Ah Edward, why did your let your loins override the strength of your mind? Two greenwood marriages, made secret and informal, just so you could ease your lusts between the thigh of Eleanor Talbot and Elizabeth Woodville!
Grief churning within me, I rested my head against the cold bars. I was all too aware that nearby also lay Henry VI’s bones, newly transported from Chertsey—the old King murdered by Ned’s orders as I listened in the next chamber. Even closer lay Hastings, my brother’s beloved friend who went to the block on my orders; a traitor, no doubt, but why should he have died when the likes of Morton lived? And below, near Ned’s crypt, locked in secrecy, the remains of the boy who would have been King, whose crown was taken by the bastardy his father’s action bestowed upon him.
The soft cadence of silk on tiles made me turn my head. For a moment, before recalling it would be impossible, I thought Anne had come to join me in my remembrances.
Instead, it was Elizabeth, Ned’s Bessy. She looked startled to see me, and no doubt I looked the same. We had not spoken since that shameful night after the banquet. She dripped a quick curtsey. “Your Grace, I will go.”
“No, come, child. He was your father.” And the boy, Edward, he was your brother, and, Oh God, you think him safe, while here he lies in death….
She came forward slowly, almost as if afraid to approach. I saw her gown was the colour of violets, her veil sparkling with amethysts. She was twilight and the dawn. I, on the other hand, was dusk, darkness. I was winter to her spring. How old I felt, how bereft.
She knelt before the gates of Edward’s tomb, young, earnest, beautiful, hands folded at her breast. “I miss him, Richard.”
“I miss him, too.”
“Your Grace, I know I am but the least of your concerns…”
“You are not, Elizabeth, but go ahead, speak on.”
“I beg that you allow me to stay on at court. Even though I am no longer permitted to attend the Queen on a daily basis, I would rather not join my mother at her home. Unless the King wishes it, naturally.”
“You have permission to stay.” I gave a hard little laugh, shook my head. “Having some young people to bring cheer to court will not go amiss. There is so little to be cheerful about. As for your aunt Anne—although doctors and nurses alone must tend her bodily needs for you are too precious to risk your health doing so, maybe an hour reading to her from the window seat would ease her mind. Would you do that for her, Bessy?”
“I would,” she said. “And I am strong and hale; I do not fear the contagion!”
I glanced sharply at the girl again. Did she chide me for shunning Anne’s bed by talking of her own courage—she knew, of course, as one of Anne’s ladies-in-waiting that we now slept apart.
Was I losing my mind for having such doubts? I had begun to wonder if all words ever spoken had two meanings. But Bessy’s plump, smooth face was quiet innocence.
“Come then,” I said, rising suddenly.
She seemed surprised but followed me. We crossed the bailey, aware that we were the centre of attention. I did not care, she was my kinswoman, and I had the right to see her, as I chose. The right to keep her close, in case Tydder’s supporters tried to spirit her away in the night.
Inside the great stony bulk of the castle, I ushered her to my private closet, filled with books and scrolls and strewn papers. The smell of old tallow was overwhelming, the room dimly lit by several cressets.
“You will need something to read to the Queen.” I glanced around at the books scattered on the table, on the shelves behind me. “Something appropriate.”
“A prayer book?” Bessy suggested.
“Perhaps something a bit more…secular. To brighten her day with thoughts of other times. Here, how about this…”
Reaching up, I pulled a volume from a shelf. Well-worn, a book I had owned since my youth, its boards were covered by finger-marked leather and its silvered clasps worn from constant forays into the pages. Unlike some nobles, my books were not kept as mere display pieces or a show of wealth; I enjoyed reading them as much as I enjoyed collecting them.
I flipped through the pages of the book. “This will do, I think. You may keep it for yourself when you are done, Bessy. A gift for your kindness to your Aunt, the Queen, in this unhappy time.”
She took the tome from me, stooping slightly under the weight of it, and flipped opened the cover to the frontispiece where I had signed it, long ago, Richard Gloucester.
“Oh thank you, your Grace…Richard. I will treasure this marvellous gift forever! I love books, I went once to master Caxton’s workshop when I was but a little maid, but you will remember that, surely, Richard, for you were there too.”
