“Anne, Anne!” I bowed over her inert form, pulled her up and to me, uncaring that the men gathered in the chamber could view us clearly, our pain naked to the world, our majesty humbled, the terribleness of the disease that ate Anne alive displayed for all to see. “It is just a bell…a bell out in the town. Not the passing bell at all! You imagine these evil things; your head is full of wild fancies.”
I stroked her sparse hair, once so beautiful, now like the hair upon an ancient skull preserved in a dry crypt, and kissed her fevered brow, her drained cheeks, despite the fact that all eyes were upon us, some pitying, some…I could not say. “Be of good cheer, my love, I beg you. It is not what you think. All will be well.”
“It will never be well,” she sobbed. “Never.”
“Anne, my dearest, you must return to your chamber at once. I fear you will do greater harm to yourself if you continue in such distress. I will order the doctors to give you sleeping draughts to calm you.”
Her emaciated shoulders slumped; I felt her shake against me, her beating, failing heart like the swift vibration of a dove’s wings. “You send me away, you no longer sleep with me, and I hear rumours, so many cruel rumours…”
Elizabeth… Anne must have heard the rumour I allowed to go abroad, to needle Henry Tydder! Guilt flooded me, and anger; at myself for not considering all the possible consequences of allowing the rumour to thrive, at Bishop Rotherham, with his spiteful smile and honey-dripping words, for putting the idea into my shock-numbed head to begin with. It would not surprise me if he were facilitating the rumours’ spread, maybe even was the one who had allowed it to reach Anne. Christ, why had I permitted my tongue to run free in front of one who was once my enemy?
“Whatever you have heard, Anne, it is a falsehood,” I told her. “I swear it.”
“Is it?” she said. “You will need a wife who can bear you an heir. I know that; and in order for you to have your desire, I must die. When have you ever not obtained your desire, husband, whether it be right or wrong to do so?”
Ignoring my protests of innocence, she released her hold on my knees, dragged herself over the tiles like a small, crippled bird, then stumbled to her feet, wobbling and swaying, her hair and garb in disarray. She turned to the appalled circle of nurses, trying to gather some scrap of dignity. “I have spoken with his Grace, the King, as I wished. I am content,” she said. “Now help me back to my chamber, I bid you. The King must busy himself with more important things than his unhappy Queen.”
I was having my portrait painted. Within the comfort of the solar, I reclined in a robe of patterned cloth of gold, with a scarlet gown below and a heavy collar of gold and jewels around my neck. My hair had been neatened by the barber and combed out, and on my bonnet I wore a brooch shaped like a rose, its heart a ruby, its petals made of black agate; a mourning rose that spoke of all my losses, but yet also symbolised Our Lady, the Mother of Mercy and Compassion.
I sat upon a cushion-laden chair within the window embrasure, with the cold February light streaming through. I prayed I looked presentable; I’d had a mirror held to my face like some pampered courtesan and found I was the colour of parchment. And thin. Too thin. Anne was like a walking cadaver as her illness gripped her, but I too, suffered in body and mind.
I must make a good impression in the painting, for this artistic project was not for my own vanity. If Anne had spoken any truth when she burst into the Painted Chamber before the lords, it was this: I must marry again. John of Lincoln was my named heir, but I was still young enough to beget an heir of my body. Naturally, I would prefer my own son to reign after me. The portrait was to show a prospective bride.
Once the gravity of Anne’s condition spread became common knowledge, Princesses from far and wide had been suggested as potential brides. One by one I considered them, examining miniature portraits sent by ambassadors, giving great thought to the matter, even as my heart twisted at the strangeness or doing so before my wife, my poor suffering wife, was even in her inevitable grave. At the same time, I also began to considered potential princes for Bessy; an excellent match for her would be another poke in the eye of Henry Tydder and his mother and create powerful new alliances for England.
