“He is a Woodville,” said Richard.
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Chapter 11
“O golden hair, with which I used to play
Not knowing!
O imperial-moulded form, And beauty such as never woman wore,
Until it came a kingdom’s curse with thee—”
Richard left for Middleham the same morning Meg departed England. In the ensuing weeks he devoted himself to his duties, but life did not resume its comfortable pattern. The Scots violated their truce again. This time they had crossed into Northumberland and burned Bamborough. It soon became clear that old Louis lurked behind the troubles. Anxious to keep Edward occupied while he took care of Burgundy, he had stirred up James of Scotland with his promises. In September Richard punished the Scots so soundly he ended their incursions, but by wet and blustery October, vexing problems with Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, replaced those with the Scots.
Many misunderstandings irked the touchy Earl of Northumberland. Though Richard tried hard to accommodate him, sometimes their conflicts couldn’t be settled as amicably as he wished. Once they each backed different men for the post of Prior of Tynemouth and Richard’s candidate won the position, to Percy’s humiliation. At other times, when the city of York received conflicting commands, one from Percy, the other from Richard, they ignored Percy and did Richard’s bidding—and Richard didn’t always know, while Percy smouldered.
At length, by the exercise of delicate diplomacy, Richard managed to smooth Percy’s hoary bristles long enough to gain his good will, and together they planned the campaign against the Scots that Edward had decided to wage come summer and which he would lead himself.
Lord Howard struck the first blow against the Scots in the early summer of ’81. He won a brilliant sea victory and captured eight of their ships in the Firth of Forth, but Edward failed to follow through with the great land campaign he had promised. When Richard journeyed to Nottingham to confer with him in October, he understood the reason. Edward was not well; he had the bloody flux. Though he had managed to drag himself up to Nottingham and insisted he would be well enough by next summer to lead the war effort himself, it was clear to Richard that Edward’s health was failing. He knew it would be up to him to do what needed to be done.
The New Year of 1482 roared in on a hailstorm. Few celebrated, for it seemed the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse rode loose across the land. All over England and Europe the harvest had been the worst in many years and starvation exacted a heavy toll with the onset of winter. War and taxation compounded England’s suffering. Even Richard had difficulty furnishing his garrisons with enough food. Somehow, against many setbacks, he managed to array an army and as soon as the snows began to thaw he invaded Scotland, burned Dumfries, and assaulted Berwick Castle. Before the end of August, the great fortress on the sea that Marguerite d’Anjou had surrendered to the Scots twenty years before fell back into English hands. Richard sent the news speedily to Edward via a system of relay horses he had set up between Berwick and London. No longer would they have to rely on rumour.
Edward, desperate for good news, was jubilant. As far as Calais, Richard’s victory was celebrated with bonfires and he was ordered to appear before the King at Christmas in order to know his thanks. Later that October, a letter arrived from Meg, which Richard read aloud to Anne as they sat in their solar by the fire. It bore Meg’s good wishes on Richard’s thirtieth birthday and her congratulations on his great victory against the Scots. After expressing her pride in her youngest brother, she included an item of news.
“On the day after the Feast of St. Batholomew,” Richard read, “Marguerite d’Anjou died in France in abject poverty, alone except for a few dispirited Lancastrian exiles. Louis refused to believe that all she possessed of value was a painting of the Lilies and Leopards of England that hung over her bed. ‘Surely she has a dog?’ he demanded. ‘Send me the dog.’”
A silence fell. Into Anne’s mind rose a vision of Louis XI at their first meeting, sitting on the floor of his filthy bedchamber, in dim candlelight, surrounded by the dogs he had favoured and trusted above all men. She might have found humour in Louis’s demand but for its pathos and the memories it stirred; old Percival had died in the spring.
“She was,” Anne murmured, “Queen of sorrows and enmities, yet I am sorry for her.”
