The Rose of York: Crown of Destiny

by Worth, Sandra

  No sooner had he risen than a door clanged and footsteps sounded on the stone. His cousin Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, strode up jauntily. “We must have had the same idea, Dickon—to get away from Woodvilles for a spell!” With a twinkle in his eyes, Harry chuckled, “’Tis the only place not infested with them, eh? Not enough gold around, I suppose…” He surveyed the nave festooned with pine branches and greenery. Richard almost smiled in spite of himself.

  “Yet even this dull church has its uses. Behold the holy Woodville altar!” Harry jerked his head in its direction. “Another heir, another sacrifice. Nevertheless, the child is blessed, isn’t she? She’s too young to understand the ill turn her life has taken. Ah, well, so it goes…” He sauntered off, his gem-encrusted hat and claret doublet flashing like a beacon in the subdued light of the nave.

  Richard watched with soft eyes. He liked his cousin. Their mothers were sisters, but the dukes of Buckingham had been Lancastrians and had fought for Marguerite d’Anjou. After Ludlow, when Richard and his mother became prisoners of Harry’s father, he and his little cousin had played many a ball game together. Richard had always been struck by the resemblance between his cousin Harry and his brother George. Both were the same age; both had the same golden curls, the same easy charm and love of fine clothes, and the same loathing of Woodvilles. The young Duke of Buckingham, one of the richest and most noble heirs in the land, had been snatched up by the low-born Queen at the age of eleven and married off to her sister, Catherine, against his will. Harry had never forgiven Bess Woodville for that. Richard understood his enmity.

  The wedding service was finally over and the four-year-old prince, Richard of York, Richard’s own namesake, was wed to the greatest heiress in the land, six-year-old Anne Mowbray, daughter of the dead Duke of Norfolk. Richard’s sole pleasure in the ceremony was an act of charity he performed at his own request. Dipping into a basin of gold coins, he scattered them among the crowds gathered at the chapel doors. Then he dutifully escorted the child-bride into the Painted Chamber for her wedding banquet.

  Fragrant ambergris scented the air and the floor was strewn with dried rose petals and violets as Richard led Anne Mowbray to the head table and lifted her into her chair beside her husband. A handsome child, little Richard had been scrubbed until he gleamed and he looked very fine in his white silk hose, gold shoes, and white cloth of gold doublet sewn with pearls and diamonds. His nephew was only a year older than his own Ned and he bore Richard’s name, yet Richard felt no affinity with the child. His milk-white complexion and pale hair stamped him too clearly as a Woodville. With a stiff bow, he withdrew to take his own place at the end of the table, beside Anne.

  She gave him a faint smile and pressed his hand as he sat down. He could use comfort. The hall glittered with candles and torches, and in their light the rich coloured wall murals glimmered much as they had years ago when the Irish Earl of Desmond had made his fatal visit to England. At that banquet, the charming earl had attracted the enmity of the Queen, and soon afterwards, he and his two little boys, mere babes at six and eight years old, were sent to the block. Well did Richard remember that night. The same unease gripped him now.

  He watched the festivities with glazed eyes, his thoughts on George a short distance upriver, alone in the Tower. He upended his cup, drained the fine Gascon wine in a single draught, and held the cup out to a servant for refill. He stabbed a slice of roasted boar with his dagger, brought it to his mouth, then set it back on the golden trencher. He couldn’t eat; his stomach was clenched tight. He glanced around the room wretchedly.

  It was a merry group that feasted and revelled in the flowing wine as servants brought hundreds of silver platters of venison, peacock, and swan to their banquet tables. The din of their conversation and raucous laughter resounded through the hall. He noted with bitterness that Bess Woodville herself was in high form that night. Her smile was expansive; her jewels larger and more plentiful than ever before. Louis’s fifty-thousand crowns were clearly in evidence. Ever since the Treaty of Picquigny, Edward’s court had grown lavish. Behind Bess Woodville and all around the hall, chests of silver-and gold-plate glittered coldly in the torchlight. Richard remembered a comment he’d overheard Bess make to Edward years earlier: “A country’s wealth is in its plate, is it not?”

