Edward thought for a moment. “There is a chaplain at Ludlow of whom I am very fond. It would give me much pleasure to reward him.”
“His name?”
“John Geffrey.”
“Done!” Richard summoned his secretary, John Kendall. “The King commands that you dispatch an order to the custodian of the seal of the earldom of March to send a writ to the Bishop of Hereford asking that one John Jef…” He looked at Edward. Edward said brightly, “Geffrey…” and spelled it out. “That John Geffrey be appointed to the rectorship of the parish church of Pembrigge.” Richard looked kindly at his nephew. “See how easy it is, my Lord King?” For the first time, Richard saw him smile.
Later over wine, they read Malory together, and Edward, relaxing a little more, asked questions about kingship and Good and Evil.
“A wise king is just,” Richard replied. “When there is justice, all is right with the world. There is peace, men are content.”
“Then why was King Arthur and his good kingdom destroyed by evil?”
“Only in Heaven has Good triumphed over Evil for all time. On earth it is a daily battle we wage, each of us choosing our side and accounting for our choice to God on Judgement Day.” Then partly to reassure the boy, and partly to plant the seed in his mind by which he might one day judge his own mother’s actions, Richard added, “Remember always that the fountain of Goodness is justice, and the fountain of Evil is greed. From greed flows jealousy, hatred, treason, and all foul deeds.”
At the end of this heavy discussion, the young King rubbed his bleary eyes and made his way up to bed. And Richard thought, there’s hope after all.
On the second of May a messenger arrived from Hastings. It was the same man who had brought news of Edward’s death. He knelt before Richard. “Catesby, is it not?” Richard asked.
“Aye, my Lord Protector. This time I am heartened to bear good tidings. Your letter to the council was well received. The Protectorate is approved. The Woodville cause has collapsed.”
Buckingham gave a cheer. Richard allowed himself a small smile.
Catesby continued. “The Queen has fled into Sanctuary, taking with her all manner of crates, boxes, furniture, plates, tapestries, and coffers containing half of King Edward’s treasure. For two days and nights the carts rolled into Westminster Abbey. Lord Hastings bids me tell you that she broke down a wall in order to move in her goods more quickly.”
Buckingham roared with laughter. “Last time dear old Bess was in Sanctuary, she complained bitterly of being uncomfortable!”
“What about the Queen’s brothers, Dorset, Lionel, and Sir Edward?” Richard demanded.
“Sir Edward has sailed from England with the fleet, taking the other half of the King’s treasure with him… My Lord Protector, Lord Hastings wishes you to know that the royal treasury is empty.”
Richard sighed. Buckingham laughed. “How very Woodville.”
Richard turned his head and looked at him. Edward would have laughed, he thought, and then he would have kissed some merchants’ wives and raised more money. He turned his attention back to Catesby. There was an honest, forthright quality about this sinewy young man who was around his own age.
“You are to be made comfortable and denied nothing, Catesby. Inform our landlord that he is to spread out for you the best table he can prepare, and get some rest. We leave for London at the cock’s crow.”
Catesby thanked Richard in fine, courtly fashion, adding to Richard’s good impression.
Early the second morning after they had left Northampton, the royal cavalcade approached Barnet. The skies were pearl grey, spring flowers dotted the bright green rolling hills, and the air was damp with dew. Bells from Hadley’s church chimed for Prime, flooding Richard with memories. Many who rode with him this day had fought against him that other, but there was one he missed still… One he would always miss. Halting before the peaceful little church on the hill, Richard dismounted and went inside. He leaned against the pillar, laid his hand against the cold stone. The nave was gloomy and cool; candles flickered at the altar and feeble daylight bathed the Cross.
As he stood there, twelve years slipped away in his mind and again it was the day of the Battle of Barnet, a day of death. He heard the crash of metal, the screams of terrified horses, the cries of dying men. The fog swirled around him. Swords flashed; men fell. Cries of York and Lancaster mingled in the murk. He closed his eyes and saw himself dismounting before Hadley Church after the battle. Looping the reins of his war horse around a tree at the edge of the graveyard, he had followed its curving path to the entry. With great effort, he pulled open the iron-hinged parish door. The church was empty. A fitful grey light came through the coarse glass windows, and the dank, musty air stank of burning mutton fat from the votive candles at the altar. He had taken a step down into the nave and felt suddenly faint. Putting out an arm, he had leaned heavily against a pillar.
