“Elizabeth Woodville,” growled Warwick, “or the Widow Grey. Take your choice.”
Elizabeth Woodville. A pretty enough name, Richard thought, as he quietly closed the door.
Chapter Ten
Summer 1465
Richard traveled down to London with the earl and his family for Elizabeth’s coronation the following May. He was dismayed to see the poverty as they passed through the many villages and towns. Villagers stopped to stare sullenly at the richly adorned riders, while barefooted children hid behind their mothers’ filthy skirts. Despite the relative calm of the new regime and with the exiling of most of the prominent Lancastrians, including Queen Margaret and her son, England had been stripped bare by the continual warfare between the houses of York and Lancaster. Maimed and disinherited soldiers had returned to find their homes burned, crops withered, or their disabilities preventing them from doing a day’s work. Ragged bands of angry men skulked in the shadows of trees in the woods, ready to pounce on vulnerable travelers. Lords, however, still demanded taxes or forfeiture, and thus the forests had become home to these peasant outlaws.
Richard was glad of the relative security of the earl of Warwick’s armed guard, and the journey was uneventful. In fact, it gave him the chance to ride alongside Isabel from time to time—although petite Anne was ever present seated in front and protected by her sister’s arms. Richard was disconcerted by Anne’s light brown eyes, fixed on him as he tried to make conversation with the older Isabel.
“I wish you wouldn’t stare,” he finally blurted, but then he felt churlish as Anne’s eyes welled. The admonishment had the intended effect, and Anne hung her head, focusing instead on her hands gripping the wooden pommel.
“Do you hear from George,” Isabel was asking. “Does he write?”
Richard gave a scornful, “Hah! George put pen to paper? To me? Not a chance, I regret to say.” He did not add that he hadn’t written to George either. “But Meggie—my sister Margaret—writes. She tells me George is now considered fully a man with all the privileges of his own household. He will no doubt lord it over me when we get to Westminster.”
“You don’t like him very much, do you?” Isabel looked at him curiously. “I have met him on occasion and I find him perfectly amiable, and,” she simpered, “very handsome.”
A flicker of jealousy wrinkled Richard’s pleasant morning ride through the farmlands of Leicestershire and Northampton. Isabel hasn’t even really noticed me, he thought, his self doubt once again registering he could not match up to his more charismatic brothers. He gave Isabel a little bow and excused himself to ride on ahead.
Puzzled, Isabel watched him go. She liked Richard, but she found him enigmatic and a little secretive. Prettier, but not as clever as her younger sister, Isabel preferred the more direct, uncomplicated character of Rob Percy. However, she did selfishly enjoy Richard’s attention, although he was hard work, she had once told Anne when they were walking in the walled garden. Anne had responded with astonishment: “But I understand him perfectly. He’s the smallest, like me, and we are always trying to catch up.” A remarkably astute observation for a nine-year-old, it must be said. “It is horrid of you to let him think you like him.”
Flirtatious Isabel had merely shrugged. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone, but Father thinks I should marry George.” Anne’s eyes had opened wide and Isabel had taken her sister’s arm and hurried her away from the sharp ears of their nurse. “’Tis true. One day you will have to curtsey to me.” Anne had shaken her head in disbelief then and laughed at her sister.
As Anne mulled over the possibility in her mind now, watching Richard ride ahead, a thought occurred to her. “Then why should I not have Richard,” she muttered to herself.
Following Richard’s progress to the head of the cavalcade that fresh May morning, Anne determined not to give up. One of these days, when she was older and Richard was a man, he would notice her, she was sure. Who could blame the smitten girl for her plea to the Virgin to reserve Richard Plantagenet for herself?
In his confident new position at court, sixteen-year-old George of Clarence could afford to be magnanimous when the Middleham party entered the king’s audience chamber a day or two after its arrival in London. George clapped his younger brother on the back and pumped his arm in friendly greeting.
“Christ’s bones!” George exclaimed with a laugh, holding Richard at arm’s length and subjecting him to scrutiny. “You have lost your baby face and developed some muscle,” he said, squeezing Richard’s bicep hard and nodding his approval. “The northern climes have toughened you up.”