In truth, I recalled only the process of printing the books and not the yelling yellow-haired children that cavorted around the room, poking at the machinery and annoying Caxton’s apprentices. But I would not tell Bessy that. “I do remember.”
Elizabeth was still leafing through the book, eyes fixed to the skilful illuminations in gold and red and blue. “Tristan,” she breathed. “I know I shall enjoy this tale, The Romance of Tristan. Tristan and Iseult, such sweet sorrow for those star-crossed lovers…”
“Not really,” I said. “They both ended up dead.”
“Ah, but did not a honeysuckle and a hazel entwine forever on their graves to mark their enduring love?” she murmured, her expression dreamy.
“I am sure it was a great consolation to everyone concerned,” I said dryly.
Bessy laughed; it was the sound of tinkling bells. Laughter; there was so little to laugh at these dark days.
Clutching the old book in her arms as if it were the most precious gift ever given her, she thanked me again and wandered out into the hall.
I could not work. Could not concentrate. Documents remained unread, unsigned, unsealed. Petitions were tossed into a corner. Appointments and audiences were cancelled. The only thing I accomplished of note was to call James Tyrrell to my side.
“How is the boy, ‘Peterkin’?” I asked.
“Fine, my lord King.”
“War will come this year.”
“Yes, your Grace. It will.”
“It is time to make ready a safe place for the boy to be sent. James, I want you to go on a mission to Burgundy. I will send you with money. You shall seek my sister, Duchess Margaret, and she will advise you. A place must be found for the boy to grow up and to be educated; even though he is not a prince, I would not have him without knowledge, although not too much knowledge, if you understand me.”
I leaned forward conspiratorially, whispering in Tyrrell’s ear the grand sum I would send with him to Burgundy. £3000. His eyes widened. “Your Grace, that is…enough for a whole…a whole…”
“I know, and it will cost me dear this year when battle will come. But it must be done.”
“A dangerous mission indeed, my Lord King, to be in charge of such a sum and for such a cause.”
“Yes, secrecy and discretion is paramount, which is why I have chosen you, Sir James. You will be allowed to pass customs with no search; I have the papers ready for you to present to the officials. Fail me not.”
“And when it is done?”
“Do not return to England. Stay at Guisnes in France and keep any eye on the enemy and an ear to the ground for rumours of any ill-doing. When I feel it is safe, I will inform you and provisions will be made to remove ‘Peterkin’ from your home at Gipping to the Abbey at Colchester then abroad by boat. Do you understand everything I have told you?”
Tyrrell nodded and bowed. “It is understood. And it will be done, your Grace.”
I dismissed him, and then sat in silence listening to his footstep vanish in the corridor beyond. Fail me not, Sir James. And my brother’s last remaining son…
Anne was declining rapidly, it was clear for all to see. In desperation, the physicians fed her potions, elixirs, philtres…to no avail. She grew worse. Her hair thinned, her weight dropped until the skin was taut on her
bones. Every cough brought droplets of blood to her lips, to the cloths nurses held before her.
Rumours began, as I suspected they would.
That she was being poisoned
That I was the poisoner and wanted her dead because she was barren.
I began to fare out into the Great Park around Windsor, taking few attendants with me. Riding round and between the great oak trees to Herne’s Oak, where, legend said, the King’s huntsman hung himself in the days of Richard Two, returning as an earth-bound wight for his sin, his ragged antlers sprouting from a dark and furrowed brow. A figure of fear and torment, punished until eternity for his sins …as I now felt myself to be, although where Herne bore twisted horns upon his brow, I bore the weight of a jewelled crown that grew heavier with each passing day.
When I was not out riding, or brooding, it was hawks that obsessed me. I wanted hawks. I wanted to go hawking, to see the birds of prey fly free against the sky, free, soaring across the dome of heaven, released from their bonds. The sight filled me with a certain thrill, a certain longing…I too wanted to be free. But the hawks always returned and then they were bound by their jesses…as I was bound.