Drawn by the clanging of the door, a pimply acolyte had come out from the vestry. He had given a start at the sight of Richard.
Richard had suddenly realised how frightening he must appear with his bloodied hair and clothes, his bloodstained, bandaged arm, and a face that had to be as pale as a phantom. His taut mouth had softened.
The boy had recovered, and come towards him. “Do you seek Sanctuary, my Lord?” he had asked, recognising Richard’s high estate despite the condition of his clothes.
Richard had been unable to respond. He was fighting a terrible fatigue, a pounding head and blurred vision, and stood erect only with great effort. He had rubbed his eyes in a desperate attempt to clear his mind. One day, he had thought with a stab of fear, the moment will come when I will no longer be able to exert will over body and I will break. He had shaken his head with determined effort. “Priest!” he had demanded, more harshly than he intended. The flustered boy had run off into the nave and out the west door into the churchyard. A moment later an older man had lumbered in the same entrance. He was gaunt, his grey hair thinning around his tonsure.
“My Lord, you asked for me?” he had inquired, his face flushed.
With a slow, clumsy motion, Richard had withdrawn a small bag of coins from within his doublet. The movement had sent pain shooting along his right side. He grimaced.
“Pray, sit down, my Lord!” the priest said. With concern for his benefactor, he dusted the steps with a corner of his gown.
Richard shook his head. “I wish… prayers… Masses… for one dead in battle.” There were many dead in battle whom he would remember: his boyhood friends, the two Toms; his squire, John Milewater. And Warwick. Later, he would buy Masses for them, too, but this—this could not wait.
The priest took the purse, made the sign of the Cross. “It shall be done, my Lord,” he had said. “And the name of the deceased, God assoil his soul?”
“John Neville, Marquess of Montagu,” Richard had replied in a choked voice. “He died honourably.” Somehow, he felt it necessary the priest know that. Heaving himself around, he had dragged himself from the little church.
A voice said, “May I help you, my Lord?” It was a different priest than the one he remembered.
Richard bought masses for the repose of John’s soul. Outside, in the brightness of day, he breathed deeply of the fresh morning air. Aye, life went on. He strode to his waiting horse. It was Sunday, the fourth of May.
~*^*~
Chapter 16
“He makes no friend who never made a foe.”
The gates of London stood open to receive them. Men jostled for space on the city walls and cheering crowds packed the narrow streets and hung over balconies. Gaily dressed in scarlet trimmed with fur, the Mayor came out to greet Richard and the young King, accompanied by his aldermen and a train of leading citizens, including five hundred eminent merchants clad in violet. All across the city, church bells pealed in celebration.
Richard and Buckingham rode bareheaded. They had both dressed in coarse black mourning cloth and their men had donned b
lack for the occasion, making a sharp contrast with the Londoners. Young Edward rode between them, dressed in blue velvet with a matching cap crowning his bright hair. Richard thought him a touchingly diminutive figure on his enormous chestnut stallion. On through the narrow streets rolled their procession, past Ludgate, past St. Paul’s, around Westminster. There was such a noise of welcome that Richard knew Bess had to be drowning in it, even through the thick stone walls of her sanctuary. He couldn’t suppress a smile. On this day, the odious Queen had planned to have young Edward crowned, and then, no doubt, to sign his death warrant.
Young Edward was temporarily lodged at the Bishop of London’s palace. With Buckingham at his side, Richard went to Crosby Place, his townhouse on Bishopsgate Street, where Hastings awaited. The reunion was warm. Richard’s disapproval of his brother’s friend had evaporated under a weight of gratitude for his recent services. Francis and Rob joined them, and over wine and sweetbreads, they brought one another up to date.
