I could bear it no more. It took courage to wait, and today my courage died. An enemy on the battlefield I could face without fear, but this…this protracted death of my wife I could not bear. My heart quailed, and all the stuff of nightmare came to torment me—the open grave, the corruption of what was once good and fair. What I had once loved so much.
It was as if I was strangling on my own breath; my chest hurt, each exhalation laboured. Pushing my squires aside, I hastened down the long hallway, my feet strangely slow, clumsy, as if there were encased in stone.
On my right hand side was a row of tall, peaked windows, allowing in the chill spring light. Pallid sunbeams stroked the flagstones, but even as I watched the pattern of the light changed. A gloom descended, a rapid decline of brightness that was not the simple shadows of clouds passing across the sun.
The day began rapidly to fade, as if the sun had hidden its face or dropped from the sky. Mesmerised by the strangeness, I halted in my tracks as the light through the arcading turned orange then violet, the hue of the twilight. A strange silence descended over London beyond the windows of Westminster. No dogs barked, no birds sang. The day, never warm to begin with, became suddenly freezing cold. Draughts blew down the corridor, lifting the hem of my robe.
The light was now blue, misty. I grasped the window embrasure, stared out. Above the finials, the turrets, the parapets, I could see the sun—only it was not the same sun that shone that morning. Blackness had overtaken it, and only a mere crescent, a fingernail paring, gleamed redly on one side.
It was an eclipse, a thing of ill omen. Crossing myself, I averted my gaze at once. Men who stared too long at the sun’s failing were often made blind, their eyes burned by some kind of unholy power. Eclipses were portents of doom; one had occurred before the death of Henry I, and the moon had been eclipsed before the fall of Constantinople.
As I stood in the window, bracing myself against the chill and the gloom, the darkness became total, the full shroud of night hanging low over London, swaddling it, strangling it. I am an educated man, but within me burned the primal fear of our oldest ancestors—would the sun ever return or had God, despairing of man’s folly, torn it from the firmament to punish evil sinners like myself?
The sun was blotted out…and I was all too aware of its symbolism. Was the Sunne setting forever on the House of York?
“Christ have mercy on me, on my poor wife…on all of us,” I whispered.
At that moment, in the palace chapel, the passing bell began to toll, ringing out its message of sorrow and doom into the unnatural night.
My Queen was dead.
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CHAPTER TEN: THE LADY BESSY
They bore Anne’s body to Westminster Abbey on a bier surrounded by men in mourning dress carrying burning torches. She lay at rest in her royal robes upon a pall of velvet. Into the gloom of the Abbey she went, and once the funeral masses were done, she was entombed beneath the cold stones in a place of great honour near the door of the shrine of Edward the Confessor, with its great ornate panels that depicted the Confessor’s life, and the mosaics of Italian tiles laid down by Henry Three, who had ordered the shrine’s edge carved with these words: In the thousandth year of the Lord, with the seventieth and twice hundredth with the tenth more or less complete, this work was made which Peter the Roman citizen brought to completion. O man, if you wish to know the cause, the king was Henry, the friend of the present saint.
I did not attend the funeral openly; kings did not do so, even for consorts they had loved. Instead, hidden behind a wooden screen I watched through narrow, nigh-invisible peepholes. Watched as the tall candles burned down, sending spirals of smoke into the air, and the priests spoke their words to commend Anne to God, and Anne Neville vanished from my view, and my life, forever.
In the darkness, I knelt and wept alone, my attendants having been banished from my presence. “Anne,” I murmured, “forgive me in heaven for any wrong I ever did you. And when all is settled in England, and Tydder destroyed, I will build you a great tomb in York Minster and have your bones moved thither, and then our Edward’s too, so that you can be together for eternity.”
And then I wept the harder, hating myself for the unmanly loss of control, with the sudden realisation I might never lie beside Anne and little Ned as I had once thought—for my final tomb would be beside the new wife I must wed, who, if all went smoothly, would be the Portuguese princess Joanna.
