The Rose of York: Crown of Destiny

by Worth, Sandra

  “And the Queen?”

  “The King did not summon her at the end, my Lord,” he said softly.

  A bitter taste came to Richard’s mouth. So this was how it ended, this grand passion. Like a torch to dry grass, it had raged and consumed all in its path until nothing remained but ashes.

  The messenger’s voice cut into his thoughts.

  “The King then dismissed them and summoned his executors, in which the Queen had been replaced by Lord Stanley. He told them there was only one man capable of ordering the realm and subduing the factions that split the court. It was a man he loved well, and whom he knew loved him…” The messenger knelt. “My Lord, the King added a codicil to his will bequeathing his son and kingdom to the protection of his loyal brother Richard, Duke of Gloucester.”

  Anne cried out, a sudden, choked sound, like that of a wounded bird falling to earth.

  Richard swallowed hard on the constriction in his throat. “You have not answered my question. Why then is this message dispatched to me from Lord Hastings and not from the Queen or Chancellor Rotherham?”

  The man removed a missive from his pouch and handed it to Richard, who slashed the white ribbon with his jewelled dagger and broke the seal. It was from Hastings. There was no greeting and no signatory.

  The King has left all to your protection—goods, heir, realm. Secure the person of our Lord sovereign Edward the Fifth and get thee to London!

  “This…?” demanded Richard angrily. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “As soon as it became evident that the King was dying, the Queen set about arranging matters to circumvent the King’s wishes and rule herself. She has directed her brother, Anthony Woodville, Earl Rivers, to bring King Edward V from Ludlow to London to be crowned immediately.”

  Richard took a moment to digest the information. Young Edward’s crowning in itself meant nothing. Kings had to be crowned. If he were in London, he’d attend to it himself as the first order of business. It certainly did not mean that Bess had to be plotting to subvert Edward’s will and set him aside as Protector in order to rule herself. Such a move would have disastrous consequences for the realm, and for Bess herself. Whatever she was, she was no fool. The only possible explanation for Hastings’s panic was that hatred of the Queen and her ilk had led him to misinterpret her intentions. Aye, that was it. The matter was a mere tempest in a wine cup. Relief flooded him and he looked at Anne. She was white as the bark of an aspen tree. A fierce anger swept him. He knew Hastings to be wanton, corrupt, and contemptible but he had never thought him reckless before. Reckless, and stupid—to write such foolery! To alarm them in this manner!

  “I see no need for rash action. I shall dispatch a query to Earl Rivers in Ludlow, asking by when and by what route the King will travel to London so that I can join them.” He waved his hand in dismissal. The messenger bowed his head, but in turning to leave, he lost his balance and almost fell. Richard suddenly realised the hapless man must have lashed his horse the distance and may have barely eaten or slept since he left London. “You have done well, sir. What is your name?”

  “Catesby,” replied the young man. “William Catesby, my Lord.”

  “Good Catesby, there is bread and ale and meat; partake and take rest. You need not leave for London until tomorrow. Lord Hastings can wait.”

  Before many days passed, another messenger arrived from Hastings after Vespers. Richard and Anne had retired to the solar to read Sir Thomas Malory’s Morte D’Arthur with friends. Richard ripped open the missive. He gave a sigh. Anne placed a gentle hand on his sleeve. “What is it, dearest?”

  “Hastings claims the Woodvilles have seized control. Only with difficulty has he managed to limit the size of Edward’s escort to two thousand men. He says I should come strongly armed to secure the King.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “I know not what to believe. There’s still no word from Westminster; that does concern me.”

  “My Lord,” said Warwick’s old friend Sir William Conyers, “perhaps you should write the Queen and reassure her.”

  “A good idea. I shall write the council, too.”

  Richard summoned a scribe and dictated a letter to the Queen expressing his condolences and promising to serve her son as he had served his brother. Then he dashed off another to the council. “I have been loyal to my brother Edward at home and abroad, in peace and in war,” he dictated, pacing to and fro. “I am loyal to my brother’s heir and all my brother’s issue. I desire only that the kingdom be ruled with justice, according to law. My brother’s testament has made me Protector of the Realm. In debating the disposition of authority, I ask you to consider the position rightfully due me according to the law of the land and my brother’s order.” He looked at Conyers. “What think you?”

