“Why is Meggie not coming?” Dickon tried again. “I don’t want to go without Meg.”
“It won’t be so bad,” Meg tried to sound encouraging, “and you will be back soon.” She had no inkling that she would get her turn later to go to Burgundy, but as a bride.
On her way to the boys’ chamber, Cecily had decided to make the hurried departure into an escapade. “We are going to outwit the queen. If she thinks she will find you here and capture you—just as your father captured the king—she will be disappointed, because you won’t be here. You are going to escape the She-wolf’s claws! Do not forget what she did to your father and…” She stopped as she now had the boys’ attention.
“How clever of you, Mother,” George said, grasping the urgency at once. “I am ready to go.”
Dickon squeezed from his mind the gory image of his father’s head on Micklegate and concentrated on his present dilemma. “But what about you and Meggie, and Nurse Anne, and Beatrice….” Dickon countered, obstinate now. “Why just us? I won’t leave you behind. We walked together at Ludlow, and we will stay with you now. Father told George and me to look after you.”
Cecily pulled Dickon to her, and he wrapped his arms about her. She was proud of her youngest and regretted bitterly that Richard would never watch the boy grow into a man. “We shall be fine, I promise, so please do as I say.” She tweaked his bonnet. “’Tis not the first time you have been without me, is it? So be brave. For me. For Meg. For us all.”
“’Twill be an adventure, Dickon!” George chimed in. “We are going on a real adventure.”
Dickon tried to sound enthusiastic. “An adventure, but where? Will we be safe?”
“You will be safe where you are going, truly you will. And Ned will be proud of you,” Cecily assured her youngest, although she had no idea how she was going to carry out this daring plan or if indeed the duke of Burgundy would welcome her sons. At least she had to try. One of her squires, John Skelton, had been entrusted with two hastily written letters, one of which would introduce him and her boys to the English Merchant Adventurers in Antwerp, and the second was to be delivered into no other hands but Philip of Burgundy’s. She had to trust that young Skelton would carry out her instructions. It had tested her fortitude to consign the missives and this responsibility to the strapping squire, whose only outward sign of trepidation was a slight trembling of his hand as he had taken the letters from her.
Cecily knelt in front of her boys and explained. “’Tis for your own safety, boys. If something should happen to Edward—pray God it does not—then you and Dickon are York’s heirs. And thus are heirs to the crown.”
George nodded, understanding. “Where, Mother? Where are we going?”
Cecily straightened and told them they would be guests at the court of the mighty duke of Burgundy. Duke Philip of Burgundy was a friend to England and had supported their father’s cause. Burgundy was a friendly trading partner and would look kindly on two English princes.
“If you think the king of England is rich, you will be astonished by the magnificence of Duke Philip’s court. You shall want for nothing.” She laughed as their eyes grew large, but then she admonished them to mind their manners, study hard, and write to her often.
“Where is Burgundy?” George asked.
Dickon rolled his eyes. “Don’t you remember from our geography lessons? It’s across the North Sea, you idiot.”
Seeing George take a menacing step toward his brother, Cecily admonished, “That’s enough, George.” Time was a-wasting, and she was impatient to leave. “Certes you will go by ship. Imagine, your first sea voyage!”
“A ship, Georgie!” Dickon cried. “We are going to sea, like the game we played yesterday!”
“Aye, something like that. I will protect him, never fear,” George told his mother grandly.
“I am not afraid!” Dickon retorted. “I am a York. And us Yorks are never afraid!”
“There’s a brave boy, Dickon,” Cecily said, much relieved. “Now, both of you say goodbye to Nurse Anne and come with me.”
“Are we to go alone? Who will dress us?” George suddenly asked as Dickon was enfolded in Anne of Caux’s plump arms. The nursemaid had unaccustomed tears in her eyes as she hugged the thin little boy to her.
“One of the squires will accompany you. You know John Skelton?”
George nodded, reassured.
