Gift giving to those who deserved rewards for their loyalty was also not forgotten: Brackenbury, constable of the Tower, received a grand income, while Dick Ratcliffe got lands with a massive rent-roll. My secretary Kendall, growing a little infirm now, but still hearty, got plate and a new title—King’s Councillor.
More than just great men benefited by my largesse. I was deeply aware of the less fortunate who had aided my family in past years. Old Joan Peymarsh, my mother’s servant who had nursed me as a child, was presented with an annuity to keep her in old age; similar was presented to Anne Caux, an aged nurse of Ned who found herself in straightened circumstances in her widowhood.
My own family was not forgotten. My sole living son, John of Gloucester, was still at Sheriff Hutton in the company of Edward of Warwick and John de la Pole. He was getting older and needed a position befitting his lineage. Although he was still a minor and would have to be under supervision, I decided to appoint him the Captain of Calais, an important role for one so young, but one I thought, with guidance, he would grow into.
In my own hand, I proudly penned the words of the patent appointing him to the captaincy:
Know that we, by our special grace, ordain and appoint our dear bastard son, John of Gloucester, whose disposition, natural vigour, agility of body and inclination to all good customs, promises us certain hope of future service. We reserved wholly to ourselves the appointing of all officers during the minority of John, before he reaches 21 years…
I went on to write promissory notes to ensure that my son had adequate provisions upon the road to Calais, which he would take with men I trusted, such as Brackenbury: Paid for leavened bread for the Lord Bastard as he rides to Calais—12d.
I smiled, remembering my children when they were small, and then the smile faded as I remembered little Ned as I had seen him last, laid out in the chapel, the white candles burning around him. The one upon whom all hopes lay…gone.
Still, maybe with a new marriage, the empty nursery would be filled and my legitimate line go on.
Messengers arrived at Westminster, bearing the badge of the White Lion, Jockey Howard’s device. A short brief note was presented to me informing me that John was on the way from Norfolk on an urgent mission that required a face-to-face meeting. A private meeting with none other to attend, not Rob, not Francis, no one.
Perplexed more than worried, I waited in my chambers for the arrival of my old friend and loyal supporter. I could not imagine what new he sought to impart with such secrecy. I was sure John had not heard or seen anything that my spies had not…
Outside a trumpet rang out, brazen, announcing an arrival. From my high window, I saw Jockey Howard jump from his horse and rush up the outer stairs like a man half his age, pushing pages and servants out of the way in his haste. A pot fell from some maid’s hand and smashed onto the flagstones below. Servants scuttled to pick the pieces up before some great lord trod on them. I frowned. Rudeness was not like John.
Another trumpet blared an abrupt flat note that sounded rather like a farting bullock, as if the trumpeter was startled and unprepared to play, and suddenly the door of my apartments flew open with a crash, nearly sending the trumpeter sailing down the hallway behind.
In strode John, big and burly like a farmer, his face reddened from his run, and his long moustache dripping rainwater. He did not care that his thigh-high riding boots sent clods of mud across the newly scrubbed tiles and dirtied the imported rug by my fire brazier.
“Jockey,” I said. “Ah, I would say it is nice to see you, but why do I sense you are going to say something not very nice? What is it?”
Attentive now, I moved towards him, curiosity turning to gnawing anxiety. John was a great seaman, who had assisted me in Scotland and Scarborough; maybe he had news of Tydder’s fleet, maybe they were on the move despite the inclement weather. But no, that would not be a matter of secrecy, that would be a matter of state. A million dire thoughts suddenly flooded my mind, each one madder and more implausible than the last…
John stood puffing, hands on hips, in his broad, padded doublet and fine hose and cloak. “You’re right,” he said, ever plain speaking, “What I have to say won’t lend itself to fair speech, but I won’t speak another word, your Grace, till we are alone.”
I nodded toward all my attendants, dismissing them curtly. When they were out of sight and the last footfall dying away in the hall, I approached John. “Out with it, Jockey. By Christ, you are staring at me with the fierceness of some church gargoyle. What have I done to offend?”