  “’Tis reasonable, my Lord. It reminds them that in appointing his sole surviving brother as Regent—as Henry V did his brother Gloucester—that King Edward was following a custom approved over a century of practice… But a warning at the end might be advisable.”

  “Add this,” Richard told the scribe. “Nothing which is contrary to law and to King Edward’s will can be decreed without harm.” He turned to Conyers. “How is that?”

  “The threat should give them pause, my Lord.”

  Richard rested his hand on Conyer’s shoulder. He was a tall man, and the gesture, which had come so easily to towering Edward, felt awkward. He dropped his hand. “Thank you, Conyers. You’ve always spoken bluntly and advised me well. Let us hope that all the reasonable men in the land don’t reside in the North, but that a few are left at Westminster.”

  A flurry of missives and messengers came and went from Middleham over the next days. Harry, Duke of Buckingham, wrote from his castle in faraway Brecon in South Wales eagerly offering his support and putting himself entirely at Richard’s service, with a thousand men if need be. He begged an immediate answer.

  Richard wrote back that he was coming south to join the King’s procession to London and would be pleased to have Buckingham meet him on the road, but with a small escort only—not more than three hundred. He had decided to disregard Hastings’s advice about bringing a strong armed force. Two hundred and fifty men were enough, and if Buckingham brought the same number, they would have more than sufficient escort between them. After all, they were not at war, though it seemed Hastings was itching to start one.

  With his friend Francis Lovell at his side, he bade farewell to Anne and young Ned as they stood in the chill, windswept bailey. He was leaving for York, the muster point for his escort, and from there they would go on to London. Anne offered him the stirrup cup. He drank and handed it back to her. She stood on tiptoe to kiss him.

  “God be with you and keep you, my dearest Lord,” she said anxiously.

  “I shall return as soon as matters permit, my dear lady.”

  She nodded, backed away to allow the children a chance to say farewell. Ned’s squire lifted him up for an embrace. “When I’m bigger, my Lord father, you shall not have to ride alone,” he said.

  Richard tousled his dark hair, not trusting himself to speak. How he loved the boy! Young George Neville stepped forward. “My Lord, I wish you would let me come with you—’tis not too late, even now…”

  Richard’s lips curved gently. George was eighteen, almost full grown, and nearly as tall as his father had been. With the wind blowing his tawny hair and Roland at his heels, Richard could see John clearly. His heart constricted. “Fair cousin, contrary to what you may have heard, there’s no urgency. Attend to my Ned and lady wife, and be of comfort to your dear lady aunt until I return.” Young George inclined his head obediently and stepped back.

  A silence fell, broken by the loud flapping of the Boar banner in the wind. Then Richard clattered over the drawbridge. His men fell in behind him. As Ned and George waved farewell, Anne stood and watched, gripped by unease. Richard’s confidence troubled her. Since he didn’t approve of Hastings, he gave no credence to his
warnings. Yet Hastings was a seasoned statesman. There was no reason why he would react as he had, if given no cause. Besides, he was kin, married to her aunt, Katherine. It was something they often forgot, since they had been separated by such distances and moved in different circles for most of their life. But kin always looked out for kin.

  Her hand sought the gold crucifix at her neck. Richard had many admirable qualities. He was blessed with a fine mind quick as mercury, but dearly as she loved him, he had a fault that could not be overlooked: He had never outgrown a certain childish innocence. And innocence is dangerous, she thought, for it blinds us to truths we do not wish to see. At that moment a gust of wind brought down the Boar banner in the dale and men rushed to help the standard bearer raise it back up. Anne gasped and her hand flew to her mouth. A portent?

  She felt her mother’s arm slip around her shoulders. Sorely did she need the comfort! All her life she had read omens in such absurd trifles and, though she always prayed to be wrong, so accurate a harbinger of the future had they proven that she was convinced she had second sight.