Cecily was about to cross the threshold into the passage when Traveller burst through the door, and she muttered a profanity.
Dickon cried. “Traveller! You have forgotten Traveller.” He was clutching his dog’s neck and announced stubbornly. “I am not going without him. You said we could take one treasure, and I choose Traveller.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Cecily cried. “It will be difficult enough to persuade the duke of Burgundy to take two small boys, but a wolfhound as well? The answer is no. Choose something else.” Dickon stuck out his distinctive chin and refused to move. Nurse Anne held out King Henry’s psalter, and Cecily nodded in approval. “Leave the dog, Dickon…now! Anne, put the king’s gift in Dickon’s bundle. Meg, take hold of Traveller, and you, Dickon, take hold of my hand.” All of Proud Cis’s children knew this was one of those times when she was to be obeyed, and thus a dejected Dickon loosed his hold on his faithful dog and grasped his mother’s outstretched hand.
“I will take good care of him, never fear,” Meg whispered to her brother. “Besides, Ambergris would be very lonely without Traveller, would he not?” Dickon saw the truth in this and sadly conceded.
“Farewell, dear friend,” he said to the dog, who cocked his head and thumped his tail.
“Thank you, Meg.” Cecily smiled wanly at her daughter. “Now let us to the wharf or we shall miss the tide.”
They made their way to the castle quay, where Sir Henry had commandeered a boat without markings so Cecily would not be recognized lest some enterprising Lancastrian spot the duchess and her sons and thwart her plan. Undeterred by its lack of luxury or size, she saw the boys safely stowed with Squire Skelton and then sat herself in the stern. A harried Heydon took the bow seat, his white wispy hair clinging to his sweaty forehead as the boatman dipped his heavy oars into the water and pulled away from the pier towards the scores of ships moored in the Pool on the other side of London Bridge. Cecily sat with her black fur-trimmed cloak wrapped around her frightened children as they huddled together for warmth against the damp February afternoon.
Dickon twisted round to get a last glimpse of Traveller, each pathetic whine weighing on his heart, and wondered if they would ever be reunited. He knew he would miss the dog more than his mother; surely Traveller would miss him, too.
“I will be back with the tide, Meg,” Cecily called to the desolate girl waving her brothers farewell. “You must take care of everything until I return. You can do it; you have learned well!”
Cecily suddenly felt tired. She was used to taking charge of her household and averting crises, but her grief had depleted her great reservoir of energy and making the decision to send her boys overseas was an enormous responsibility. Not for the first time did she resent her husband’s leaving her alone to cope. But cope she must.
She turned to George and delivered another homily. “You are the older brother here, George, and you should think for the two of you. I beg you to stop your incessant fighting and be strong together for the house of York. Do you promise to watch over Dickon?”
Holding his hand over his heart, George replied: “I swear I will do my duty to you and our house,” he said so solemnly, it made Cecily’s mouth twitch. “I will let no harm come to Dickon, I promise.”
“Spoken like a true son of York,” Cecily said, kissing the top of his head. “And Dickon, do you swear to listen to George?”
“Aye, Mother,” Dickon stated, trying to sound as grown up as George. “But…but how long must we be gone?”
“’Tis for your own good and the good of our cause,” she hedged. “I promise to wri
te to you. I shall explain everything then.” She took his face in her hands. “From this day forth, you are no longer my little boy. It is time for us to stop calling you Dickon and use your given name of Richard. You will present yourself to the duke of Burgundy as Richard Plantagenet. With your dear father gone, you are the only one of that name now. Bear it proudly. Is that agreed?”
“Must I call him Richard, as well?” George demanded.
“Certes!” came the stern response. “It will take a little while to get used to, but it will give both of you more dignity at court.” She looked up in time to see they were about to shoot through one of London Bridge’s navigable archways. It was the most dangerous part of the course, with the narrow openings causing the river to sweep through at an alarming rate, and she held on to the gunwale. The boatman was used to it, and, swinging the bow into the rushing current, lifted his oars to the sky to avoid grazing the slimy, barnacled walls, safely bringing them into the calm Pool beyond.
