The Rose of York: Crown of Destiny

by Worth, Sandra

  If he kept reminding himself how debauched Hastings was, maybe it would help.

  Exhausted from lack of sleep and the traumatic events of the day, he went with Francis to his mother’s home of Baynard’s Castle where Francis lodged. It was closer to Westminster and he would not have to face Anne there. The hour was late, past matins, by the time they arrived. The household slept but he and Francis both knew sleep was a luxury which would be denied them on this night of nights.

  “Treason,” Richard murmured over a cup of wine in his bedchamber. “I remember the first time it reared its hideous head… At Ludlow, when my father’s captain, Trollope, defected to Marguerite taking our battle plans with him. Marguerite’s men burned the town and raped the women.” He gulped wine and slammed the cup on the table. “Once upon a time, honourable men would rather have died than play traitor. But evil times beget evil ways.”

  “Have you decided what you’ll do with Morton and the rest?” Francis asked.

  “Imprisonment for Morton; a pardon for Stanley.”

  “But that’s too lenient! Stanley’s a time-server. You’ll never be able to trust him.”

  “By showing goodwill, maybe we’ll win goodwill.”

  “Execute Stanley! He’s proved himself an enemy.”

  “I can’t. Buckingham’s interceded for both Stanley and Morton. And Scripture preaches forgiveness, doesn’t it?”

  “You’d be better served to be more ruthless. A king is his sword, Richard. I fear that by refusing to wield yours, you’ll encourage treason with your leniency.”

  Richard lifted his eyes to Francis with effort. “The truth is simple, Francis. I’ve no stomach for more bloodshed. I must atone for Hastings’s death, that’s why I’ll spare the rest—though none of them are half the man he was. I’ll keep Stanley at my side where I can watch him. He’s a wily bastard, that one.”

  “What about Jane Shore?”

  “She’ll do public penance by walking the street with a lighted candle, and then imprisonment. For a short spell.”

  Francis smiled faintly. “A bit mild for treason, wouldn’t you say? But, then, you never could be hard on women. Richard…”

  “Aye?”

  “Have you decided yet whether you’ll make Stillington’s disclosure public?”

  Richard knew what Francis was really asking. Whether he’d take the throne. He shook his head, ran a hand through his hair helplessly. “I thought I knew. Now I’m not sure.”

  “You must,” said Francis. “Not just for England or yourself. But for Ned… For Anne.”

  Richard frowned. Ned, for obvious reasons—if Bess didn’t kill him, he would end up like George’s poor boy, abandoned and abused, frightened half out of his wits. He crushed the thought. But Anne? “Even Bess wouldn’t execute a woman, Francis.”

  “There are worse things. Have you forgotten what they did to Humphrey of Gloucester’s wife?”

  Christ, how could he have forgotten? Charged with witchcraft, forced to do penance through the streets of London, she had been imprisoned for life on the Isle of Man!

  “Or Bess might force Anne to marry a man she chose for her.”

  Richard gave a groan, dropped his head into his hands.

  Francis hated what he was doing, but someone had to strip Richard of hope, make him face reality. Only then could he overcome his nature and act against himself, against the loyalty that still bound him to Edward. For if he didn’t take the throne, what in God’s name would become of England? “The best to be hoped for is that she’d be confined into a convent for the rest of her life.”

  Richard raised his head, looked at Francis with stricken eyes. “All I ever wanted was to serve Edward.”

  “I know, Richard… I know.”

  “It isn’t fair!” Richard said suddenly, surprised to find himself voicing the old cry of his childhood. He had forgotten it in recent years. “It just isn’t fair.”

  At Buckingham’s request, Bishop Morton was sent to Buckingham’s castle of Brecknock in Wales for confinement, and Stanley was restored to his place on the council. There was still one major embarrassment for Richard that required his attention.

  Bess.

  Since Richard felt he lacked the eloquence with which to present his case persuasively, Buckingham addressed the council when it convened at Baynard’s Castle on Saturday morning, the day after Hastings’s execution.