John flung himself into as chair; he was so heated the very rain on his face and hair seemed to steam. “The girl,” he muttered. “The damned girl. What on earth are you thinking of, Dickon? I know you are King…but that girl! No, it is folly…folly, I say, and I care not if I am punished for speaking my mind.”
“Girl? What girl?” I was mystified now, holding my hands out in perplexity.
“The one you plan to wed, of course, Dickon!”
“The one I plan…You mean Joanna? Joanna of Portugal? What’s wrong with her?”
“Jo…Who?” blustered Jockey Howard. “I know nothing of any Joanna. I mean Elizabeth. Bessy! Your bloody niece!” He jumped up as quickly as he had flung himself down and stormed up to me, altogether improper in manner but filled with such passion I thought he might have an apoplectic fit. “No one will countenance this, you know. It is unnatural, mad…”
“Christ’s Blood, John!” I shouted back at him, my own ire blazing. “Let me get a word in, will you? I am not going to marry Bessy! I’ve never had any wish to marry her. I let a rumour go forth to confound Tudor, that’s all…and I wish I fucking well never had done so.”
It was my turn to fling myself into a chair, holding my head in my hands. “Christ, I cannot believe you doubt my word and think I have such evil intentions.”
“I wish I did not.” He looked almost as if he would burst into tears. “But I have proof!”
“Proof! I slammed my hand on the arm of the chair; pain shot into my shoulder. “There is no bloody proof, because there is naught between me and Elizabeth! What do you mean by ‘proof’?”
John took a deep breath, then another, trying to control his emotions. “I want to believe you, Dickon, but I find it difficult to do so…Not with the letter I had sent to me.”
“A letter? A letter from whom? I care not about some letter full of tittle-tattle sent by some evil traitor!”
“It was not an evil traitor, Richard.” Howard came closer, standing until I could feel his hot breath upon my face. “No traitor. It was a letter from Lady Elizabeth herself.”
Incredulous, I stared. “From Bessy? She sent a letter to you? Why by Gentle Jesu did she do such a thing? What did she say? By Christ, spit it out, I want to know!”
He took another huge, heaving breath; his thumbs knotted in his jewelled belt. “She asked me to have urgent words with you….about the ‘matter of the marriage.’ And the way she spoke of you, ‘my only joy and maker in this world’”
In shock I stared at him, unable to speak, such was my surprise. “Oh, there is more, Richard,” Jockey went on, “She said she was ‘in your heart, and in thoughts…and in body…’”
He gave me a piercing look, and his hands clenched into fists again. “Look, I know you are a man as well as a King; you have a sick wife and you must have your fleshly needs but….her. ..Ned’s girl…”
“I have not swived the chit!” I shouted, and in a fit of frustrated rage smashed my goblet on the floor. Fragments spun over the flagstones; coloured glass, paste gems. “I know not what madness had befallen her to write such nonsense! Is she bewitched?”
John placed his hand on my shoulder; it was presumptuous to touch a king, too familiar, but yet I found it was oddly steadying. And I guessed he held me so in preparation of worse to come…“I am not finished yet, I am grieved to say. At the end of her letter, the Lady Elizabeth added a note that struck me to my heart, so wicked and
devious was its tone.”
“What did she say?” I asked dully.
He spat out the words as if they were poison: “Although the better half of February is past, I fear the Queen will never die.”
I was aghast, lost in a morass of bewilderment, fury and even fear. Was Bessy, who had been so winsome, trying to destroy me? “The poisonous bitch!” I hissed. “Is this something she has devised with her mother, that ill-starred Woodville witch?”
Although he had spoken harshly of Bessy at first, John now rose to her defence, much to my surprise. “Ah, Richard, you were never one who had overmuch interest in women save the one. I do not think you can see what others can. There is no Woodville plot, I am sure of that. The truth of the matter is that the Lady Elizabeth is in love with you!”
With a start, I remembered Bessy’s brief but far too intimate kiss, her asking permission to stay at court, her joy at receiving a gift, the little songs she sang to me in an attempt to lift my mood… No, John could not be right; she had targeted me for a silly flirtation perhaps, but surely with no serious intent…
“This is madness, and her mention of Anne nigh on a treasonable offence,” I groaned. “She cannot truly believe I would marry her! And to love me! I have given her no cause to feel such passion!”
