I, Richard Plantagenet: Book Two: Loyaulte Me Lie

by J. P. Reedman

  “My mother is a very holy and pious woman”

  “Who still likes her wine. Still, the heavenly Father knows we all have our weaknesses.” She drained the cup to the dregs; put it down on the nearby table. “Sit down, your Grace. Your journey must have been long and tiring.”

  “Call me by my name, mother, I beg you,” I said, and reddened at the pleading tone of my own voice. “We are alone here.”

  “Ah Richard.” As I sat, she suddenly and uncharacteristically laid her hand upon the crown of my head, almost as if in benediction. She had never been a woman to touch or cuddle her children overmuch; that was wet-nurse’s duty, not that of the woman who should have been Queen of England. “Your heart is heavy; I can clearly see that. Many shadows lie upon you; you look as if you have not slept many nights.”

  “Anne…” I murmured. I could say no more.

  She sighed. “I was greatly saddened to hear of the Queen’s death. She was a sweet, kindly girl whom I remember with fondness. We both enjoyed studying the Book of Special Grace by St Mechtild of Hackeborn—do you remember?”

  I nodded, sadly. “Yes, I still have a copy. Back in Middleham.”

  “God will care for her. And for your son, my little grandson Edward…”

  I jolted as she spoke my son’s name, grimaced in pain; I had not realised the wound was still so openly raw.

  “A child is always hard to lose. I have lost many, not just to the perils of infancy but to illness…and murder.”

  I did not know whether here she spoke of George, killed by Edward’s order after, men whispered, Elizabeth Woodville had harangued him to do so, or of Edmund, slain by John Clifford at Wakefield when he was only seventeen.

  “There may be more children,” I said stoutly.

  “You will marry again? Well, of course you will—it is your duty.”

  “Yes, to Joanne of Portugal, if she will accept my suit. Brampton thinks she might agree. A year’s mourning must take place first, but that time will pass quickly enough; there is much to occupy me in the meantime.”

  “Battle. You prepare to fight Henry Tudor, Margaret Beaufort’s son.”

  “I do. This grievance must be settled for once and for all.”

  “It must.” She bowed her head. “You must prove you are the rightful king. Men still doubt…”

  I reacted with anger. My voice rose. “Do they doubt enough to welcome a man who is of bastard, debarred line, who lies about his ancestry to ensnare the gullible Welsh?”

  She sighed again. “Who can say? Men are gullible, and often as fickle as we women are said to be…by men.”

  “Aye.” My shoulders slumped, I quietened my speech. “You do but speak the truth, Madam.”

  “Men you trust may turn against you,” she warned. “My servant Colyngbourne; I had no idea that not only was he a traitor but a spy for the enemy. Watch yourself, Richard; I fear many around you may prove untrue”

  “I will prove myself the rightful King!” I insisted. “This battle that is to come will make me anew. If I have begun my reign tainted, as some would have it, I will wash that stain away.”

  “Washing away blood with blood?” Her brows lifted.

  “So you see me as blood-stained? The tyrant some call me?”

  She shook her head. “Ned won his kingdom with, some say, 30,000 men dead in the snow. He left them to rot upon the field at Towton. Only you gave them fit burial, in a chapel. Whatever you have done…” She gazed into my eyes, steadfast, searching. “Whatever it is, I know that you did it because you felt it was the only way. Because you are your father’s son. Oh, indeed few powerful men would sneer at the chance of a fancy crown, but I know it is untrue that you ever sought it from youth. If you did, you hid it well even from me, your mother, and I am usually not such a poor judge of men.”

  “It is true,” I whispered, “I never thought on it. I served Ned truly for many years, at the peril of my own life. When the…time came, when Stillington spoke of the pre-contract, it was as if God had revealed truth to me; that this moment had been pre-ordained, that I, most like my father of all the family, should take the role he was so cruelly denied. And I admit,” I hung my head, “I feared what would happen if I did not seek the throne. My own safety did not trouble me so much, but there was Anne and little Ned to consider…The Woodvilles were eager to get Edward’s son upon the throne and to marginalise me. You know how they hated George, clamoured for his death; he was a scoundrel, yes, but they pushed Edward’s hand, I am certain of it! If I had not been King but merely Lord Protector, presuming I was ever granted my rightful position, what do you think my fate would have been? I would have had to watch every shadow.”