  “Her behaviour is an insult to our government!” Buckingham declared in his mellifluous voice. “By remaining in Sanctuary she is proclaiming to the world that she has cause to fear us, when nothing of the kind is true…” He cut a fine figure in his tunic of white and gold brocade sewn with gems and fur-trimmed azure velvet mantle. On his golden curls sat a matching blue velvet cap ornamented with a pearl and ruby brooch. He sparkled as he moved with easy grace, and every eye was riveted on him.

  “How many times have we offered her our sworn word and assurances that if she removes herself from sanctuary, she will be afforded every protection and honour due a Dowager Queen? ’Tis not fear that keeps her there.” His bright blue eyes blazed around the chamber. “’Tis malice!” The few Nays! were drowned out by a large chorus of Ayes!

  “Be that as it may, we can do nothing about the former Queen. However, her son Richard of York is a different matter. He must be secured from Sanctuary. The King needs his brother’s companionship. The King needs his brother at his coronation. If Prince Richard does not attend his own brother’s coronation, the ceremony will be blighted by his absence—just as the spectacle of Bess Woodville hiding her children in Sanctuary blights our government in the eyes of Europe!”

  Hearty Ayes! met this comment.

  “Since the Woodville Queen is unwilling to give him up, let us take him from her by force. A nine-year-old child needs no sanctuary and is not capable of wanting sanctuary. Therefore he can be removed without violating the holy right.”

  Cheers erupted, followed by a huge clamour as everyone began to talk at once. When the voices finally calmed, a vote was taken. The spiritual lords were divided, but the temporal lords sided with Buckingham. The boy should be fetched.

  On Monday morning the councillors were taken by barge to Westminster where armed men surrounded the sanctuary. Richard and part of the council retired to the Star Chamber, and the Archbishop of Canterbury and Howard went to the Abbott’s quarters to seek the Queen. The Archbishop informed her that force would be used if she refused to release her son, and the grim faces of the lords convinced her.

  “I ask for a moment alone with my son,” said Bess Woodville.

  Lord Howard withdrew with the Archbishop. From the distance he observed her as she knelt and spoke with her child. The boy nodded several times, and several times mother and child embraced. If Howard didn’t know Bess’s nature, he would have felt a depth of pity for her at this moment. Finally she released her son and watched as he walked away. “Dickon, remember!” she cried plaintively.

  The boy turned, tears glistening in his eyes. “I shall remember, my dear lady mother,” he said. Then he gave his hand to the Archbishop who led him into the vast empty hall of Westminster Palace where Buckingham awaited to take him to meet Richard.

  In the Star Chamber, Richard greeted him affectionately, talked with him for a while, and gave him over to the care of the Archbishop, to be taken to join his brother in the Tower.

  The coronation was postponed, Parliament was cancelled. Rumours ran rife in London. The young King was seen with his brother playing ball and shooting arrows on Tower green while whispers said he wouldn’t be King much longer. For once, however, there was also good news. There were no disturbances, no demonstrations against Richard in London or anywhere in the land. No lords gathered their retainers and rushed to hide in their castles, and no new plots were discovered. Few knew Richard outside the North, but all knew that in his own region he ruled with a just hand. They were willing to wait. And while they waited, Stillington’s secret was disclosed carefully, first to a fe
w, then to more and more. During the week following Hastings’s execution, streams of lords, prelates, and influential men of London flowed into Crosby Place and Baynard’s Castle to be informed of the pre-contract between King Edward and Lady Eleanor Butler. More and more of these returned to inform the council that they would support Richard’s assumption of power.

  They would support him. But his mother would not.

  Standing on the wall-walk of his mother’s castle, Richard looked out at the Thames, inky black in the dead of night. He had written her at length, appraising her of events, of his fears, of the terrible dilemma he found himself in. He had begged for her advice.

  Her reply had arrived late that evening. Under no circumstances was he to reveal Edward’s pre-contract. Under no circumstances should he accept the throne. She gave no reason.