“A great deal has happened. The people are afraid, Dickon,” said Hastings.
“I know. To ease their minds, I’ll have the city fathers and the lords spiritual and temporal take the oath of fealty to King Edward in a public ceremony as soon as possible.”
“A good idea,” agreed Hastings.
“Aye,” Buckingham agreed, “but one thing troubles me. Edward needs to be moved from the Bishop’s Palace. It’s not suitable housing for him.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Hastings. “It’s perfectly suitable for a King. Henry lodged there many a time.”
“That’s exactly the point, Will. We don’t wish to remind the people of Henry. He was deposed.”
“No one’s planning to depose Edward, Harry,” said Richard.
“We know that, but others don’t,” insisted Buckingham. “Besides, it’s not safe.”
“It’s as safe as anywhere else,” Hastings replied irritably.
Buckingham turned to Richard. “Dickon, you know I’m only looking out for your good. The Woodville bitch is hatching plots to get her hands on Edward even as we speak! Edward must be moved to the Tower.”
“If you do that, Dickon, the people will see young Edward as your captive,” Hastings said.
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Buckingham. “The Tower’s a royal residence! The bitch chose it for Edward’s birthing, remember? Warwick’s revolt forced her into Sanctuary. That’s why Edward was born at Westminster instead of at the Tower. Besides, there’s a zoo to entertain him. He’ll be happier there.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you, Harry… Rob, Francis, what do you think?” Richard asked.
“Harry makes a good case,” Francis said. “I vote for the Tower.”
“So do I,” Rob agreed.
Rob and Francis brought up other business, and when they had covered everything of importance, everyone relaxed amiably until the subject turned to Bishop Morton.
“I hear you were doing well with Edward in Northampton, but Morton ruined everything once you got here,” Rob said.
Richard put down his wine cup, said bitterly, “Morton told him that his mother had fled into sanctuary on my account.” He bit his lip. “The devil take Morton!”
Hastings gave him a sympathetic look. “Edward had to know sometime, Dickon.”
“But not like that. You should have seen Edward’s face. Now he thinks I’m the villain the Woodvilles have always claimed. Not only did I lock up his brother and favourite uncle, but his mother fears for her life at my hands.” He rose from the table, went to the window and fidgeted with his ring, as he always did when he was nervous or upset. A silence fell. Rob and Francis shifted uncomfortably in their chairs, but it escaped Richard’s notice that Buckingham’s expression turned suddenly fearful and that he fell into deep thought.
Hastings set his cup down and heaved a sigh. “Aye, by fleeing into Sanctuary, Bess Woodville proclaimed her own guilt to all the world but him.” He felt badly for Richard, who was in an awkward position. It would not be easy for him to regain the King’s trust after this. For himself, however, he was vastly relieved. He’d had no part in the events at Northampton—at least not in young Edward’s eyes. That was what counted. One day the young King would no longer be a minor. Richard had, at best, five years to change the boy’s mind. With Bess around, that might not be enough. As there was no comfort to offer, Hastings brought up the delicate matter he had put off. “Bess is not without her sympathisers, however. You do know that Edward’s Chancellor, Archbishop Rotherham, delivered the Great Seal into her hands in Sanctuary?”
“I heard,” replied Richard wearily. “A damned fool thing to do.” Rotherham would have to be disciplined, and the sooner, the better.
Shaken from his reverie, Buckingham snorted. “He must be charged with treason and thrown into prison!”
“That’s too severe. He meant no real harm, and he did return to reclaim it,” Hastings replied. “He’s a friend of mine, Dickon, and I’ve promised him I’d speak for him. He told me it was her tears that drove him to it. Will you consider a pardon—”
“Not bloody likely!” exclaimed Buckingham. “He’s a Woodville lover. And you’re the fool, if you think we’ll let him off!”
Hastings’ face registered surprise, then anger. “He’s served Edward well all these years. The man’s old and doddery. Bad judgement—not treason—is all he’s guilty of.” He twisted around, looked at Richard. “He has his supporters. I believe it would be a mistake to deal harshly with him. With all deference, Dickon, I have more experience in such matters than Harry!”