  ~*^*~

  Chapter 13

  “…the knight…show’d a youthful face,

  Imperious, and of haughtiest lineaments.”

  In York, Richard ordered Requiem masses for the repose of Edward’s soul, then he administered the oath of fealty to King Edward V to all his men and the city magistrates. There was, however, one who was absent, and Richard couldn’t refrain from remarking on it when Conyers came striding up to him in the market square as they prepared to march. “Percy’s not here,” he said.

  Conyer’s expression hardened. “My Lord, his messenger said to give you this.” He handed Richard a missive.

  Richard read, looked up. “He regrets he cannot accompany me. His duties at the border require his presence.”

  “Sounds like a Percy—never there when you need him,” said Conyers, who was related to the Nevilles by marriage, and therefore suspicious of Percys. He threw Rob Percy a glance, adding hastily, “No offence meant, Rob.”

  “None taken,” smiled Rob.

  Richard mounted White Surrey. “Perhaps this time the Earl of Northumberland tells the truth… I can vouch that the Scots can be troublesome.”

  Near Nottingham Richard found a messenger waiting with a missive from Anthony Woodville. The Queen’s brother wrote that he expected to be in Northampton around the twenty-ninth of April and hoped the Duke of Gloucester would meet him there. Reassured by the courteous tone of Anthony Woodville’s letter, Richard sent back an acknowledgement, relieved that Hastings had been wrong. More messengers arrived as they rode south. Most came from Hastings, each bearing tidings more urgent and ominous than the last. Though Richard was loathe to put any trust in Edward’s old friend, it was becoming more difficult to dismiss Hastings’s concern.

  “What do you make of this?” he demanded, passing Hastings’s message to Conyers as they rode together in the cool April sunshine.

  Conyers heaved an audible breath when he finished reading. “He doesn’t sound like himself,” he said, handing back the note.

  “Aye, he claims he stands alone, that his very life is in danger because he has espoused my cause. Hard to believe.”

  “For genial Hastings to make such a statement, the situation must be dire.”

  “Genial, he is, and brave, too. But dissolute,” said Richard with a tightening of his mouth. “There’s no reason why matters should be so desperate.”

  “There’s the Queen, my Lord. Her nature is well known.”

  “She’s wilful and greedy, but would she risk civil strife by lawlessly circumventing the King’s will?”

  Conyers made no reply. Richard gave a sigh. “Only when we are in London and see for ourselves will we know the truth. I shall keep myself uncommitted until then.”

  “But is that wise, my Lord?” offered Conyers, anxiety evident in his tone.

  “Wise, I know not… But it is fair. Perhaps that’s more important.”

  Late on the day Anthony Woodville had expected to arrive in Northampton, Richard rode into the city with his cavalcade. There was no sign of the Queen’s brother and young Edward. He dismounted before the inn where he had arranged to meet Buckingham and turned to one of the men he had sent ahead to secure accommodations. “Where are they?” he demanded.

  “They have already passed through, my Lord, and continued south, to Stony Stratford.”

  Richard frowned, looked at Conyers and Francis. “But we clearly had an arrangement to meet here.”

  They had no chance to respond. The Duke of Buckingham’s herald was riding up. The man dismounted, bent a knee. “My Lord, His Grace wishes you to know he will arrive shortly.”

  “Well then, let’s make ourselves comfortable.” He turned White Surrey over to his squire and went into the inn, the innkeeper at his heels, indicating the way. Crossing the plank floor, Richard took the creaky stairs up to his room. As he entered, horses’ hoofs sounded in the street. “That must be Buckingham.”

  “Not Buckingham,” corrected Francis from the doorway, “Anthony Woodville!”

  Richard went to the window. “Indeed it is, but young Edward is not with him. At least not that I can see from here.” He threw his gauntlets on the bed and hurried downstairs.

  Anthony Woodville, Earl Rivers, came riding up, surrounded by a train of attendants. “My Lord Protector, I greet thee well! I have come at the behest of our new sovereign King to convey his greeting to his gracious uncle.” Anthony Woodville gave Richard a deep bow.

