“My friend Rob will be envious we are reacquainted, mistress. We dubbed you ‘the Lady of the Forest,’ that day,” Richard said, releasing her hand, and then cursed himself for mentioning Rob’s name. He need not have worried; Kate was too busy trying to calm herself. She had thought of the young duke many times in the loneliness of her unhappy marriage, and he was the last person she had expected to see today. He excited but unnerved her at the same time. However, thanks to her resilience and quick tongue, she rallied: “The Lady of the Forest is happy to see you again, too, my lord.” And her voice, she was pleased to note, sounded almost normal. “What brings you into Suffolk at this dreary time of year?”
Seeing the two young people now comfortable with each other, and feeling superfluous, Jack Howard sneaked off to fetch Margaret just as the dinner bell rang.
Once the rain stopped, the afternoon was spent with the gentlemen of the house enjoying friendly sport at the archery butts while the women dallied with their needlework, usually an excuse to gossip.
Richard shone at archery and proved it by besting all but one in the group in the first two rounds. However, at that moment he was only aware of the proximity in the house of the lovely young woman from Chelsworth. Glancing up at the solar window, where he imagined the ladies were plying their needles, he was sure he could see those amber eyes watching him. He quickly looked away as Jack called for his next shot, which flew wide and surprised even him.
“Come, come my lord,” Jack teased, “one would suspect your mind is on cupid’s bow, not on your own.”
Richard’s attempt at astonishment made Jack laugh. “’Twould be a fool who did not see the lady pleases you,” he said, conspiratorily. “Who could blame you. If only I were younger…”
“Sir John,” Richard protested, pulling another arrow from his quiver. “Let me demonstrate that my mind is indeed on our sport.” He took aim and his arrow found the bullseye with a thud. “Observe, Sir John, I shall prevail yet. Wait and see.”
No doubt you will, young man, Jack thought with amusement. No doubt you will.
Richard sat entranced.
Jack and Margaret had persuaded Kate to take up her harp and sing as they all gathered in the Howards’ private solar. “You must remember her, my lord, from Westminster? At the coronation feast? You were there in the room when she sang.”
“Certes! I knew I had seen you before, Kate,” Richard had said happily and was rewarded with a smile. “Why did you not remind me? Aye, please sing for us again.”
It was a cozy family scene, with Jack lounging on damask cushions at his wife’s feet as she rocked their baby daughter in the cradle while two of Margaret’s gentlewomen sat apart diligently embroidering in the light of a small candelabra.
Kate’s pure voice and eerie tale transported them all to an imaginary king’s hall where the ghostly voice of his drowned younger daughter miraculously rose from the strings of a harp standing by itself in front of the king. Betrayed and murdered by her sister for the love of sweet William, the harp revealed the tragic story, finally accusing the false Helen in the last melancholic minor notes.
The company sat transfixed for a few moments until Jack said quietly, “’Twas well done, Kate. You have moved us all.”
Kate glanced up at Richard and was taken aback by the intensity of his expression. Humbled, she lowered her eyes and carefully wrapped her harp in its velvet covering. Richard said softly, “Mistress, you have a rare gift. My compliments.” How he managed to keep from reaching out and touching her he did not know. Every fiber in his body yearned to know this woman. This felt different from his childish infatuation for the untouchable Isabel. Could this be real love?
An explosive snap from the dying fire startled everyone, and heaving himself to his feet, Jack pronounced it time to retire for the night. “Come, Margaret, we should leave our guest his room. God give you a good night, Kate.”
Clutching her harp, Kate dropped a curtsey not daring to look directly at Richard again. After the women had gone, Jack turned to Richard to bid him goodnight. “I believe my cursed leg is healed enough to hunt on the morrow. If it dawns fine, we should go.”
“Tell me of your injury, Sir John. ’Twas a boar charge, was it not?”
“I pray you call me Jack while we are privately at Tendring. And aye, it was a boar. A noble beast, in truth, which, in the agony of dying, will make one last charge at its adversary.” He chuckled. “Alas, that was me.”
It cannot be said that Jack Howard’s praise of the fearsome wild boar that night inspired Richard to choose the animal for his badge, for he had been pondering a choice ever since Edward had given him leave to order new livery for the small household he was setting up for himself, but he now decided the beast would serve him admirably. One of York’s enemies, John de Vere, earl of Oxford, had used the Blue Boar as his cognizance until his execution at Edward’s hands, thus Richard came to choose the white, Blanc Sanglier, which was to be associated with Richard throughout his life.
Not a half hour later wild boars and badges fled his mind as soon as he blew out the candle hanging on the bedpost. His thoughts were all of Kate and how much time he could snatch with her the next day. For once, his desire to hunt was doused by a fount of passion for the enchanting young woman sleeping not thirty paces away.
The very next day, Richard lost his virginity. As he lay back on the bed in Kate’s small chamber, he marveled how easy and how natural it had been. No wonder Edward was so addicted, he shamefacedly admitted.