  “Your fate would have been that of another Lord Protector, Humphrey of Gloucester,” said my mother matter of factly. “There is no doubt about it. It may well have been even worse. And if you had not been confirmed as Lord Protector, you can be assured that the Woodville government would soon have seen your lands carved up and given to their own, your power in the north curtailed if not shattered utterly. And if you had objected, they would have had the young King’s ear…it would have been treason and a quick heading for you.” She smiled grimly. “Only a fool would think that your fate would have been different, my son.”

  “So you do not blame me, hate me, for all that has transpired since last June?”

  “What use is blame? I am old enough to have seen kings fall and rise, to have buried a husband murdered in his prime, and to have lost sons to violent deaths. I have learned on my own dark road through life that sometimes certain things must be, even if the way is unpopular. I cannot say, had I been born a man, and in your position, I would have done any differently.”

  “My mother,” my voice choked in my throat, “I do dearly love you, though such words do not flow easily from my lips.”

  She touched my arm. “And I you, my last living son, my last remnant of your beloved father. Now come, let us go to my chapel. Pray with me, for the ease of your spirit and for your future victory. And remember, in the words of the blessed St Catherine of Siena, whose mystic works I have long studied, ‘It is only through shadows that one comes to know the light.’”

  Taking Duchess Cecily’s arm, I walked down the passageways of Berkhamsted Castle towards the chapel door. “St Catherine also said other words of wisdom, Richard,” she said as her chaplain greeted us. “These ones, my son, could well describe how I feel about you: ‘I treasure your knowing how to give the world a kick.’”

  We parted soon after. My mother’s visage was solemn, betraying no emotion; she had withdrawn into a shell of piety and cool regality, the impersonal and impervious façade I knew so well from childhood. As I swung up on the back of my steed, she made a deep curtsey to the King, rather than to her only living son, and formally bid his Grace Godspeed.

  I gazed upon her face, black framed by the wimple, with its webs of fine lines, each one wrought by care. “May Our Lord and his Blessed Mother look after you in all things, and at all times, no matter what may come,” I said with a strange sadness gnawing my heart, and then I rode from the gates of Berkhamsted and did not look back.

  By Whitsuntide I had reached my castle of Kenilworth. One of the largest castles in England, John of Gaunt had made a royal palace out of an older fortress of war. Approaching in a flurry of banners on the Coventry road, the castle’s red stone towers glowed hot against a cloudless sky, a welcome sight after a long day’s ride.

  Once upon a time, it had not been such a glorious sight for a pair of Woodvilles, I recalled with a twitch of grim humour. After the battle of Edgecote, Warwick had executed Richard Earl Rivers and his son John at Kenilworth. His strike against the Woodvilles’ growing dominance was something I could now understand. Briefly I thought of Anthony, buried hastily at Pontefract, his infamous hair shirt hanging like some saint’s relic at Doncaster. He had been the best of that voracious family, but despite our earlier amity, he had worked against me, no doubt for her sake….his si
ster Elizabeth.

  In a thunder of hooves, the royal entourage crossed the Brays, a series of palisaded earthworks fronted by a stone barbican. Entering the dark passage of the barbican, we cantered over the causeway known as the Tiltyard and passed through a second fortified gate below the new Gallery Tower.

  Scene of many a jousting spectacle, the Tiltyard was more than just a knight’s playground; it served as a dam in the nearby river. On my right, the dam formed the Lower Pool, sluggish and green-capped, lapping the edges of the curtain wall; on my left, stretching as far as the eye could see, was the Great Mere, an artificial lake that provided strong defences should the castle be attacked on the western flank. The Mere’s waters shimmered in the late sun, reflecting the glorious sky, while swans floated upon the surface, white as the broken clouds that darted over the heavens.