  Why had she urged him against taking the throne? Was it because she knew something no one else knew? Was he the true son of Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York? For if he were not, he had no more claim to the throne than his brother’s bastards. He looked up at the dark sky. There were no stars, just clouds. He leaned on a parapet, the night breeze stirred his hair. His childhood nightmare had finally forced itself to be examined, weighed, and answered. But only his mother held the answer. How could he ask her? Even if she agreed to come to London, which she had not. That one brief response was all she cared to give. The affairs of this world no longer interested her. Neither the death of her eldest son, nor the torment of her youngest.

  The clock at Westminster struck the hour of three. Tomorrow he had promised the council a decision. Wearily, he pushed away from the parapet and made his way down the winding tower steps to his bedchamber, where candles had been left burning for him near the door.

  In the dark shadows behind their flickering light, Anne watched Richard. All day—as she went about her business, receiving petitioners, welcoming guests, visiting friends and selecting gifts to be sent to well-wishers—her thoughts had been on him, on what was happening behind the barred doors of Crosby Place and across the way at Baynard’s Castle where Richard was to be found more and more. Worried about him, anxious to see him, she had come to Baynard.

  She watched as he shut the door gently, careful not to awaken her. Did he really think she could sleep through this misery, when such decisions were being made that would affect the course of their lives? Did he think that by not sharing them with her, he would spare her the agony? She watched as he made his way toward the garderobe. His face was white and haggard, his dark hair in sharp contrast to his pallor. The expression on his face struck at her heart.

  Richard lifted his head and saw Anne. He halted in surprise. “My dear love, ’tis late. You should be asleep.”

  “Nay, my Lord, not on such a night. I’ve been waiting to know… Have you made a decision?”

  He inhaled deeply. “Anne, I have no choice. There is but one decision that can be made. I must take the throne.” He attempted a smile, forced a light note into his tone. “Think, my beloved Anne, you shall be Queen of England…”

  Swept by black, icy fear, Anne could not move from where she stood. A fierce shivering seized her and her teeth chattered. If she had been handed a sentence of death, she could not have been filled with more terror. Richard went to her, enfolded her into his arms. “My love… my love… you know I don’t seek this burden!”

  “Then give it up, Richard!” she whispered. “I pray you—for me, for Ned, for us—give it up!”

  “Hush, my love… Here, you’re cold, take my mantle… Let us sit.” He covered her with his crimson cloak and guided her to a silken pallet by the empty fireplace. “I’ve weighed this from every angle, my love. I do it for the realm, aye, and for myself, so I’m not murdered in my sleep by Woodvilles. But there’s one other reason far more compelling to me. It’s precisely for you and Ned that I must accept the crown.”

  He related the dark possibilities and explained how anxiously the lords, prelates, and influential men of the realm supported his accession, viewing it as an urgent necessity for the peace of the realm. As she listened, her uneven breathing became more regular, and her hands, which had been twisting nervously in her lap, gradually stilled. Her shivering eased, and little by little warmth returned to her body.

  “I don’t know what came over me, Richard, but the thought of being Queen… I suppose it’s tied to memories of the past, to my father’s failed ambitions for the Crown which rained destruction on us. ’Tis irrational, I know, but I could only think of that night in Caen Castle when my father told me I’d be Queen of England one day. I felt as though I was standing in that room again. It brought back… everything.”

  “Think not of Caen, my sweet. What has passed is past, and what will come, will come. We shall meet it when it does. But destiny has chosen me—it has offered us a chance to make a better world…We cannot turn away.” He pushed back a strand of hair from her pale brow. “I have such dreams for our kingdom, Anne. Edward let the Woodvilles use his power to destroy, and in the end they destroyed him, but we have it in our hands to wield our power for good, to shape a new world. One where no man stands above the law. As in King Arthur’s day, Anne… A new Camelot, built on the rule of law.”

  Behind Richard’s head the light of a tapered candle flickered like a star in the night sky, throwing a halo around him. She stared into the deep grey eyes that were filled with his dream. She lifted her hand, traced the cleft in his chin, the line of cheekbone, nose, and jaw. For most of her life, joy had meant this face. She would stand by him, be his helpmate. With God’s help, they would find his nights in Camelot.

  “Aye, my dear Lord, then so be it,” she whispered.