“You gave her two books, did you not?”
“As gifts, yes. Old ones of mine from years ago. How do you know about them?”
“Tongues wag,” he said sadly. “It is said Elizabeth has signed her motto, Forever Changeless, beneath your name, and decorated the page with your motto, Loyaulte Me Lie. I heard the foolish girl has even drawn little boars…” He rolled his eyes in disgust, then remembered his place, and stared down, contrite.
I gazed into the fire, watching the flames dance, feeling surreal. “Everything has gone terribly wrong. I spoke of Elizabeth of marriage not long ago. To Duke Manuel of Beja, a fine youth of sixteen. Not to me. I mentioned no names, in the event that the negotiations came to naught and she was left disappointed—as when her marriage was broken off with the Dauphin of France. She must have thought I meant to marry her myself. Oh Christ, what have I done?”
I leaned over, put my hands over my face once again. I seldom showed weakness even before my confidantes, but suddenly I felt old, stretched, beaten. My wife was dying, my niece deluded through my own folly, and more untrue rumours about me were rampaging through the land.
“What have you done with her letter, John? Do you have it? If any man should see it, I am lost. Christ, the references to Anne dying would be sweet balm to those who spread the lie that I would poison her.”
“Do not be angered, but I did not bring it for the very reason you speak of. If I had been waylaid upon the road or my baggage was stolen, the letter might have fallen into the hands of an enemy, and thence be spread amongst your foes, to great harm. Fear not, it is safe in Norfolk and will be shown to no one. I am, by your good grace, the Earl Marshall; I am loyal to the Crown and to my good and noble lord, Richard III.”
“How could Bessy have misconstrued my actions so completely, John?” I shook my head. “She is not a simpleton.”
Jockey shrugged. “When will man ever be able to truly fathom the minds of the Daughters of Eve, Richard? I’ve seen what it is like with my own girls. You can pick out a fine husband, older, wealthier, wiser and not ill-visaged as men account it, but they will scream and weep and argue, whilst claiming they are ‘in love’ with some whey-faced milksop of a minstrel who has never lifted a sword in his life.”
“Fortunately my daughter Katherine was biddable in that regard,” I grumbled, though, knowing Kytte’s temperament, I dared not think how it might have been had she not been willing to marry Huntingdon. “But be that as it may, I still cannot see how and why Bessy attached herself to me! Her own uncle!”
John heaved a deep breath. “Her uncle, aye, but also her King. Brother of the father she loved. No doubt Lady Elizabeth, being once a princess, would still like to have a crown upon that pretty head of hers, and who better than you? As your wife, she could stay at home in England instead of being sent abroad where ways are foreign.”
“And you truly don’t think it was some plot of Elizabeth Woodville? A way to discredit me further?”
“Not a plot, no. Though she seems to have cooled on Henry Tudor since she came out of sanctuary. Maybe doesn’t fancy his chances against you in battle. She may well have given Bessy a gentle nudge in your direction. Just testing the waters.”
“And yet I took her sons and men whispered that I killed them.”
“She’s an unnatural cold woman, that is true, but maybe she should be admired if she did want an alliance with you, Richard.”
“Admired!” I barked.
“Aye, for acting with the ruthlessness of a man.”
“This is madness.” I began to pace. “All I did was dance with the maid at the Christmas feast and give Bessy an old book or two, and the world has gone mad!”
“Ah Christmas…” Jockey stared at the buckles on his expensive boots. “That started it, Richard. Lady Elizabeth wearing similar clothes to the Queen. Men though that signified you wanted to replace Anne with her.”
“It was a kindness on Anne’s part to give the girl spare cloth to make a dress.” I rubbed my forehead, feeling an aching tension stretch across my brows. “Nothing more. Ah, but who do I fool? The blame for the misunderstanding must lie firmly upon my shoulders. I should have cut off rumours at the source, and not tried to goad my enemy with such trivialities.”