My present bevy of hawks were not deemed good enough; I sent all over England and Wales for the very best, the fiercest, the most exotic—gyrfalcons, peregrines, sparrowhawks. They arrived daily at Windsor Castle in brightly decorated cages, awaiting my pleasure.
But there was no real pleasure.
None.
Food seemed tasteless, wine sour vinegar in my mouth. I paced the flagstones in the day, when not flying the hawks or riding pointlessly, and at night I lay awake, alone, listening to every noise in the castle.
Frank came to see me. We rode into the park and I showed him Herne’s Oak. “So you think he is the devil, Frank?”
“Who? Henry Tudor?” My dear friend tried to make a joke but his smile was wan, wavering. He was deeply upset by the news of Anne’s condition; they were of an age and always had on well, near enough as brother and sister.
“Herne!” I stared up at the winter-blasted boughs scraping the lowering skies. They looked indeed like sharp antler tines, tangling with the tumult of heaven. “They say he was a sinner, a self murderer. But he wears horns like Satan himself and rides before a ghostly pack that hunts the souls of the unshriven dead.”
“It’s a story, Dickon,” said Frank, uneasily. “A tale. He was just a man, an unfortunate man. The rest is but the talk of ale-bound greybeards with nothing better to do.”
“Do you think I’m the Devil, Frank?” I laughed, still staring up to the top of that scabrous tree, swaying as if in some evil dance. A mix of snow and rain pelted my upturned face. “Some seem to.”
“No! And this is mad talk, Dickon. I will say it even though you are King, and you may chastise me as it pleases you.”
I drew my cloak around me, hunched my uneven shoulders. “They are saying I am poisoning her. What do you think to that?”
“It is cruel, but it is a common enough rumour when anyone of young age falls gravely ill.” He suddenly took a deep breath. “What worries me more, however, is another rumour I have heard.”
“Oh, what now? Do I eat babes in arms? Serve roast Woodvilles for dinner?”
Frank licked his wind-dried lips, stared over my shoulder into the distance. Normally he would have laughed at my cynical jests. “They are saying you seek Anne’s death so that you will be free to marry Elizabeth of York, your niece.”
Blood rushed to my ears, to my cheeks. I said nothing, but my gloved hands knotted on the reins of my steed.
“It’s not true, is it? Not about Anne being poisoned; that is an outright lie, as all who love you know. But, afterwards, surely you do not seek…”
“Frank, you malign me!” I shouted. “I have no designs on Elizabeth of York! Of all men upon this earth, I thought I could trust you!”
I could see by his stricken expression that my words had wounded him deeply. “You can trust me unto death, Your Grace, Dickon. I have said it before.”
A weary weight fell upon my shoulders; my stomach was cramping, my heart sore. “Ah Francis these are evil, confusing times. We must not quarrel. Let us be friends again as we have been since we were nasty little rats in the service of my Lord of Warwick.”
“Yes, let us be.” He leaned over on his horse and we embraced as the heavens opened and the rain sluiced down, remembering our shared joys and shared sorrows over all the years.
When we parted, Frank looked thoughtful. He stared out into the rain. “We must quash this rumour about Bessy immediately, Dickon. It will do our cause no good.”
I removed my soggy bonnet, ran a hand through my dripping hair. “No!”
His brows raised; doubt clouded his eyes once more. “No?”
“Not yet, Frank. I know it sounds mad but…” I recalled Rotherham’s words, “Think of it—this vicious rumour may yet serve a purpose. I want Tydder to hear it in his bolthole in France. I want him to be as miserable as I am. I want him to think Elizabeth will never be his… for she will never be his! I want his servants to realise that their chosen master will not unite the houses of Lancaster and York”
“I do not like this idea, Richard. You wish to play a dangerous game. Yes, Henry might be needled by the news, but he is not your sole worry. You need to think of those at home whose loyalties are questionable. This rumour of a marriage will not go down well if it spreads too far or is believed too strongly. Anne was loved, especially on Neville lands, and unions of uncles and nieces are seen as abhorrent in incestuous in England.”