  “Aye,” Edward had replied, eyeing her with affectionate amusement.

  “And the more plate, the more respect. So we must always display our plate in plenty.”

  She must have displayed the entire treasury, Richard thought dryly.

  Bugles announced the dessert course. There was blancmanger, jellies, plum pudding, and a grand marchpane subtlety. Carried in by four knights, it was in the form of a massive throne with the back and the armrests embossed with fleur-de-lis. Eight-year-old Princess Elizabeth was lifted up into it and seemed a tiny feather in the chair as she was carried about the hall to cheers and applause. Afterwards a knight carved the French throne into edible portions with his sword and servers bore them to the guests.

  Richard’s mouth curled with distaste. He doubted the marriage would ever happen, though Edward still believed Louis to be a man of his word.

  A troubadour arrived to sing of a knight who courts a shepherd girl. The jewelled guests dissolved into laughter at the ridiculous twists of the tale, but Richard was lost in his own thoughts. Next came a dancing bear. He watched her antics and turned to gaze at Edward, who was roaring with laughter. It wouldn’t be so easy for Edward to leap across the table to dance with the bear now as he did at Middleham years ago, Richard thought. Edward had grown fat. His richly embroidered flowing robe of blue satin with its ample fur-lined sleeves hid his bulk well, but nothing could hide his bloated face. Along his nose ran a fine web of tiny red and purple veins, and beneath his puffy eyelids his eyes were like arrow-slits. Layers of sagging fat buried the once elegant cheekbones and strong jaw that had given definition to his good looks. As for his complexion, he had traded the bronze that comes with too much sun for the florid hue that comes with too much wine. Richard’s gaze passed from his brother to the woman sitting next to him. The woman responsible.

  Bess Woodville no longer smiled. Cold and haughty, she sat with her back rigid, her passionless green eyes watching everything, missing nothing. Her famous beauty, which Richard had never appreciated, had dulled with age and prolific childbearing. Since 1466 she had given birth every two years, providing Edward with five daughters and two sons. The Woodvilles were breeders, that much had to be said for them.

  His eyes moved to her brother, Anthony Woodville, sitting beside the Queen. He was pontificating on a new book that was the talk of the court. The Dictes and Sayings of the Philosphers was newly published by William Caxton’s printing press, which Caxton had set up at the sign of the Red Pale, an edifice in a court of almshouses next to Westminster Abbey. Anthony Woodville had translated the book into English and Caxton had dedicated it to him. “’Tis a French manuscript which came into my hands on my pilgrimage to St. James of Compostella,” he was saying to the old Duchess of Norfolk, a smug expression on his face.

  Richard pressed his lips tightly together. When Caxton came to England, he’d sought George’s patronage, but thanks to the Woodvilles, George was in the Tower. Now the book, which should have been dedicated to him, was dedicated to a Woodville. Richard picked up his dagger. What had Warwick called them? An infestation of beetles rotting the ship of state, or some-such. He had been right. Voraciously they ate and multiplied, these omnivorous, all-devouring greedy beetles, destroying everything in their path. They respected no one and nothing—not even the laws of the land. The Queen, driven by her insatiable greed, had forced the dowager Duchess of Norfolk to surrender her property to her little daughter, Anne Mowbray. Then, subverting all laws of inheritance, she had seen to it that her son was given absolute title to the Norfolk estates, even in the event of his little wife’s death. Not content with that, she had persuaded Edward to take back the dukedom of Bedford fr
om George Neville, John’s son.

  Richard’s hand clenched around his dagger. He had been with Edward here in this very room when Edward had informed him of his intention. “John loved you!” Richard had reminded him, stunned. “Were it not for him letting us pass at Pontefract, you would never have regained the throne!”

  “Were it not for his treason, I would never have lost it!” Edward had shot back. More calmly, he’d added, “Besides, Bess wants the title for little Dickon.”

  Aye, Edward has changed, Richard thought; no longer was he the generous, undaunted, sunny-hearted prince determined to see justice done. She had changed him with her witchcraft and greed for gold. “Money, money, money,” Edward had once laughed to Bess. “You do love money, don’t you, my sweet?”