Around a week after Anne’s funeral, I called Edward Brampton to me. He was the adventurous Jew, born Duarte Brandao, who had come to England and then converted to Christianity, marrying Lady Margaret Beaumont. He had fought with Edward at Tewkesbury, and later was made Governor of Guernsey. He had supported my accession, and for his good service, I had knighted him in August of last year.
He looked like dashing adventurer he was—a lean man of about forty-five, with a rugged, weathered face and eyes of clear blue that shone from beneath heavy black eyebrows. He bowed to me. “You have a mission for me, your Grace?”
“Yes, I certainly do. There is no man in England better than you to go to the Royal Court of Portugal and present my proposal for a marriage alliance to the Princess Joanna.”
“A most holy woman and an excellent choice.” Brampton nodded. “They say Juana, I mean, Joanna, is very beautiful.”
“They say that about all princesses, though, don’t they?” I murmured. I had been sent a small portrait of Joanna upon request; she had, I noted, the full fleshy cheeks of the House of Lancaster and a mouth that looked rather pursed and gloomy, but she had nice reddish tresses that reminded me a bit of Anne’s. As I was not marrying for love, it truly mattered not one jot what she looked like as long as she was not too repulsive to bed.
“I suppose that is true, your Grace,” Brampton was continuing, as he suppressed a smile. “Fortune and a crown often make a woman very fair! But even so, Princess Joanna is a dutiful and intelligent lady, well worthy of your Highness. When her father the late King Alfonso went to Tangier upon campaign, Joanna took over as regent and was much respected by the people of Portugal. She was but eighteen summers old at the time, around the same age as Your Grace.”
“Mmm.” I nodded. I liked the sound of that; a woman well aware and able to assume the responsibilities of ruling.
“Later, when her brother produced a male heir and she was no longer in direct succession to the throne, she went to a Dominican convent. However, the King did impress upon her his wishes that she not become a nun, and hence she would leave the convent to come to court when called.”
“Will she be willing to marry me, do you think? I have heard she has turned down many suitors.”
“It is true, and sometimes with great disdain, I will not lie to you. Last to try for her hand was Charles of France, a boy eighteen years younger than she. What an insult! She berated his ambassadors as they deserved for their presumption. But since then I have heard…rumours…that her heart may have softened, and she may be inclined towards a match with you if it is sought in correct and honourable terms.”
“Truly?” I was pleased. If a pious woman like Joanna could ignore the tales of my nephew’s deaths, others could forget them too. It proved too that not all believed such horrid tales.
Brampton nodded. “I will do my best to negotiate for you, your Grace.”
“I have had a portrait painted,” I said eagerly.
“I am sure the high and mighty princess will enjoy scrutinising every detail, dread lord,” said Brampton wryly.
I pushed a heap of documents towards Edward Brampton. “Then go, and go swiftly. If she is inclining toward marriage, I do not want anything to impede that. The portrait will be carefully wrapped for safety and brought to you upon your departure. And do not forget, the second alliance, that is important too. Joanna’s cousin, Duke Manuel—I want him for the Lady Elizabeth.”
“So be it, your Grace. I will set sail as soon as possib
le for the sunny shores of my native land.”
“Godspeed to you, Edward Brampton,” I said. “Secure for me a new Queen.”
Catesby and Ratcliffe wanted to see me. I was perplexed…and annoyed. I had retreated into seclusion for a time, to gather my thoughts and my strength, and instead of leaving me be, they sent word that they needed to see me immediately.
It felt as if I were being summoned before them. I, the King of England.
Clad in my mourning gown, I made my way down to an antechamber near St Stephen’s Chapel where I had, grudgingly, agreed to meet them.
As I entered the room, I saw William Catesby and Dick Ratcliffe sitting side by side, huddled together like a pair of crows upon a tower roof.
They startled as I stalked towards them, my displeasure apparent, and then went down on their knees. Angrily, I narrowed my eyes; they hung their heads so low, it seemed as if they were deliberately avoiding my gaze whilst pretending to be humble and subservient.