“Your Grace,” Sir Henry said, not betraying the concern he had for the duchess’s harebrained scheme. “Do you know on which ship you wish us to set our sights?”
“You know full well I do not, Sir Henry,” Cecily shot back. “We shall just approach the larger ones flying the Burgundian or English flags and pray someone takes pity on me.”
“I see,” said the steward, and only he could see the boatman lift his eyes heavenward. “Then, boatman, I would start with that one,” and he pointed to a caravel flying the Cross of St. George. Unfortunately the captain was ashore, and no one else had the authority to take the boys on board. The next one was bound for Lisbon, and Cecily was beginning to worry, when they approached a carrack bearing the Flemish name of Zoete. Sir Henry hailed a crew member dumping dirty water over the side. “Your captain, mariner? Where is your captain?” he shouted, and the man waved and ran off. A few moments later, as the boatman came alongside and grabbed the rope netting hanging from the gunwale, a burly man with a globe of a face appeared above them.
“Ja? I am ze captain, Captain Bouwen. Vat you vant?”
Relieved the ship was bound for Antwerp, Sir Henry stated his business and held up a pouch of coins that Cecily had given him. When the man knew he was in the presence of a noblewoman and that he might be rewarded even more for taking the two boys to Flanders, he nodded and grinned, calling over his shoulder to two of his sailors, who swarmed down the makeshift ladder like monkeys.
“Go with them, boys,” Cecily commanded, her heart constricting under her high-waisted gown. She hoped she sounded more confident than she felt. As George and Dickon wobbled unsteadily to their feet, she placed her hand on each boy’s head. “Go with my blessing. And may God keep you safe.” Then she kissed them in turn and whispered, “Never forget I love you.”
“I love you, too, Mam,” George gulped, suddenly feeling very small and afraid.
When Dickon gazed up into his mother’s anxious face, he realized she was as afraid as he was. It suddenly made her vulnerable, and, in a gesture older than his years, he patted her shoulder as he assured her, “We are big boys now, Mother. You need not worry. We shall pray for you every day and that God will keep you safe—and Meggie and Ned and Nurse Anne and you, Sir Henry, and Traveller and…” at the mention of his faithful hound, he choked. Would he ever see any of these faces again?
“You must go, now,” she said, grateful and proud, as she lovingly straightened his over-large bonnet. Turning to the sailors, she said, “Merci, messieurs,” hoping they knew French, “Allez-y.”
Clutching their bundles, the youngsters were hoisted onto the burly mariners’ backs, who delivered them safely on deck. Then John Skelton, after securing their small chest into the netting, followed them on board.
As fate would have it, before Cecily could change her mind and order the boys back, a wake from a passing boat caused the boatman to let go of the rope and tend to his oars. The current quickly widened the gap between the vessels and soon Cecily was borne out of reach. It was probably just as well the boys could not see her tears or feel her doubt, or they might have jumped overboard and attempted to swim to her. Instead, they leaned over the side waving and shouting farewells.
As the figure of his mother receded in the distance and he turned to take in the unfamiliar surroundings and the strange, foreign sailors, young Richard unexpectedly found himself consumed with unbidden rage. He stepped back to wonder why instead of sadness and fear, he was feeling so angry. Nothing much in his life had angered him, until now. It took introspection and the two-day voyage to help him understand: He felt betrayed by his mother. He could not quite believe that the person he had counted on to safeguard him throughout his entire life had abandoned him on an unknown ship with strangers for companions, who did not speak English and who would take him to a foreign land where he knew not a soul. Before this act of betrayal, his mother had not given up on him. Ever. Not even through his difficult birth; nor when she had nursed him through several childhood illnesses at which doctors had thrown up their hands; nor when she had marched him through the enemy soldiers at Ludlow; nor as she held him when his nightmares woke him. Hadn’t she restored Traveller to him when Richard had not thought to see the dog again? And even through that terrible day after Wakefield, when they learned of the loss of their father and brother, she had stayed strong for him. So why would his mother abandon him now? It was only after he returned from the short, forced exile to Burgundy that he had fully understood the sacrifice his mother had made.