  “Earl Rivers, you are most welcome,” Richard said pleasantly, betraying none of his unease. “Pray, enter, partake of refreshment.” He turned to the innkeeper. “Arrange lodgings for Earl Rivers and his men.” He led Anthony Woodville into the parlour. “I see my royal nephew is not with you.”

  “My Lord, the King pushed on to Stony Stratford for the night because it was feared there were insufficient accommodations for both the royal train and your own.” He smiled.

  Though Anthony Woodville had tried to speak casually, Richard caught the faint tremor in his voice and knew instantly that he lied. Indeed, if his royal nephew were so eager to greet him, why had he rushed on to Stony Stratford? There might not have been enough room in town for them all, but certainly enough for young Edward and part of his train. Richard decided not to pursue the matter for the moment.

  “I see…” he said, inviting his brother by marriage to a plank table in the parlour. Spiced hippocras and appetisers were brought. Anthony Woodville sipped his wine and munched a pasty.

  “The ride from Ludlow was most pleasant, my Lord brother,” Anthony Woodville said, referring to their ties of kinship through his sister Bess. “I particularly enjoyed the Shropshire countryside. The hills are covered with an abundance of snowdrops this time of year…” He proceeded to paint a colourful account of his journey. They drank together and ate, and for the most part, it was Anthony Woodville who talked. Richard listened, observing him and turning over in his mind the meaning of this cordial embassy that contrasted so strangely with Hastings’s reports. Except for one thing—the missing King. That nagged at him.

  “…the ceremony was splendid, the King enjoyed it greatly,” Anthony Woodville was saying about the Feast of St. George that he had celebrated the night before he left Ludlow. “I remember when our royal brother, King Edward—God assoil his noble soul—made me Knight of the Garter… Ahhh…” He related his memories.

  Richard studied him, this patron of Caxton. He certainly did not think of him as kin, and would not address him as brother, but he did not hold him in the same contempt as the rest of his clan. Richard had fathomed the others: they were evil. Anthony was different. His family was tightly-knit, yet he seemed to keep his distance from them. The Woodvilles were worldly, and he, too, enjoyed the good things of life—like the goose liver pate he was now devouring—but he had never displayed the same greed for gold that they had. Indeed, it was said of him that his dress often in
cluded a hair shirt. Richard wondered if he wore one now beneath his rich earl’s robes of bright blue velvet furred with miniver and trimmed with gold. A smile almost tipped the corners of his mouth at the thought of a pious Woodville. It seemed a contradiction. Even Lionel, Bishop of Salisbury, that large, multi-chinned hog, was a debauched and unholy man.

  Aye, Anthony Woodville had undeniably strong spiritual qualities. He debated devotional writings such as those of Christine de Pisane, occasionally indulged himself in a scholarly work of his own making, and had translated three devotional accounts which Caxton printed. He had even penned ballads against the Seven Deadly Sins.

  “Have you read Sir Thomas Malory’s account of King Arthur’s knights?” Anthony Woodville was asking.

  “Aye,” Richard said, “most recently.”

  “And your favourite part?”

  “When Arthur slays Mordred.”

  “Why?”

  “Justice is done.”

  “But justice comes at high cost. To get at Mordred, the King must sacrifice himself.”

  “You miss the point. The cost of treachery is what’s high. Justice is all that’s left.”

  “Aha…” said Woodville. Softly, he began to recite, “‘Then the king looked about him, and then was he aware of all his host and of all his good knights, no more were left alive…’”

  Richard picked up the tale. “‘Then the king got his spear in both his hands, and ran toward Sir Mordred, crying, “Traitor, now is thy death day come!”’”

  “I pray I never see another battlefield,” sighed Woodville. “’Tis too much, all that death.”

  Now Richard understood why Anthony Woodville had gone on pilgrimage the day after the Battle of Tewkesbury. Edward had called him a coward, this man famed for winning tournaments. He was no coward, and he was no Woodville, this Woodville. He was not a true knight, and not a true pilgrim.