  With great pomp, I approached the Great Tower of Kenilworth, its walls a hundred feet high with huge projecting corner turrets and buttresses the hue of a burnished copper coin. The chamberlain came to do obeisance, and then with great pride led me to a grand staircase that lifted seemingly toward heaven, its steps marvellously clean and polished, and lit by hundreds of candelabras.

  Affecting a slow, imperious gait (in truth, my back pained me after long hours in the saddle, and there was no reason to cause more discomfort by rushing) I mounted the stairs and climbed, courtiers milling behind me, servants holding torches before me. Upon reaching the upper level, the chamberlain guided me through a series of interlocked chambers, almost as if following the pattern of some strange ritual maze.

  Apparently, this custom had existed for centuries, making me wonder how Harry Six had managed to get around when he lived at Kenilworth earlier in the century. He probably imagined angels and demons were chasing him from room to room, or perhaps he’d thought that there was only one room, ever changing in layout and colour to confuse his addled mind.

  In fact, this swerving in and out of various chambers and halls and chapels without apparent purpose was beginning to confuddle me. After hours upon the road, my belly was grumbling, I was sore, and dust had crept beneath my garments. “Chamberlain!” I barked. “It’s all fine and lovely and I will explore the place…but at my leisure. By the Virgin, I am famished, and I’m filthy…get me some food and some drink and send a barber and a bathman to my private apartments!”

  “Your Grace!” The man’s face reddened. “At once!”

  The chamberlain stormed away to see that my orders were acted upon, while a steward whisked me to my quarters in the Oriel Tower, overlooking the Great Mere. The sun was setting now, the night mist turning crimson on the horizon, and it suddenly seemed if I gazed out upon a sea of blood. High in the fading dome of the firmament, a solitary cloud stretched out against the blue, forming itself into a shape…a clawed dragon. Red. The emblem my enemy Henry Tydder.

  “You silly, maundering fool,” I told myself. “It’s a cloud.”

  Just a cloud, already dissipating, tearing apart in the breeze, while the lake below, shadow-touched, became the rich purplish colour of deep wine.

  Nonetheless, I beckoned to a fat-cheeked young page to close the shutters and lock them fast against the coming night.

  I spent the next two weeks at Kenilworth trying to behave as if I was a settled king on a safe throne, not a monarch with a dead Queen and dead heir, and a pretender lurking in France, waiting for an opportunity to invade.

  It is what I wanted the world to see.

  On a whim, I took myself to nearby Coventry, with all my lords in tow, so that I could celebrate Corpus Christi and see the plays put on by the town’s guild. I thought their performances not as spectacular as York’s, but it was entertaining enough. However, as I left to return to Kenilworth the haunting strains of the tradition carol ran through my head:

  In that bed there lieth a knight,

  His wounds bleeding day and night;

  Lully, lullay, lully, lullay!

  The falcon has borne my mate away.

  By that bedside there kneeleth a maid,

  And she weeps both night and day;

  Lully, lullay, lully, lullay!

  The falcon has borne my mate away.

  And by that bedside there standeth a stone,

  “The Body of Christ” written thereon.

  Lully, lullay, lully, lullay!

  The falcon has borne my mate away.

  Upon my return to Kenilworth, activities that were more secular became my focus. Though still sorrowful, with the days growing longer and warmer the ice that encased my heart began to thaw. I craved laughter, merriment.

  “Come on, Rob, Dick!” I beckoned to Rob Percy, Richard Ratcliffe, and my other close companions after we had spent long hours lazing about in the privacy of the Oriel, sipping hippocras and munching through several boxes of wafers. “We need some exercise to keep us fit for the upcoming battles! Let us go the Pleasance and play some real tennis like old Harry Five!”

  “Brave warrior Harry!” smirked Rob. “With his arrow scarred face and that…interesting hairstyle. Didn’t dear old Henry Percy used to emulate it?”

  Ratcliffe stifled a laugh. “The French insulted Harry V at Kenilworth and goaded him into the campaign that led to their defeat of Agincourt, did they not?”

  “So men say. They sent him tennis balls.”

  Rob looked at me in a way both rude and quizzical. “Why? Were they saying he had no balls?”