The chosen artist for my portrait had entered the room, a little round-headed man with a small, unfashionable moustache and paint daubed in bright blotches upon his floor-length gown, making it look like Joseph’s many-coloured coat. He set up his easel, brought out his paints; his pale, sensitive ringless hands quaked. It would seem he had not painted royalty before.
“Well, man,” I tried to be friendly, but the painter looked terrified nonetheless, “how do I look?”
“Your Grace, you look most k..kingly, m..most regal!” he stammered.
“That’s not what I wanted to hear. Kings are meant to look regal. I mean, do I look…comely. Would a princess see something that might appeal?”
The painter looked even more frightened than before. In the corner of the solar, a couple of Knights of the Body were suppressing laughs and elbowing each other, most amused by his discomfiture.
At length, the artist found his tongue. “I am sure they would, Your Grace. You…you…you…” he sputtered, “You have beautiful, graceful hands!”
Francis Lovell, nursing a goblet of Rhenish, guffawed with laughter and spilt the wine. His latest dog made a dash to lick it up, as he tried to drag the growling beast away.
“I am glad you think so, but I was hoping for slightly more reassurance than that!” I shook my head in mock dismay. “But enough merriment! Commence.”
Hastily the artist hastily set to work, and gradually, as the picture began to take shape, his confidence swelled, his strokes grew bolder, his use of colour widened. At the end of our sittings, I had a portrait that pleased my eye well enough, showing me as stern-faced but not unkindly, still youthful but with the dignity conferred by age and estate. I was plucking at the ring upon the fourth finger of my left hand as a token of my affection towards whatever lady I should choose.…
Not that any great affection would be there. It would be a marriage of state, for allies abroad and for heirs.
I wished it had not come to this pass, but a King had no choice, and a man must have a wife. That was God’s Law.
Once the portrait was finished, I returned to more strenuous work, deliberating and making judgements and decrees, dictating, signing and sealing. In Anne’s honour, I sent 300 pounds to the University of Cambridge, where promises had been made of a yearly mass ‘for the happy state of the King and his dearest consort, Anne.” There would soon be no ‘happy state;’ instead, they would pray for Anne’s soul.
Francis lingered at Westminster with Rob Percy in an attempt to lighten the burdens that clouded my mind and made me feel an old man, wretched and worn. One night we were lounging about in my private apartments, with the fire blazing to chase the shadows away and hounds stretched on the floor, drinking clarry perhaps more than we should.
Rob scratched the belly of one dog; we all laughed as the beast kicked its back leg in pleasurable response. “I have heard, Richard, that Henry Tudor has finally received the ‘news’ that you wish to marry Elizabeth of York.”
Francis looked uncomfortable, but I bent forward in Rob’s direction, brows quirking up in interest. “Has he? And how did he respond?”
Rob threw back his head, roared with laughter and slapped his thigh, making the hound near him leap in fright and run into the corner of the room. “’Tis said he was pinched to the very stomach!”
I laughed then, and even Francis smiled. “Are you sure?” said Frank. “I have it on good authority he always looks pinched, like his sweet, pious mother!’
“Who looks like she sucked a Spanish lemon!” roared Rob, doubling up in mirth. “And oh, there’s more, Richard…”
I put my foot up onto the brown back of a hound, resting it. The dog eyed me sleepily. “Do impart.”
“French tongues have been wagging, as they often do. Exaggera
ting the story even further. Apparently you have been bedding the girl and already have a child with her!”
“Christ on the Cross!” My laughter failed and I slammed down my goblet on the table. “When would I even have time to do such a thing, even had I the mind to. Evil-minded toads! This is going too far!”
Frank looked grim. “I did warn you at Windsor, Dickon, how I felt this needling of yours might go awry. I think you must put a stop to the rumour, and soon. Anne, bless her soul, has had word of it, as evidenced by what happened in the Painted Chamber. That rumour is one no wife should ever hear, especially one as dutiful and fair as Anne. She does not deserve such pain in her final days.”
