Channel. Oxford had also sailed around the same waters and those in the west, hunting rich merchant ships into order to disrupt trade and irk Edward.

  Casting my mind back I sighed, remembering my foray upon the seas as the young Lord of the North. The sky had been grey like today, the wind heavy and hanging in the sail. My ship was called the Ma
y Flower, and it cut the northern waters like a dagger cuts flesh, foam leaping up round the prow. Standing on the forecastle, with archers gathered all around me, I had shouted in youthful excitement as I saw through the lashing spray a fine Scottish caravel ship with three tall masts and lateen sails. Although the foreign craft was built for speed, if I could take it unawares, my larger carrack and greater force of men should be able to take it.

  The sailors aboard the Scots ship saw us and tried to dart towards their distant fellows, hugging the contours of the misted coast, but too late, the May Flower was bearing down on them and there was no escape. My men and I boarded, whooping and yelling like pirates (and indeed I supposed we were behaving like them) and there was some brief through not very fierce hand to hand fighting on the deck of the caravel.

  Then I realised with a sinking sensation in my gut, that I had made a terrible mistake. Initially, I had not recognised the device flying from the ship’s mast, wet and hanging in the rain. On closer inspection I did. The caravel was known as Yellow Carvel and belonged personally to King James of Scotland!

  I was mortified. The bloody Scottish King’s ship! This could, would, cause an incident, with repercussions that would affect England. The borders were always debated and troublesome at best; in my mind’s eye, I saw renewed hordes of Scots streaming into England burning and pillaging in retribution for shaming their king. I saw James, furious, up in Edinburgh castle declaring outright war on England. I saw Edward’s huge fist sailing towards my face and then an even more unsettling vision of chains and dungeons….

  Scowling, I disengaged from the ship, sent back the plunder we had grabbed: weapons, armour, artillery, kegs of drink from the hold, salted food, plate off the captain’s table. We allowed the Yellow Carvel to limp off back to the safety of Lauder.

  As expected, King James reacted with fury. I was summoned before Ned, went with surly face and head hanging, not knowing quite how fearsome his wrath might be. It was bad, but no dungeon, thankfully.