  “In a way!” I roared with laughter, slapping my thigh. “They implied he was fit only for games and not for military action. It was a foolish jibe and the French paid dearly for it.”

  “We’ll make the French pay again, soon,” said Rob. “All the wretches Tudor is bringing on his little exploit; the leavings of the French prisons, I have heard.”

  “Miscreants, murderers and rogues,” agreed Catesby, piping up from the corner, where he was indeed curled up like a cat.

  “Caitiffs and knaves,” enjoined Dick, nodding.

  “Cheese-headed villains!” I added with vehemence, not wishing to be outdone.

  I was, after all, the King.

  On the other side of the Great Mere, nestled against a dark stand of trees, stood a towered hunting lodge called the Pleasance, where princes of yesteryear would reside, seeking sport and entertainment. It could only be reached by boat, so my companions all piled onto a variety of small barges, and as trumpets shouted a fanfare across the lake, we sailed in a flurry of banners to the miniature castle on the far shore.

  Here, in the little castle amidst the trees, banquets were served and music played, while we amused ourselves with tennis, drafts, dancing and cards. Only the memory of the absent Francis, prowling the coastline and gazing seaward for the sight of Tydder’s ships kept me focussed on what was to come. That and the memory that once Harry Six and Marguerite of Anjou had resided at Kenilworth, forming their own strange little kingdom while the storms of war fleeted around them…before they were finally overwhelmed.

  While I was at the Pleasance, living in feigned decadence, news came from Edward Brampton, newly returned from the negotiations in Portugal. At last, good tidings! My suit had been accepted. Princess Joanna had consented to be my bride, providing that I defeated Henry Tydder and was secure upon the throne of England. Elizabeth’s marriage to Duke Manuel had also been approved, and would take place around the same time.

  Brampton’s news had barely been digested, and I was quite muzzy-headed from celebrating my forthcoming Portuguese alliance, when another courier arrived from my daughter Katherine in Wales. She thanked me for an additional grant I recently made to her and the Earl of Huntingdon: an annuity from the issues of my possessions in Carmarthen, Cardigan, and Haverfordwest. This annuity was added to a handsome package set out the year before on her marriage, granting, among other things, another annuity of 40 marks from lands around Newport, Brecknock and Hay, once belonging to Margaret Beaufort, but now held by Stanley after Margaret’s involvement in Buckingham’s rebellion.


  The grant made my daughter and son-in-law Herbert wealthy, and Thomas Stanley a little less so, but Stanley had not protested, over either Margaret’s former lands or the fact that I had decreed Kytte would be paid further monies from his estates when he finally went to Christ’s arms…or wherever a Stanley might go after his demise. His lassitude surprised, but I supposed that Thomas had recognised his wife’s guilt, and perhaps his own, though he had served me well enough since that dreadful council meeting in 1483. Most likely he decided protest would not be politic.

  But it was not Katherine’s gratitude that made my heart fill with gladness. Most Beloved Lord Father, greetings, she had written in her own hand, in an informal postscript to her letter. When at last England is at peace, it would cheer my lord of Huntingdon and your loving daughter Katherine if his Grace should visit our humble home at Raglan. Soon, yet another scion of the White Rose shall bloom there, if God so wills it. May the Lord God and his Blessed Mother protect you and keep you well, high and mighty King, my worshipful father, and smite down your enemies. Till we meet.

  Your dutiful daughter, Katherine Plantagenet

  By her words, I could only assume that Kytte was, or suspected she was with child. I could scare believe it, my little sweeting bearing my first grandson (it would be a boy of course!) A pang of regret stabbed through me as I thought of how Anne would have liked to see the new child, even though Kytte was not her blood daughter. I would impress upon Kytte to call him Edward, after her lost half-brother and after her uncle, the late King. The second male child, when she had one, she could call after me.

  Placing Katherine’s letter on my desk, I turned and gazed out from the window of the Pleasance across the Great Mere.

  There was no wind, not even the trace of a ripple on the waters. Across the mere, my banner hung lank from the topmost tower of Kenilworth.