Richard grinned. “’Tis good to see you again, too, George. You must be glad to be on your own now. Meggie’s happy about it. She told me in a letter you had become quite unbearable in your impatience to leave Greenwich.”
It was George’s turn to grin. “Aye, I was an irritant to our sister, I admit. But, as always, she has forgiven me.” Richard said nothing. He knew all too well that George was Meg’s favorite, but her letters had shown him that she had not forgotten her youngest brother and thus, he was now more inclined to shrug off envy. Besides, who could not be drawn to this tall, athletic young man, with a lion’s mane of wavy golden hair, large sapphire eyes and sensual mouth? It was sadly obvious to Richard that Isabel was smitten, and when George turned his attention to his two female cousins, Isabel’s cheeks turned the color of a Lancastrian rose. George also did not fail to notice, lingering over the girl’s hand for just long enough to make Richard grit his teeth. He did not stand a chance with her, he realized, and his niggling resentment of George welled up again.
“As steward of England,” George was boasting to Isabel as he put out his arm to lead her towards the dais, where Edward was in conversation with Warwick, “I am to preside over the coronation. After the queen, I will be the most important person at the ceremony.”
Anne kept close to Richard. “What about the king?” she whispered, looking in awe at the sumptuously dressed giant speaking with her father. “Will he not be more important than George?”
Richard drew her hand under his arm and patted it kindly. “Court etiquette requires the king stay away from his wife’s crowning, Anne. Tomorrow is Elizabeth’s day. But you are right, George is merely vaunting.” As usual, he wanted to add.
Richard had yet to set eyes on the beautiful Elizabeth Woodville and, curious, looked about the room for her. When someone moved out of his line of sight, he knew he had found her. Her pale loveliness stood out from the frowzy, overblown peahens who surrounded her. Her waist-long hair was the color of moon-glow on water, her hooded hazel eyes dominated her heart-shaped face of smooth translucence, and her plump, cherubic mouth was asking to be kissed. He could not help staring. Always alert to ogling, as beauties are wont to be, Elizabeth soon noticed him and came forward to greet him.
“My lord of Gloucester, I presume? You are as His Grace the King described,” she purred as Richard bowed and kissed her outstretched hand. Edward’s showy sapphire gift overpowered her delicate fingers. Mumbling a response, he then presented Anne, who fell on her knees in awe of the vision before her.
A tinkling, silvery laugh made Anne look up surprised. “I am not queen yet, Lady Anne,” an amused Elizabeth said as she raised the girl to her feet. The unusually sweet sound made besotted Edward take note, cutting short Warwick’s rhetoric. Following Edward’s gaze, Warwick stiffened. He watched the meeting between the queen and his daughter with barely concealed disdain, and annoyed he had lost Edward’s attention, he scowled and went to talk to George and Isabel. The moment was not lost on Richard, but his face lit up as Edward approached.
“My dear Richard,” Edward said, acknowledging Richard’s low bow. “I see you have become almost a man in the year since you left us. I must commend Warwick for shaping you into quite the handsome youth.”
Richard was so chagrined, he could not forestall a flush of pleasure. “’Tis good of you to say, Your Grace. I have been traini
ng hard.” He noticed he was now at eye level with Edward’s collar of gold “S’s”. I have grown, he thought pleased, I can remember when I only reached his waist. “And may I present the Lady Anne Neville, our cousin.”
“I see you have made my Bess’s acquaintance,” Edward said after accepting Anne’s reverence. He took his wife’s hand and kissed its upturned palm hungrily. “Is she not the most beautiful creature you have ever seen?”
Richard did not want to contradict his brother, as how could this older woman compare with the exquisite Isabel? “Indeed, Your Grace.”
“You were right, Edward,” Elizabeth remarked. “He is solemn.”
Seeing Richard’s discomfort, Edward hurriedly added: “Solemn and loyal, my dear. Warwick has just been singing his praises.”
“My lord father likes him very well,” Anne suddenly offered. “He thinks he will make a fine knight. He told me so.”