And then I noticed we were not alone in the chamber. Across the back of the room stood a row of elderly men, grey-bearded, clad in wing-sleeved black gowns and wearing black hoods lined in miniver.
Doctors of Divinity; I recognised the attire from my brief sojourns in Oxford and Cambridge.
Uneasiness seized me. “What is this about, Catesby, Ratcliffe?” I glared at them, my eyes raking over first one advisor, then the other. “Why are these learned gentlemen here today?”
“Your Grace.” Catesby spoke, swallowing so hard his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. I had never seen the wily lawyer so uncomfortable. “It is about Elizabeth of York.”
Elizabeth! My frown deepened. I had hardly given Bessy a thought since Anne had died; what now?
“Speak!” I ordered, taking a seat.
“Your Grace, Richard Ratcliffe and I have taken the liberty…”
“I’ll say you have,” I shot back, my voice like the crap of a whip. My fingers were white on the armrest of my chair. “But go on, Catesby.”
“We have spoken with the most esteemed Doctors of Divinity in all this land and there is no dissent amongst them. You must not marry your brother’s daughter, Elizabeth of York. The union would be deemed incestuous, and even were the Holy Father in Rome to be persuaded to grant a dispensation, the common folk of England would never accept the marriage.”
“Such a marriage would be dangerous for other reasons too.” Richard Ratcliffe spoke now, rushing his words, his northern accent growing strong, probably through fear of my reaction. “The folk of the north loved Queen Anne and were strong supporters of her family. If they were to believe any of the evil rumours were true—that you caused the Queen to die before her time in order to have Elizabeth—much of your support in the north would be lost!”
Lips drawn into tight, bloodless lines, I stared at both men. The Doctors of Divinity, scholars rather than fighters, were cowering in their voluminous robes, though making muttering noises and nodding sagely to support my two advisors.
I staggered to my feet, shaking, not with fear but rage, hot white rage. “You bloody bastards! Did you truly think that I was going to marry Lady Elizabeth? You know I allowed the rumour to spread to harass Henry Tydder.”
“Yes, dread lord,” Catesby fumbled, “but it seemed to us, and to many others at court, that you may have considered such a move after all. We too have eyes and ears…”
I leapt on the lawyer and grabbed him by the front of his robes. Dragging him halfway across the room, I shook him as a terrier shakes a rat. “I’m sure you do, you more than any of my household! You have always been a bit of a sneak, haven’t you, Catesby? Always watching, always interpreting. A sneak can be useful, sometimes, as with the traitor Hastings, but I won’t have you using those ‘skills’ of yours to undermine me!”
“Your Grace, you misunderstand me!” he wailed, evidently thinking I might visit Hastings’ fate upon him.
“I understand you perfectly. Now understand me. There was never any plan to marry Elizabeth of York. Never. What kind of a madman do you think I am? I made her a bastard. In order to wed her, not only would have to beg the pope for the necessary dispensation, I would need to reverse her bastardy. What would that say? What would it say, Catesby? That I invented the whole pre-contract, that it was a lie. Marrying her would also make the world believe… that her brothers are indeed both dead.”
There was a gasp and much wincing from the Doctors of Divinity. I ignored them, flung Catesby away from me. His bottom slammed into the chair I had just vacated and it screeched backwards over the tiles, almost throwing him to the floor.
I looked at Ratcliffe now; I had known him from my tenure as Duke in the north, trusted him. “And you, Dick…We have known each other many years; I cannot believe you have heeded this slander. I know why, though, I am no idiot. You—both you and Catesby—you are afraid. Afraid that if I should marry Elizabeth of York, she would wreak a terrible vengeance on you because you did duly council me to execute her uncle, Anthony Woodville, and her half brother Richard Grey.”
Both men flushed to the roots of their hair, making shaky denials and protestations.
I made a slashing motion with my hand, silencing them. “Speak again at your peril. Dismiss these Doctors to their Universities and let no more be said on this grim matter. It pains me that you would bring such lunacy to me while I am in mourning. And do not pretend you did not know that I sent Edward Brampton to Portugal on a mission to secure royal marriages. Christ, every recent meeting of late has been about royal brides!”