“I will put an end to the slander soon enough.” I smiled. My head felt dizzy, as if I had drunk too much. “Just let Henry and his men hear the tale first. It will not take long to spread over the Channel; I know Henry has his spies…and so does Mother Beaufort, for all that she is under house arrest. Surely, no one who truly knows me here in England would believe such a base lie. I have been always known for the goodness of my private life, even if nothing else about me is good.” I gave a bitter, barking laugh. “Ere long, the rumour will die a well-earned death and men will laugh. Surely.”
“I do not like it,” Frank repeated.
I shrugged. “That matters not.”
Another burst of rain showered over us, cold and verging on snow. Slamming my heels into my horse’s flanks, I galloped back towards the distant castle.
********************************************************
CHAPTER NINE: SUN INTO SHADOW
Within a few weeks, I had tired of Windsor and returned to Westminster. The hawks had ceased to enthral me, my nightly walks to visit the tomb of my brother, began to bring disquiet rather than peace and acceptance, with saintly Harry, headless Hastings and a lost boy all so close it seemed their ghosts breathed upon my neck at prayer.
Anne was weaker than ever before, despite all the potions the doctors forced upon her, but she refused to remain abed at Windsor. Carried in a palanquin, with Bessy and her other ladies travelling alongside, grim-faced, she returned with me to the Palace of Westminster.
I needed to return to a King’s work, especially knowing that Tydder’s invasion was assured that year. With a stern face, I assumed my duties with my ministers.
One morn shortly after we had gathered in the Painted Chamber, below the majestic gaze of the painting of Edward the Confessor, a great clangour began outside the Palace. A bell was tolling repeatedly, its clapper making a dull, tinny sound that rippled through the room and over all London.
“What be that noise?” Ratcliffe scowled, putting his hands over his ears. “It makes my head pound! How is a man to concentrate on matters of import with such a din?”
William Catesby stirred uneasily. “An alarum of some sort. Could there be trouble in London? Fire? Riots?”
Francis rose from the table where we sat and went to one of the long windows. “Fire, I think.” He peered out, eyes narrowed. “I see smoke curling near a distant church tower. It is thei
r bell that tolls a warning.”
“The noise sets my head to pounding as much as Ratcliffe’s,” I muttered between gritted teeth as the sound droned on, clang after dismal funereal clang. “Frank, send someone over to investigate…and to get the priest to silence that infernal bell!”
Francis started towards one of the doors to an exit near the Queen’s chamber, but suddenly skidded to a halt. I could see his shoulders tense and then heard his voice, drifting through the vastness of the Painted Chamber: “Your Grace, what are you doing here? Surely you should be in bed!”
“Frank, out of my way! I must see Richard, I must see the King!”
Anne pushed past Frank who gazed on hopelessly, helplessly. A startled murmur rippled through my gathered ministers, then compete silence fell. Anne was wearing but her kirtle, undignified as a common woman in the street. Stains from a myriad of potions darkened the bodice; the skirts trailed behind her in creased folds. Instead of a proper headdress, a tied on cap covered her hair, and her uncombed tresses hung down under it like spider webs, thinned almost to nothingness. No blood coloured her cheeks, and her bluish-tinted lips were parted as if she sought air.
She ran towards me, staggering, desperate, any traces of dignity abandoned. Behind her trailed a bevy of pleading, cajoling nurses who dared not set hands upon her, for even in her wild, unhappy state, she was still their Queen.
“Richard!” Her voice rang throughout the chamber, rising to the very rafters with their ornamented corbels. “Why? Why do you do this to me?”
“Anne, for pity’s sake, what is it?” I could not understand what was wrong. Up until now, my wife had just lain quietly abed and let the nurses and doctors minister to her.
She fell heavily upon her knees before my seat, and threw her arms about my legs, eliciting a small collective shriek from the horrified nurses. “Why…why do you let them ring the bell as if I am already dead? The passing bell! I am not dead! Richard, Richard, I have loved you all my life…and you destroy me in this cruel way! Other than my barrenness, have I been such a terrible wife to you, that I must be tormented at the end of my days?” Tears sprang from her eyes, wet my robes as she sobbed and moaned at my feet.
I, Richard Plantagenet: Book Two: Loyaulte Me Lie Page 32