With so much approbation, Richard could hardly breathe. Then Edward, his huge hand easily enveloping Richard’s shoulder, joined his wife’s tinkling laugh with a delighted guffaw. The scene stopped the courtiers’ conversations as all observed the genuine affection between the king and his youngest brother. It was a moment of glory for Richard in a room filled with important people. And what was more delicious: George did not appreciate Richard’s easy intimacy with the king.
“What do you think of our new sister?” Richard asked Margaret a few days before the coronation. He had asked permission to stay in the Royal Wardrobe behind Baynard’s Castle, where Margaret was lodged when not at Greenwich.
Enjoying the late May sunshine in the manicured gardens, Richard was demonstrating a recently learned thrust-and-parry maneuver with a stake he had pulled out of the flower bed. Margaret’s shadow, a young dwarf named Fortunata, was teasing Richard by turning cartwheels just out of reach of his lunges.
“Do stop your swordplay, Richard,” nineteen-year-old Margaret complained, shutting her book with a snap. “I cannot talk to you when you are cavorting like that.” She may have sounded like an irritated older sister, but secretly she was impressed by his graceful movements and his confidence. This was no longer the mewling boy she remembered from the nursery, and she was glad; the past few days had revealed a Richard more willing to laugh, as he was doing now watching Fortunata’s antics. “Fortunata,” she called, “I pray you behave yourself. Go, fetch us some ale instead.” She knew she indulged her beloved servant far too much, but the little Italian was clever, entertaining, and fiercely protective.
“Si, madonna,” the diminutive Fortunata replied, untucking her skirts from her belt and hurrying towards the house.
Richard sat down on the grassy exedra next to his sister and plucked a tiny daisy from it. “Now that we are alone, are you going to answer my question about Ned’s wife?”
How much should she divulge, Margaret wondered. She had at first been on Elizabeth’s side once her brother had taken her into his confidence and asked that Margaret be a friend to his secret wife. Indeed, Margaret was one of only a few who had known of the marriage. Later, he begged his dear Meggie to accompany Elizabeth to Reading, where he had revealed his clandestine marriage to the world and set the cat among the pigeons. Elizabeth had seemed humble enough and pleasant to Margaret and George, but now Margaret was beginning to suspect the woman was proving a negative influence on Ned.
Margaret stroked the smooth leather of her book pensively. “I should like to give her the benefit of the doubt, because Ned loves her so, and…” she tailed off, a tiny blush creeping into her cheeks. Richard did not need to know that she was in love with Elizabeth’s handsome brother, Anthony. That was now her secret.
“…And what?”
“And nothing!” she exclaimed, and rose from the grassy seat. “You ask too many questions, brother.”
Richard grinned. “That is what my lord of Warwick says, too.” He twirled the pink-tipped daisy between his fingers as the next question came to him. “What did Mother say when she found out about Elizabeth? I wish I could have been a flea on Ambergris and heard her.” He chuckled. “You know, I think even Ned is afeared of Mother.”
Margaret stopped brushing down her skirts and with a wry smile confided, “George heard her recriminations all the way from the royal apartments to his own. She left Ned’s side for Berkhamsted not long after without even a bow or bend at the knee, threatening never to return.” The brother and sister shared a laugh, imagining their imperious mother stalking out of Edward’s presence.
“I think perhaps Elizabeth is afraid of us all—of Ned’s family,” Richard decided. “Perhaps she is just a shy person, and one needs to get to know her.”
Margaret harrumphed. “I can think of many words to describe Elizabeth Woodville—spoiled, proud, secretive, seductive, and ambitious perhaps—but shy? Never!” She leaned into him. “And heed my warning: never get on the wrong side of her.”
Naively, Richard could not imagine how he would ever give her cause.
The opulence of the coronation and subsequent banquet told Richard his sister was closer to being right about Elizabeth than he had been by the way Elizabeth indelibly reminded her new subjects that day she was now queen of England. Hour after interminable hour, she made use of her new royal prerogative, forcing those once above her to kneel or stand to serve her. Richard saw with his own eyes that humility was not in her vocabulary nor in her character, and it made him wary.