But for now, his initial anger, like his father’s, was short-lived, and by the time the anchor was hauled in, it had turned to melancholy. At one point, without warning, a greasy seaman pushed past him, leaned over the gunwale and dumped a bowl of chicken bones into the water from the galley. Richard’s sad eyes followed the zig-zag sinking of the bones to the muddy riverbed, dredging up images of their watery grave. He even morbidly wondered where he might be buried one day—and whether anyone would care.
An old man’s fear for such a young child.
A mere three months later, Richard—a child no more—returned to a London readying for a coronation. England had a new king: Edward the Fourth, oldest son of the late duke of York and his duchess—and Richard’s brother. The twenty-year-old Edward had been proclaimed king by Parliament and Londoners alike after routing the army of Henry and Margaret at the battle of Towton.
How proud Father would be, Richard thought as the city came into view. He was unsure how his brother and Henry could both be king of England at the same time, but he would worry about such a puzzle later. For now, his Burgundian adventure ended, he was overjoyed to return to his native land and the welcoming arms of his family.
PART TWO
Duke of Gloucester, Warwick’s Man
Leicester, September 5, 2012—Eleventh day of the dig
At the trench, the DSP cameras roll as osteologist Jo Appleby bends down and removes a light covering of earth from the chest cavity and upper vertebrae. The spine has the most excruciating ‘S’ shape. ‘Whoever this was,’ she states, ‘the spinal column has a really abnormal curvature. This skeleton has a hunchback.’…
Are they saying this is Richard? If this is Richard, how can he have worn armor with a hump on his back? I flop down onto the spoil heap behind me. I feel as if I’ve been hit by a train. The others want me to be excited because it looks as though we may have found Richard, but all I can hear is the pounding in my ears and the awful word ‘hunchback’ in my brain….
(Later) At the 12 September press conference, the University of Leicester confirms the discovery…On initial examination…it is revealed that the skeleton had acute spinal abnormalities, confirming severe scoliosis—a form of spinal curvature. This would have made the right shoulder visibly higher than the left, consistent with contemporary accounts of Richard’s appearance. Finally, the skeleton did not show signs of kyphosis—a different form of curvature. The man did not have the feature sometimes inappropriately known as a hunchba
ck, and he did not have a withered arm.
—Philippa Langley, The King’s Grave
Chapter Eight
Summer 1461
“Vivat Rex! Long live King Edward!”
Jubilant cries mingled with the clamoring bells and rang around Edward as he rode through the welcoming London crowds on his way to the Tower the day before his coronation. To the strife-weary citizens, the young and handsome Edward of York gave them promise of better governance and a more stable way of life than had the weak, manipulated Henry.
Riding on a richly caparisoned black stallion alongside George in a place of honor directly behind Edward, Richard glanced left and right at the smiling Londoners waving kerchiefs and throwing flowers in the path of the riders, who were followed by the scarlet-clad lord mayor and aldermen and hundreds of London’s most prominent men, uniformly dressed in green.
All the windows of the three-story merchant houses that lined London Bridge were flung open and jammed with spectators. A girl about his own age caught Richard’s eye, and he could not help smiling at the frank expression on her pretty face, her amber eyes full of merriment as she waved to him—merely a face in the crowd today, certainly, but a face he was to come to know again intimately in only a very short time.
But now, the procession was reaching the Tower, its gleaming walls freshly limed for the occasion and the pointed turrets of the massive central White Tower festooned with banners. The fortress guardian of the capital city was ready to receive another king of England into its royal apartments for the traditional coronation eve. Richard was duly awed. His brother would be crowned on the morrow, and Richard was to be initiated into the Order of the Bath that very night.
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