  “Fear not, my dearest love,” Richard bent his face to hers and gently brushed her lips with his own. “An old archbishop once told me, ‘Virtue always prevails.’ And he should know, shouldn’t he?”

  Anne turned her gaze to the candle whose flame seemed to enlarge and brighten all the darkness with its light, and she found herself comforted. Her lips curved into a smile. For the first time in many weeks, the future no longer loomed dark and foreboding, but offered promise.

  “‘Virtue always prevails,’” she echoed, savouring the words on her lips. “’Tis a good thought, Richard.”

  ~*^*~

  Chapter 22

  “We sit King, to help the wrong’d.”

  Beneath the hot June sun, the friar mounted the outdoor pulpit at St. Paul’s Cross, opened his Bible, looked around the hushed crowd. Then he disclosed the secret of Edward’s bigamy.

  “Not only did King Edward the Fourth—God assoil his soul—have a pre-contract with Lady Eleanor Butler,” he concluded, “but he himself was the bastard son of an archer. Therefore, Richard of Gloucester is the true heir of York and rightful King of England!” He pointed to Richard at the back of the crowd. All eyes turned.

  Outraged, Richard stood staring, not at the frowns and tight mouths of enemies and cynics who believed he had concocted the tale in order to usurp his nephew’s throne, but at his cousin, Harry, Duke of Buckingham, who had arranged the sermon. He swung on his heel and strode angrily to his stallion. “You had no right!” he fumed to Buckingham under his breath. “No right to proclaim my brother Edward a bastard!”

  Buckingham ran to keep up with Richard’s furious pace. “I didn’t tell them anything they didn’t know. When your mother learned of Edward’s marriage to Bess, she offered to declare he wasn’t the son of your father the Duke, but of an archer, and therefore had no claim to the throne. That’s common knowledge.”

  “And a foul lie, as you well know! You’ve dishonoured my mother and my brother, and made it look as if it had my blessing! How dare you? From now on you clear everything with me first—understand?”

  Buckingham’s mouth twitched at one corner, and for an instant—so briefly that Richard thought he’d imagined it—his eyes clawed at him like talons. Then the evil look was gone and there remained only the shock of disbelief. Richard�
��s anger ebbed. What was done could not be undone. He owed Buckingham a great deal, and Buckingham was kin, so much like George. In a soft tone, he said, “Harry, I know you’ve done what you thought best, but it was a mistake. Let us forgive and forget.”

  After a long moment, Buckingham gave a taut nod. But he averted his eyes so Richard was not able to see if there was forgiveness in them.

  Richard put the incident behind him, grateful that Buckingham not only did the same, but even tried to make amends. For three days following the oratory at St. Paul’s Cross, his cousin worked hard to gather support by addressing crowds at Westminster, the guildhall, and Parliament. On Thursday, the twenty-sixth day of June, he led a great army of nobles, prelates, and gentry to Baynard’s Castle. Richard went to the head of the grand staircase to meet the crowds.

  “Lord Protector,” Buckingham called in a rousing tone from the foot of the steps, “we have come with a petition! Will you hear us?”

  Richard inclined his head.

  Buckingham unfurled the parchment grandly. “For the reason of the evils wrought on the land by the Woodvilles…” He read a long list of grievances against the hated clan. Then he began the second charge, “For the reason of the falseness of King Edward’s marriage to Elizabeth Woodville…”

  Richard listened patiently. He knew each clause by heart, and so did everyone else—they had drafted its words over the past three days.

  Buckingham finally came to the end of the list. Only one question remained to be voiced and answered. Raising his silvery voice, Buckingham read, “In consequence, as you are the undoubted son and heir of Richard, late Duke of York, we humbly pray your noble Grace to accept the Crown!”

  Richard hesitated. But am I the undoubted son and heir of Richard, Duke of York? In the shadows of his mind the fiery dragon of his childhood nightmares reared up and cried, Thou art no Plantagenet! The Duke of York was not thy father! He forced the vision away. He had come to the moment of truth and still the truth eluded him. “Is there no one whose claim is before mine?” Richard demanded.