“Are you criticising your King?” My temper flared, but it was guilt that made my wrath the greater.
Frank heaved himself from his seat and went down on one knee. “Your Grace, I spoke out of turn…as ever.”
I let out a deep sigh. “No, you did not. You are right. I need to find a future match for Elizabeth and for myself, and let these rumours extinguish themselves. As much as I enjoy the thought of Tydder’s discomfiture, I am now deeply sorry I allowed the falsehoods to spread abroad…though I fear evil tongues may have spread certain things anyway. I no longer know who is loyal, and who is not.”
For many long, painful hours, I deliberated with my counsellors about whom I might marry after Anne’s decease. One of Queen Isabella of Castile’s daughters was put forward as a possibility; a young princess of only seventeen. Known to be fair. Likely to be fertile. Bringing a good strong alliance.
Another candidate was Joanna of Portugal, known to her people as a woman of great piety. She was my age and had never wed, and had at one time wished to become a nun. Not perhaps the best choice for childbearing, but by all reports a virtuous and intelligent woman. And she was of the Lancastrian line; if I were to marry her, I would join the houses of York and Lancaster as Henry Tydder hoped to do by marrying Elizabeth. Young Isabella of Spain also shared that Lancastrian connection, but Joanna took precedence in succession.
And if a Portuguese match could be made for me, there was also an opportunity on the table for Bessy. Duke Manuel of Beja was in need of a bride; it would be a fitting match for a royal bastard and would give her renewed status in the world.
The only problem regarding a Portuguese alliance might be Princess Joanna’s reluctance to marry…anyone. Following her brother’s wishes, she had agreed to do her duty by her country, but so far had rejected all suitors. She might well reject me too, especially if she had heard the unpleasant rumours that had attached themselves to me. A holy woman, inclined to join the church, marrying a supposed child-murderer and tyrant, a wicked uncle seeking the bed of his own niece? It seemed unlikely she would say yes, but I would offer my suit nonetheless, when the time came.
If she accepted, and I was convinced she would be right for England, the marriage would help end the dynastic wars that had plagued the country for so long. I could start again with Joanna, and it would be as if my reign had begun anew. And Anne…oh Anne, I dared not think on it, but neither could I weep and wail forever like a lost child, railing against the inevitable. I was a King; I had a duty to uphold.
God had willed that Anne die, perhaps as another punishment for me? A final punishment? I could only pray to Him that he would finally absolve me of my sins and let me live again.
It was the eleventh day of February, Bessy’s birthday, following St Scholastica’s Day and just preceding that of Julian the Hospitaller. I had the girl summoned to my closet in order to speak to her, as much as I could at such an early date, of my plans for her future.
Over the past weeks, she had seldom been far out of sight, first at Windsor and now at Westminster. Sometimes she brought me reports of Anne, telling me how she fared, how some days she sat up and even smiled, how other days she slept dawn to dusk, half in this world, half in another; at other times, with a charming impertinence, she asked if she could sing to me, as I loved music so. I did not deny her that small pleasure, as we were never alone, and she was not wrong—I loved music—and Elizabeth had a talent for it, but nonetheless, to have her seated near the foot of my chair, her gentle voice singing rather inappropriate lover’s airs, brought me a strange disquiet rather than peace.
I glanced up as Bessy was ushered into my closet by a page. I smiled. “You look well, Elizabeth.”
Her cheeks reddened as she curtseyed before me. “Your Grace, thank you for your kindness. You wish to see me?”
“Blessings on your nativity day. I remember when you were born. I have a good memory.” I bent and kissed her cheek, chastely, but her skin burned beneath my light touch.
“My thanks…Richard.” She spoke my name although my young pages and squires were standing stiffly in the room, pretending they heard or saw naught (but observing and digesting everything as malodorous young boys often do.)
“A gift for you…You must have read through that other worn old tome of mine by now.”
“Tristan? I could read it over and over again, my lord King.”