Richard put his arm around her. “The past is dead, dear Anne. Look to the future…”
Anne’s gaze went to Richard’s bastard daughter, twelve-year-old Katherine, dozing with her head in Richard’s lap, and moved to her brother, eleven-year-old Johnnie, playing marbles by the hearth. It touched on George Neville and her uncle John’s faithful hound, Roland, stretched out beside him. Then her glance fixed lovingly on Ned, sitting in the window seat, trying to strum a lyre like his father but plucking a host of wrong notes. Percival was no longer curled up at his feet, but death was the way of the world. In exchange, Anne thought, God grants us our young. She gave a nod, and a smile lifted the corners of her lips.
Early in December Richard journeyed to London to receive his brother’s thanks and to confer on future plans. He didn’t feel well. He had been plagued by a recurrent toothache these past weeks, but he was moved by the acclaim of the cheering Londoners and the lengths to which they had gone to decorate the city with arras, strewn flowers, and boar banners, and by Edward’s near-pathetic gratitude. Court, however, was as foul as always, the air poisoned with suspicions and half-hidden hatreds, and through the glorious pageantry and the varicoloured plumage of tilting knights hissed the endless whispers. Most focused on the King’s new mistress, Jane Shore, the wife of a goldsmith, who was beautiful, bright, light-hearted, and witty. And—the whispers claimed—loved not only by the King, but also by the Marquess of Dorset and Lord Hastings.
Richard crossed paths with Jane Shore in the pleasance at Westminster. He was in a hurry to get from the palace to the Abbey when he came upon her strolling between greying Hastings and gaudy Dorset. They did not see him at first, so he had a moment to observe them unnoticed as she laughed merrily while Dorset and Hastings exchanged dark looks over her lovely head.
Richard realised his disgust showed, for when the trio finally noticed him, their demeanour sobered instantly. Jane Shore’s laughter died in her throat, and she had the decency to blush as she curtsied while Will Hastings bowed and murmured a genial greeting. Dorset, that contemptible, debauched Woodville, grinned nervously and merely inclined his head in a slight nod, although for insolent Dorset, that represented a great deal. Richard acknowledged them with a curt nod of his own and passed on.
Hastings had met Jane Shore first, the whispers said and, struck by her beauty, had arranged for her abduction—his customary practice for dealing with maidens reluctant to bed him. But the servant woman whom he’d bribed to lure Jane from her house in Cheapside failed him at the last moment. Unable to slake his desire for the young beauty, Hastings wooed her, and in due course, fell in love with her. Edward, noticing Hastings’s dejection, inquired as to the cause. Anxious to see the girl with his own eyes, he disguised himself as a merchant and made a trip to her husband’s goldsmith shop. More trips followed. Edward, too, was smitten—so much so, that it was said he had distanced himself from Bess. Soon afterwards, old merchant Shore disappeared, but whether he died or discreetly left town was unknown. The affair then began in earnest. And that, whispered the rumours, was when Dorset fell in love with her and she with him, though they kept their passion secret—it was dangerous to cuckold a king.
Richard clenched a fist. Hastings and Dorset had led Edward by the hand down the path of licentious pleasures. They were to blame for the degeneration of the happy valiant prince he had adored into the corpulent, coarse, grim monarch Edward had become.
From the Abbey, where he spent an hour on his knees in silent prayer, Richard reluctantly returned to the great hall where festivities were in progress and took his seat beside his already-drunk brother. Woodvilles were everywhere,
lining the High Table, dancing to lutes and viols, clapping for the actors who performed in the pageant “The Agony of Mankind besieged by World, Flesh, and Devil.” Edward’s five daughters and two sons were present, shining like angels in their brocaded Christmas gowns, but each time Richard looked at the Queen, he saw the half-rotted face of his brother George, now encased behind the altar at Tewkesbury Abbey.
“Louis…” Edward was saying to no one in particular, “has had two attacks of apoplexy… he will soon die! That shall put an end to our worries about Burgundy, indeed it shall.” He put the goblet he had been waving around to his lips and wine splashed over his face. He coughed fitfully. Servants rushed to him with gilt-edged towels.
“Sire!” said Edward Brampton, a trusted retainer, striding up. He made a hasty bow. “Messengers from Burgundy, my Liege!”
“Burgundy… Burgundy…” burped Edward. “I cannot give up fifty thousand crowns… Would you give up fifty thousand crowns, Dickon?”