Dick Ratcliffe raised his head. “We knew about Brampton…but though it might be a feint, to cover the truth about Elizabeth. We had to be sure, your Grace.”
“Well, you know now.”
He hung his head. “But the people do not, Highness. I will tell you, for our long friendship from years past—it is not the marriage talk that I fear most. That can be swiftly quelled if you marry Lady Elizabeth to a nobleman and prepare to wed yourself, when your mourning period is over. It is the other talk…of the Queen’s death. The talk of poison, of murder. The streets are full of it, and I fear…If it goes north, and it will, those who supported you there may turn against you because of their love for the daughter of Warwick.”
It felt like a great weight had descended on my head, crushing me into the ground. The weight of despair. I knew of those awful rumours already, but I had not realised they were so deeply believed nor spread so far…
Anger shrivelling in my breast, I held out my hands, helpless now, desperate for a solution. “What would you have me do? What can be done to counteract these lies, this deadly gossip?”
“I can see only one way, Lord,” said Ratcliffe. “Make a public declaration that you do not intend and have never intended to marry Elizabeth of York. Stand before the mayoralty of London and before your own officials, and speak the truth to them.”
Horrified, I stared at him. “I am the King. Such humiliation!”
He could not look at me. “The choice is yours of course, dread lord. But think upon it, I beg you. I have served you long, and I can see no other way to turn this evil back. You must publicly deny that you did not poison Queen Anne and have no intention of marrying Elizabeth of York.”
I came to Clerkenwell, to the Hospital of St John of Jerusalem. The streets were full of the curious, the hostile. As I passed below the mellow golden arch of the priory, I felt apprehensive, as if I, the King, was a criminal about to go on trial.
The gates slammed; my squires ran out, held my steed’s reins as I dismounted, jumping down onto freshly swept cobbles in a wide courtyard. It began to rain, a fine spray blowing cold into my sullen face. I wore an ebony-black mourning gown and a great purple stone around my neck, dark as my mood. I knew the deep colouring made me appear white as marble, ghastly as death. I cared nothing for that—I was the King of Death.
A brother wearing the distinctive cross of the Order of St John upon his robe came to me and guided me out of the rai
n and into the cloister, dim and vaulted, with paintings on the wall and a line of torches trailing rank smoke. My feet were heavy upon the cold flagstones. I could barely move them; I shuffled like an old man, filled with reluctance, hating every moment of this agony.
With frowning countenance, I entered the Great Hall of the Hospital, where a huge crowd had gathered—the Mayor and Aldermen of London, the Lords Temporal and Spiritual, the notable merchants of the city, a pack of councillors and advisors.
Briefly I halted, gaze sweeping over the assembled throng; taking in faces I imagined to be smug and self-satisfied amongst those that were indifferent and those that held a touch of sorrow or of pity. Never in the history of England had such an outrageous indignity been forced on any monarch.
I burned with shame, rage, and the ceaseless hot grief for my wife, but I fought my feelings as I would fight an enemy, and walked with slow deliberate stride to take my place upon the dais.
I glanced down once at my hands, knotted, the death’s head ring winking. Then I raised my head, fixed the front row of onlookers with an icy stare, and spoke in a firm, loud voice, “People of London, your King has come before you, despite this being the hour of my greatest grief. Evilly disposed persons have spread rumours, to my great displeasure, that the Queen, by my consent and will, was poisoned…” I paused, sweeping the room with another hard stare, “to the intent that I might take to wife the Lady Elizabeth, daughter of the late King Edward, God assoil him. So I say unto you, this one time only, it never came into my thought or mind to marry in such a manner as has been spoken of, nor was I glad of the death of the Queen, but am as sorry and heavy in heart as a man might be at the death of his wife!”
The truth upon my tongue, the wave of grief that had boiled in me for days burst forth, flooding as through a shattered dam, and humiliating tears came, hot in my burning eyes.
I, Richard Plantagenet: Book Two: Loyaulte Me Lie Page 35