As he watched her now, Richard had to admit that, seated alone on her splendid throne under a canopy of cloth of gold, her silvery hair flowing over her ermine-trimmed purple mantle, haughty Elizabeth looked regal enough. But her gaze was hard and her movements stiff, and she had none of Edward’s easy air of kingship. The forty new knights, who had been created in her honor that day, knelt to pledge their fealty, and she self-consciously held out her hand for each to kiss without once softening her expression. Whether she was quaking in her elegant, crimson-silk shoes or she was nonchalant about her new status, it was hard for observers to decide. Only she knew.
At last the trumpeters sounded the end of the feasting, and Elizabeth processed to her apartments between two bishops, with the mayor of London carrying the voide—hippocras and wafers in case of hunger in the night—on a silver salver before them.
On the road back to the Wardrobe, Margaret was seething. “Did you see she had our brother-in-law Suffolk on his knees for two hours? She had better never try that with me. I shall refuse!”
Richard chuckled. “Seeing that you are a head taller than she and a good deal stronger, I would think she would not dare, Meg.”
How wrong he was. A year later, after Elizabeth had given Edward his first (legitimate) child—a girl—she was churched with great pomp and accorded another elaborate banquet, where she was attended in silence by eight duchesses and thirty countesses. This time, the honor of serving the queen was given to the king’s sister, Margaret, and Elizabeth’s own mother, Jacquetta Woodville, both of whom had to kneel to serve her at each course and remain thus for as long as Elizabeth was eating. The meal lasted for three hours, and Margaret took ill the very next day.
Regretting he could not wait until Margaret had recovered, Richard had had to return to Middleham. Thus, he had been pleased to receive a letter from his sister upon his return. In dramatic fashion, she declared, I wish I had died. Mayhap she would have learned her lesson. But then she relented, I cannot lie, dear brother, for she did visit me and profusely apologize. That was almost worth the cold bath they put me in to lower my fever. The only person Elizabeth is afraid of is Mother. She becomes the simpering miss whenever our parent comes from Berkhamsted or Baynard’s to counsel Edward. Our lady mother is much versed in politics, I am beginning to realize, and Ned listens to her more than he does his precious Hastings. Do not misunderstand me, I like Will Hastings, but he and Ned are like peas in a pod when it comes to wine and women. I have to confess a slight sympathy for Elizabeth as Ned and Will spend many a night visiting the ta
verns in London or Southwark looking for amusement. And you know what Southwark is famed for.
Richard did not know; he had been only a boy when he lived there in Falstoff’s Place and so had never learned the words whore or wagtail growing up in the north. Her letter continued, Mother was so angered with Ned one night when she caught him crawling home smelling of ale that she made him kneel down so she could box his ears. Her lady, Beatrice, told me the tale and that the Grey Mare stood aside openmouthed.
Richard had laughed out loud. It was as plain as the horn on a unicorn that for all her airs—and her crown—Elizabeth was no match for Duchess Cecily. The letter finished with, As for George, he has developed a bitter enmity for the queen for a reason he is not willing to share, but he should have a care, for the Woodville web is ever growing.
Richard actually shivered as he folded Meg’s letter. Although pleased to be away from court, he worried for his family, and for his eldest brother, burdened with this new responsibility—and a reckless heart.
Chapter Eleven
1466–1467
Ambitious Elizabeth was more than a match for the great earl of Warwick.
After returning to Yorkshire from standing godfather to Edward’s first-born, Warwick again subjected Richard to a tantrum as he listed off the formidable favors Edward boldly granted the queen’s large Woodville clan. Edward had no qualms about offending his exalted cousin, and the two men had become, even to a casual observer, further estranged during the earl’s sojourn at court.
“The Woodville patriarch, a mere chamberlain when Jacquetta of Bedford’s wandering eye caught his at her first husband’s court, has been put on a rank with me,” he said, in a tone hovering between menace and malice. “And no sooner had Edward created the man Earl Rivers than he took away that loyal supporter Walter Blount’s position as treasurer of England and gave it to the wormy Woodville.”
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