Richard averted his gaze. Brampton flushed. “My Lord, they are not here to ask for aid. They bear urgent tidings.”
Richard shifted his gaze back to Edward. He had sunk into his chair and was muttering to himself. “Have them brought in,” Richard said. “I will see them.” He rose, took up a position beside Edward’s chair.
Brampton left the hall and returned with two knights. They knelt at Edward’s feet. “Sire, your royal sister, the gracious Duchess of Burgundy, sends greetings,” one began. Edward burped. Distressed, the man looked to Richard. At his nod he continued, addressing Richard instead of Edward. “As you know, King Louis of France has swallowed up the Duchy of Burgundy and overrun Artois. Flanders is crumbling before him. Therefore, the Duke Maximillian, unable to find allies against Louis, has had no choice but to make peace with France…”
Richard felt himself turn pale. He looked at Edward. He no longer muttered but sat quietly, listening. Richard was unsure how much he understood, for he made no reaction.
“By this Treaty of Arras, Maximillian has agreed that his daughter Margaret shall marry the Dauphin of France, her marriage portion to be the counties of Artois and Burgundy.”
Richard stood rigidly, unable to move. Burgundy, the bulwark of English trade, England’s staunch ally, gone, vanished like a phantom into mist. It wasn’t possible! He saw Edward in his mind’s eye, tall, magnificent, striding triumphantly across the bridge at Picquigny to pick up his French gold. And Louis, shabby Louis, followed by a dog.
Ah, indeed, the spider had woven a fine, silk web…
There was a sudden crash followed by a wailing cry. Edward had upturned one banquet table and was staggering down the dais toward the next, yelling like a madman. Richard rushed after him. He grabbed his arm, but Edward shook him off. Hastings ran to Richard’s assistance. Together they managed to take him from the banquet hall, while Edward muttered to himself. Richard finally heard his words: “So many mistakes, Dickon,” he was moaning. “Too many mistakes… Louis… John… Bess… Bess…”
In the antechamber of the royal apartments, Edward sat weeping. Richard watched, his heart breaking. Laughing, golden Edward, whom he had followed as his lodestar. “What are we going to do, Dickon?” Edward asked in a small voice.
“With Burgundy helpless, we cannot fight France. We must press the war in Scotland to a victorious conclusion. That will secure our border and end the drain on our resources. Maybe we can get the Scots to join us against Louis.”
Edward pushed himself out of his chair. Towering over Richard, swaying on unsteady legs, he leaned his weight on his shoulders and looked at him, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I shall have it put before Parliament… Thank you, Dickon, thank you… brother… loyal brother.”
Richard helped him back into his chair. He turned to leave. Edward called his name. “Dickon… As reward, I’d gladly give you my crown, but you would not wish to pay its price, brother. You may have anything else you want… Think on it… dear… loyal… brother.”
His heart twisting in his breast, Richard nodded.
Anne met him in the courtyard at Middleham. “What is it, my Lord?” she asked, taking his arm and leading him into the Keep. He shook his head, unable to speak. In their chamber she dismissed Richard’s squire and removed his boots herself. A tub was brought in and set before the hearth. She helped him into it. He sat naked on a stool while she gently lathered his body with a soapy sponge. After rubbing him dry, she helped him into a woollen chamber robe and had the servants bear the tub away. She led him to their silken pallet, arranged the cushions comfortably, poured the wine, and served him sweetmeats from a silver platter.
“Now tell me what troubles you so, Richard.”
“Edward,” he answered miserably. “The loss of Burgundy has practically destroyed him. He’ll never see Louis’s gold again, nor Burgundy’s trade. And before the world Louis flouted the Princess Elizabeth. It has been a harsh blow.”
Anne smoothed Richard’s damp hair back from his brow. “But he has you to help him recover, dearest.”
“I fear he’ll never recover,” murmured Richard. “He’s ill, Anne.”
Anne drew his head down against her breast. She kissed his brow.
“Anne… He offered me as reward anything I want.”
“Anything?”
“What would you ask for, Anne, if you could have anything?”
She gazed at the fire wistfully. “I’d ask for you. And Ned. And to stay here in the North forever. And never have to go to London again, never have to see court again, never have to see Woodvilles again.”