“What will you do, your Grace?”
“What can I do? I will talk to Bessy and tell her the truth; that she will be married, but not to me. To Manuel of Beja.”
I had planned to have Bessy brought before me that evening to put an end to her girlish and highly dangerous illusions for once and for all. But fate played a hand…I fell ill. Despite my small, weak-looking frame, my constitution was remarkable strong; I seldom suffered the maladies others did. But after John Howard had left me, the niggling pain across my brow bloomed into agonizing throbbing. My vision blurred, as if someone held my head under water, and sprays of lights twinkled in the corners of my eyes. I ran for the privy, squealing pages and concerned squires buzzing about me like flies, and I was repeatedly sick, till my very stomach was knotted and aching.
William Hobbes arrived, concerned and fussing. At first we both feared poisoning by an enemy or even the effects of plain spoiled food, but all my tasters were perfectly healthy. Hobbes then grilled me about my general health—did I sweat more than normal at night? Did I cough? Had I… (Here his face coloured, despite his grave demeanour) heeded his advice and shunned the Queen’s bed?
“I don’t have the consumption!” I snarled. “And yes, I have heeded your bloody advice. I have not had relations with my wife…or anyone else for that matter!” I glared at him, in case he too thought I had seduced my own niece and had designs to marry her.
“Your Grace is very irritable; beyond the shadow of a doubt, bad humours that need to be purged have arisen in you. And mayhap his Grace might consider finding…ease…with …certain ladies that might be procured by trusted servants. It is, in my learned opinion, not healthy for a man to deny his natural bodily urges overlong.”
“Fuck off, Hobbes!” I shouted, feeling that my poor tortured head would explode. “I did not call you here to discuss my bedchamber activity…or lack of it! Just give me something for my gut and my bloody head!”
Hobbes blinked in shock at my profanity, and nodded meekly. With deft hands, he laid a poultice of boiled betony, barley and vervain upon my brow, and gradually the hammering above my right eye began to ease. He then brought from his bag a jar filled with a draught of anise, and cumin stewed in white wine. “This should settle your belly, your Grace.”
I took the earthenware jar, draining it to the dregs in one go. I made a face. “The wine tastes well enough…but the rest! Bah!”
However, despite the rancid taste, the c
ramps and spikes in my belly began to ease shortly after the potion was downed. Hobbes must have added some calming powders too, perhaps camomile or flowers of the hop vine.
I slept, my esquires keeping guard, and, for once, mercifully, I did not dream.
In the morn, the pain was gone. And a new pain began.
Anne was now upon the point of death.
In the night, her condition had worsened. She had fallen into near senselessness, and the nurses had left her quarters to be replaced by a horde of priests. Only they could assist my beloved consort now.
The reports came to me, brought by her lady-in-waiting Elizabeth Parr. Anne had been administered Penance, the anointing of Extreme Unction, and the Viaticum.
It was not appropriate for me to be with her, in her final hours; they were to be between her and God. I had already been too inappropriate in all my actions, and dared not add one more irregularity to my name, especially with cruel rumourmongers whispering of incest and poison. They would doubtless say I went in at the last and, bored with the long wait for her demise, finished her with a dagger, or poured nightshade elixir down her slender throat…
I wore deep blue, royal mourning, though Anne still yet lived. I knew my face looked waxen, my eyes strangely dilated from whatever Hobbes had given me to drink for my own ills. I could see my servants gazing at me uneasily, as if they expected some fit of madness worthy of Harry Six,
Pacing my apartments, I waited for news, my gaze locked on the floor tiles, picking out every chink, every crack, and counting them, memorising them. It was as if by memorising the flaws, these real but trivial things, I could bring some normality to the day, ground the turmoil within my churning mind. I could feel sweat building up beneath my arms, soaking the clean white linen next my skin. I felt unclean, in so many ways…
Morning passed to midday. I drank wine and my hands shook like an old man’s. I could hear voices in the corridors, swiftly passing feet. Yet still no news came from the Queen’s apartments. No news.
I, Richard Plantagenet: Book Two: Loyaulte Me Lie Page 34