“Well, I have something more challenging for you, I’ll wager.” I thought it no poor idea for my niece to be well educated, another attribute that might entice the Portuguese prince, Manuel. “Boethius’s De Consolatione Philosophiae. What do you think of that, Bessy?”
“You honour me, your Grace. As ever. I will study it most fervently.”
“Come closer.” I beckoned her nearer. No one must hear what I said next, but I could not dismiss the pages and squires, leaving us alone together; that would certainly give rise to a new flood of unseemly rumours.
“I have given thought to a marriage for you, Elizabeth.”
A sharp little gasp came from her parted lips. “Yes?”
“Yes, and I think you will be pleased, very pleased. I am sure it will match your desire. You will once again be placed into a position of high estate, despite the circumstances of your birth.”
She said nothing, just looked at me, but I could see her hands trembling.
“I can say little more of it now, lest my plans for the marriage do not come to fruition. I would not wish you to suffer undue disappointment if the union is unfeasible. And of course, it is not yet time to make any announcements on the matter; all proprieties must be observed until…until…”
I glanced at my feet, unable to say the words, feeling weak and unkingly in that unguarded moment.
“I understand.” Bessy leaned forward, pressed her hand on mine. She smelt of violets, a thousand miles from the sickbed smell that clung to my poor dying wife when she had flung herself down upon my knees in the Painted Chamber. Her proximity made me uncomfortable and I drew my fingers away in haste, and played with my ring as I always did when aggrieved or worried. It was my momento mori ring, carved with a death’s head; I caught the white flash of the graven skull against the dark facets of the stone.
“You have, I suspect, heard the rumours in court. You are not a fool, Elizabeth. I am sure you have.”
Unspeaking, she nodded. Her face was bright crimson now, robbing her of some of her prettiness.
“They are to go no further. We must now behave with the utmost of propriety and discretion, do you understand?”
She nodded again.
“We have had our amusement at Henry Tydder’s expense, now we must be serious and forthright. Too much rumour will harm our reputations; mine may be stained already but even I need no further infamy heaped upon me. You are young, fair, and pure, and I would that you remain as such, in both the eyes of men and in truth. I want no scandal, hence no impediment to the marriage I am devising. Neither of us dare take the wrong step in the days to come, Bessy.”
“You mean I am to stay in my quarters and not see you…unless I am summoned.”
“Yes, that is exactly what I mean. I may have already been too careless in my dealings with you. I am sure you know how it was with your aunt when she wrongly thought she heard the passing bell toll for her. Such an event m
ust not occur again.”
A tear slipped down Elizabeth’s cheek; she wiped it away on the back of her hand. “I look forward to happier days, your Grace!” she said in a tremulous whisper, and then she left the closet, leaving just the scent of violets in her wake.
The pages and younger squires started to giggle; I silenced them all with a withering look.
The month churned on; March loomed with its gales and sharp showers. Anne lingered as if clinging on to life, to see one more winter turn to spring. She was so light now, I could have lifted her with as much ease as I might lift an infant, and she wandered in her mind and spoke sometimes to our dead son, or to her father, mighty Warwick—or to a young Duke of Gloucester as dead as those she spoke to, albeit the man he became lived and breathed before her.
A kerchief pressed to my nose and mouth against contagion, I visited her for brief seconds before Hobbes or the other doctors drove me away for my own safety. Then I would go and pray that God would soon release her from this bitter ailment and I would weep quietly in the chapel where, undisturbed, none could see my despair.
Now that I had once again immersed myself in work, it gave me some solace as I made laws I hoped would be for the good of all, addressing the Bishops of the land and telling them that I wished to see ‘virtue and cleanness of living to be advanced, and vices provoking the displeasure of God to be repressed.” Gradual rot had crept into the Church; lying, scheming, gluttony and lechery, churchmen with eyes more on the political prize than on their calling.
I, Richard Plantagenet: Book Two: Loyaulte Me Lie Page 33