  “No more than you, my Lord,” Bess had replied. And Edward had laughed again, and given her a lusty kiss, not seeing the difference between them. They both loved money, aye, but Edward wouldn’t kill for it.

  Nevertheless, Edward, driven either by guilt over his infidelity or by love for Bess—Richard couldn’t decide which—was unable to resist her evil acts. She had plunged the realm into civil war and made England bleed torrents of blood. She had cut Edward off from one brother and now threatened the life of the other. She had destroyed everyone whom she deemed a foe, even innocent babes. And Edward hadn’t resisted her evil acts. Those evil acts had brought him down to what he had become. They had tainted what greatness he had achieved. They would destroy him yet. Richard stabbed at the table with his dagger. How he hated Woodvilles! The blade caught in the wood and quivered.

  Bess Woodville turned her haughty head. For a long moment their gaze locked and held. He met her eyes without flinching until she finally looked away. He felt a momentary satisfaction. Only George had ever dared to challenge her that way.

  “Dickon, you’re not eating.” It was Edward. “You’re not laughing. Surely there’s something that pleases you?”

  “No, Edward. Not while our brother languishes in the Tower.”

  Edward’s expression stilled. “He has brought it on himself,” he muttered.

  Richard reached across the table and grabbed his sleeve. “Let him go, Edward!”

  The musicians broke into a bright melody with their pipes and tabors and drums. Edward snatched his arm away. “I’ve told you before, I could not even if I would.” He pushed back his chair and offered his hand to Bess. She took it and rose. Richard watched as Edward danced with his Queen, and thought it fitting that neither of them smiled.

  ~*^*~

  Chapter 8

  “O purblind race of miserable men…”

  On the day after Prince Richard’s wedding, as Abbey bells rang for Tierce, Parliament convened in the Painted Chamber. Edward seated himself on his canopied throne while Richard and his royal cousin Harry, Duke of Buckingham, disposed themselves on a lower step of the dais.

  “My lords,” Edward began, glancing around the room that only the night before had been full of merriment, “I have assembled you here today to try my royal brother, George Plantagenet, Duke of Clarence, on an attainder of high treason.”

  Silence.

  “Very well, then,” said Edward, pushing out of his gilt and velvet throne with a rustle of his black robes. “I shall begin by listing the charges against the Duke of Clarence.” And list them he did. The repeated treacheries. His own repeated pardons.

  When he was done, George answered him. “I am rightful King of England! For you are not our father’s son! You are the bastard son of an archer and have no claim to the English throne!”

  Gasps of horror were drowned out by Edward’s roaring voice. “You foul liar. You mad idiot. How dare you sully our mother’s honour for your own ends.”

  “This is but one of the charges I levy against you!” cried George, red-faced, eyes bulging. “There are many others…” He listed his right to the throne by blood and by the act of King Henry’s parliament. He revisited the long list of perceived wrongs done him by Edward, culminating in the murder of his wife, Bella, and the murder of his newborn babe.

  Edward cursed. George cursed back. For an hour the arguments flew.

  “Enough!” Edward finally slammed a clenched fist on the gilded armrest of his throne. “I have heard enough. Your verdict, my lords!”

  Fear was palpable, and for a moment no one spoke. Then someone murmured, “Guilty,” and the dull murmur of Guilty ran through the chamber. In the silence that followed, the gentle patter of the falling rain rose to a deafening pitch. Edward averted his face and sagged against his throne, gripping a pommel tightly. He raised a feeble hand in dismissal. The guards approached George.

  “Let us settle this once and for all, Edward,” George called out suddenly. Edward jerked his head up at the first civil words George had uttered all morning.

  “If you will make due submission, George,” he said, descending from the dais, “even now… all will be forgiven.”

  Eyes blazing with hatred, George threw his jewelled gauntlet at Edward’s feet. “I make no submission! I challenge you to mortal combat and the judgement of God!”

  A sharp intake of breath resounded around the chamber. Edward’s face tightened with anger. “Fool!”