Richard pushed open the window. God’s curse, how he hated court! Already the feuds were breaking out, even here, among his own. Why had Buckingham spoken so rashly and insulted Hastings? They could have come to an amicable agreement. As it was, each was waiting to see whom he would favour. He agreed with Buckingham that the offence could not be overlooked. Rotherham was one of the Queen’s men and owed his rise to her influence. The fact that he gave her the Great Seal proved it, and he had demanded its return only because he realised he’d backed the wrong cock in this fight and feared for his own hide. But now, thanks to Buckingham’s damned intemperate remarks—for which he’d have to rebuke him later—it was impossible to discipline Rotherham without offending Hastings. And he owed Hastings. If it hadn’t been for him, he’d be dead now.
“We can’t overlook his action,” said Richard, “but stripping him of the chancellorship should be enough.” He held up a hand to silence Buckingham’s protest. “He can still remain on the council. I was thinking of the Bishop of Lincoln as his replacement. What do you say, Will?” John Russell, Bishop of Lincoln, was one of Edward’s most accomplished diplomats and a man of great learning and piety.
Hastings had always been a generous man, and generously he accepted the compromise. The tension was defused. But no sooner had he left than Buckingham turned his fury on Richard. It took Richard far longer to mollify him.
Rob and Francis, watching silently, exchanged glances. The future did not bode well. There was going to be trouble between Hastings and Buckingham.
The next day Richard held his first council meeting. He included even those who had supported the Woodvilles. This was no time for confrontation. He had to heal the divisions if they were to avoid strife. He knew civil war too well; it set brother against brother and friend against friend, and was the greatest horror, the deepest agony, a land could inflict on itself. “What is past, is past,” he said in the Star Chamber at Westminster, named for the tiny silver stars emblazoned on the blue silk cloth that lined the walls. “Let us learn from our mistakes and move forward to a prosperous and glorious reign.”
The council took up debate and set the date of Edward’s coronation for St. John’s Day. The only serious problem that confronted Richard was what to do with the Woodvilles. His feelings of magnanimity had evaporated since it was discovered that Richard Grey had three wagonloads of armour and weapons in his train. Clearly, they had been pla
nning to use force. Even now Bess’s brother, Sir Edward, was defying the government with his fleet. And her son, Dorset, who had managed to escape from Sanctuary—no doubt with the aid of that bawdy woman Jane Shore—was trying to raise men against Richard’s Protectorate.
“On the matter of Anthony Woodville, Grey, and Vaughn, I wish charges of treason be brought against them.” These accursed Woodvilles cared nothing for England. They would plunge the land back into evil days to secure their base of power. He wanted them to pay the full penalty: Death.
“My Lord of Gloucester,” said beady-eyed Morton in his slippery voice, his lips barely moving, “you had not been appointed Protector at the time. Therefore, there was, in fact, no treason.”
“Their intention was clear. They tried to set aside my royal brother’s testament and my Protectorate in order to seize power and rule the land themselves. That is treason.”
“You say they intended to displace you, my Lord of Gloucester. Their intent is a matter of conjecture. Treason is a serious charge. We cannot convict on mere hearsay about intent when there is no proof whatever… I motion that they be released immediately for lack of evidence.”
A bitter argument ensued. Howard and most of the barons readily concurred with Richard, but Hastings, former chancellor Rotherham, and the spiritual lords sided with Bishop Morton. A consensus was finally reached. No charges were to be brought, but Anthony Woodville, Grey, and Vaughn were to be kept in confinement. As for the Queen, she was to be offered pardon if she would leave sanctuary and promise to behave honourably, as befitting a Queen Dowager. A committee was appointed to negotiate with her.
“What about Sir Edward Woodville and the ships he’s taken?” demanded Hastings.
“We won’t have to use force if we pardon his men,” said Richard.
“But how do we get the offer to the sailors?” asked Chancellor Russell. “They are at sea, and no ship could get close enough to announce it.”
The Rose of York: Crown of Destiny Page 12