“Aye,” murmured Richard. “Aye.”
Parliament met on the twentieth day of January, 1483, and granted to Richard and his heirs after him permanent possession of the West Marches, the city of Carlisle, and possession of all Scottish lands he had conquered and all others he could win from the Scots. It was a great county palatine created out of Cumberland County and the Scots Marches, and though it owed obedience to the English crown, it was virtually an autonomous principality. Richard journeyed to London to receive the honour and, exactly a month later, he bade Edward farewell at Westminster and set out for the North. A light snow was falling. As he rode away with Francis at his side, he looked back at Edward, standing in the court, waving him off. It was something Edward had never done before and it filled Richard with foreboding.
“What’s wrong, Richard?” Francis inquired.
“I don’t know, Francis, but I fear I’ve looked my last on my brother…” He blinked back his sorrow. We all make our own choices, he thought. The Woodvilles had destroyed Edward, but he had not been an unwilling victim. As for himself, there was safety in distance. Perhaps now that he was truly Lord of the North, he and Ned would be safe from Woodvilles. He spurred his horse.
~*^*~
Chapter 12
“And shrieking out, ‘O fool!’ the harlot leapt
Adown the forest…and the forest echo’d ‘fool.’”
The messenger galloped up in a swirl of dust. It was Good Friday, 1483, shortly before the hour of Nones, and the Gloucester household was picnicking beneath a stately weeping willow on the banks of the River Ure. Anne tensed and held her breath, then heaved a sigh of relief, for he did not wear the royal blue and wine livery of the King but a topaz tunic and the badge of the Black Bull. It was from Lord Hastings that he had come. She took a bite of marchpane. But her happy munching slowed when he drew close enough for her to see his face.
Something had happened.
The man looked more than travel-worn. He looked deeply troubled and weary to exhaustion. He bowed to Richard. “My Lord Duke, I am the bearer of grievous tidings…” He paused, seemed to brace himself. “Your Grace… I deeply regret to inform you, the King is dead.”
All laughter died; the minstrels ceased their song. Katherine, picking lilies at the water’s edge, straightened. Johnnie, Ned, and young George Neville, playing Knights and Crusaders on the ruins of a stone wall, halted in their steps, and
others, in the motion of setting down a game of cards, stilled their hands. Francis turned, his fishing rod limp, and from where he sat on a blanket, Richard stared mutely up at the messenger with unnatural stillness.
It is a tableau I will always remember, Anne thought. She felt as if she were choking. She fell forward and vomited. The action broke the spell that held them. Life breathed back into the statues and they all moved at once. The Countess kissed her silver crucifix and made the sign of the Cross. The boys drew close, and the friends Francis, Rob, and Sir William Conyers encircled the messenger. Richard rose slowly, stiffly, to his feet. He took a step forward, stumbled, and caught at a branch to steady himself. “But his birthday is in two weeks…” was his strangled response.
It was a senseless remark, yet it made curious sense. Edward was not yet forty-three. Not only was his death premature, but he had seemed invincible. The messenger bowed his head. It was the Countess who had the presence of mind to ask, gently, for particulars.
“The King collapsed while fishing, and a week later—on Wednesday, April 9th—he died of apoplexy at Westminster, my Lady.”
Richard finally recovered his composure. “Why, sir, does this news come to us from Lord Hastings and not from the Queen?”
“Before he died, the King summoned the Queen’s kin and the old nobility to his bedside. Present on one side were Lord Hastings and the Lords Howard, Stanley, and Ferrers, and on the other the Queen’s two sons, the Marquess of Dorset and Sir Richard Grey, and her two brothers, the Bishop of Salisbury and Sir Edward Woodville.”
Richard waited. An unusual step, to have everyone gathered around at the same moment.
“The King spoke to them at length about his fears for the kingdom and told them that unless they put aside their hatred of one another, his son, and the kingdom, they themselves would be brought to ruin. Lord Hastings and the Marquess were moved to tears by his earnest pleas. They clasped hands and swore to love one another. The other lords followed their example.”
The Rose of York: Crown of Destiny Page 9