  “Bastard!”

  Edward swung on his heel and stormed out of the room. On trembling legs, barely able to breathe, Richard followed.

  Prince Richard’s marriage festivities continued for another week. A joust was held at Westminster and the chief challenger was Anthony Woodville. Clad in white brocade and ermine, and riding a black horse caparisoned with black velvet and white silk, he was the most splendid figure of the day. Richard did not attend.

  On the seventh day of February, a special meeting was convened in a stone-vaulted council chamber at Westminster. Harry, Duke of Buckingham, was appointed High Steward in Richard’s place, to spare Richard the painful duty that would have otherwise fallen to him.

  George was brought in. Buckingham rose stiffly. “You are adjudged guilty of treason,” he read. “By the laws of England and by order of His Grace, King Edward IV, you are hereby sentenced to death.”

  Richard’s breath caught in his lungs. He shut his eyes and sagged against the wall.

  It was snowing when Richard’s mother, Cecily, Duchess of York, arrived at Westminster in a last effort to save her son George. Tall and regal, wearing the black she had worn since her husband’s death eighteen years earlier, she cut an imposing figure. For ten days she pleaded, threatened, and negotiated with Edward for George’s life, with no result except that she stayed Edward’s hand. Then the Speaker of the Commons came to the bar of the Lords and requested that whatever was to be done be done quickly.

  Richard was with Edward in the great hall when Buckingham delivered the Speaker’s request. Visibly shaken, Edward gave a curt nod. Buckingham bowed hastily and retreated to join a party of lords sipping wine in a corner of the chamber. Richard followed Edward to the window. Resting his full weight on his outspread hands, Edward searched the Thames as if those icy waters held the answers he sought. A short distance away, on the dais beneath a tapestry, the Queen sat playing dice with her five daughters. Her mind was clearly not on the game, for her glance kept stealing to them.

  She’s like a vulture drawn by the scent of carrion, Richard thought, clenching his jaw. His gaze returned to Edward, who had lifted his head and now seemed to be staring at the royal figure of Richard II in the embrasure of the window. Deposed by the Lancastrian Henry of Bolingbroke, it was Richard II’s murder that had ruptured the rightful succession and set into motion the events that ended in the Wars of the Roses. Above a gilded canopy a blue angel with outstretched wings held out a crown over the dead king’s head. Aye, for that crown much blood had been spilt—blood which had drenched the soil of England red. For that crown had poor saintly Henry been murdered. For that crown George would die.

  Richard said, “Edward, you refused my pleas for Henry’s life. Now your immortal soul is stained wi
th his blood. God may forgive your regicide, but the murder of a brother—’tis too much to ask, even of God, Edward.”

  “I refused your pleas for Henry’s life,” Edward said, without turning. “Now we’ve had six years of peace in the realm. I refuse your pleas for George’s life and we shall have peace again. Peace, peace…” He thrust the windows open and frigid air struck them both in the face. Richard shivered, but Edward stood silently as the wind whipped his hair and stirred his furs, staring fixedly at the river.

  “Remember Cain and Abel,” said Richard, breathing hard. The final moment had come. There would be no other chance. “Remember your vow to our father.”

  Edward turned and Richard was startled by how ghastly he looked. In the harsh blue light of day he was ashen pale and his bloodshot eyes were encircled with deep shadows. A muscle twitched in his left eyelid. Richard knew it was a sign of strain.

  “I did vow to look after you both,” Edward said in a drained voice, “and I have, Dickon… I’ve done my best, but it’s not been enough, not with George…” His mouth worked with emotion. “I have no wish to do this any more than you would in my place, Dickon… If only I didn’t have to.”

  “Edward, give him a last chance. Henry had it. Surely it’s not too much for your own brother?”

  The silence that ensued seemed endless.

  “I’ll go to him in the Tower tonight,” Edward replied.

  Richard laid a hand on his sleeve in gratitude. “Together, pray God, we’ll talk sense into him.”

  “I go in alone.”

  Richard stared, seized by unease. Only one reason could there be for such a strange condition between brothers. Edward had something to hide.