There had been a little awkwardness at the start when he struggled to undo his straining codpiece, but Kate had known what to do and with nimble fingers loosed the ties, impatiently allowing him to enter her. The pleasure was exquisite but short-lived as the climax was alarmingly swift. The coupling had lasted mere seconds, he was sure, but even so he felt unusually drained of energy as well as filled with amazement. When he turned to look at Kate’s perfect profile and make sure the pleasure had been as extraordinary for her as it had been for him, he was horrified to see her tears.
“Did I hurt you, Kate? You cried out, and I was selfish…”
She smiled then. “Nay, you did nothing wrong. My silly tears are happy ones.” She hesitated, but her joy could not be hidden. “May I confide in you, my lord? You did think I was experienced, a twice-married woman.”
Aye, and thus no virgin, Richard had supposed. He was astonished when she told him about her first marriage at thirteen to an old man unable to bed her as he had dearly desired, and who, in fact, died trying. Her second husband, George Haute, she revealed with a mixture of sadness and anger, preferred his own gender. “And so, Richard, this, too, was my first time,” she told him with a rueful smile.
A wave of relief washed over Richard. Although they had known their mutual desire would lead to adultery, Kate had assured Richard before they gave in to their passion that the blame would be hers as she was the married partner. Guiltily, Richard had not protested too much; he found the urge to lie with her had quelled all rational thought.
Now he understood. Although in the eyes of the church she was guilty of adultery, Kate’s two marriages had not been consummated. Hard for her to prove and thus outwardly she was culpable, but here was an instance when Richard refused to let worry take control.
“In neither case have you been truly married, sweetheart.” Where had that endearment come from? The word had never before come out of his mouth. But with Kate, it seemed perfectly natural. “God will forgive us, if we confess.”
Kate laughed and ran her hands over his chest and shoulders. He caught his breath; for the first time in their nakedness he thought of his misshapen back. Had Kate noticed? She must not have or she would have surely turned away in disgust. He drove the thought from his mind and succumbed to her caress.
“And so,” she answered slyly, “if we do confess later, what is the harm in doing it again?”
“And again, and again…” Richard whispered, surprised at how soon his b
ody was able to respond to her touch. “But let us not rush it this time, if ’tis possible.”
Kate leaned over to kiss him, her impossibly long and lustrous red hair spread like a veil of satin over him. “Then let us learn together, my lord. At this moment, we have no one but ourselves to please.”
Ignorant of such matters as they were, the last thought they had was of consequences.
As a result of an afternoon of pleasure and more later that same night, Richard was to learn painfully of its uninvited fruit.
The few lines of untidy scrawl in between ink blots came soon after his first letter to Kate. Her elegant dexterity with the harp did not spill over to the quill he noted with a grin, and he loved her the more for it.
My dearest love, I, too, yearn to be with you once more. And more so now that I am with child.
Richard smothered his gulp with his hand and read the announcement again. Could this be true? They had only made love three times in the space of a mere twelve hours. Sweet Jesu, he was to be a father? Surely he was too young? His seed not ripened? Fifteen was young to sire a child, wasn’t it? And yet he did not doubt his beloved. He read on: My mother Haute knows, but she believes it to be her son’s.
Thank Christ, Richard thought and then crossed himself. “Forgive me, Father.” he mumbled, not meaning to take the Lord’s name in vain, especially not in the matter of bastardy.
Tell me what more I should do and when I shall see you again, Kate wrote. And fear not, for I am well. Your faithful Kate.
Richard knelt at his little prie dieu, and stared at the exquisite painting of the Virgin and Child in the well-used prayer book King Henry had given him. “Help me to be the man I need to be for my child, sweet Mother of God,” he said, feeling the comforting mantle of childhood slip away. “Help me shoulder this new responsibility. I shall not abandon the babe—nor Kate.”
He bowed his head, turned the page, and prayed.
PART THREE
Lord of The North, Edward’s Man
Leicester, December 7, 2012
Dr. Jo Appleby had undertaken the osteology examination at ULAS (University of Leicester Archeology Services) and was waiting to reveal the results to us…. together with Dr. Piers Mitchell, a scoliosis specialist…
The remains would be on a table in the centre of the darkened room, positioned on a specially designed light box that would illuminate them gently from beneath…the remains would be given as much dignity within the analysis as possible.
I don’t remember the opening words of the session. All I could see was the box that illuminated Richard, his washed bones bright against the darkness. To me he seemed unprotected and I felt like a ghoul invading his privacy….
…Piers Mitchell explained the scoliosis. He had measured the remains…the curvature could have been as much as 80 degrees in life. …It was idiopathic scoliosis, that is, of no known cause: he hadn’t been born with the condition. …It was most likely progressive and may have led to a shortness of breath, due to increased pressure on the lungs. …The curve was a “C” shape in the upper torso, and would have made the right shoulder appear higher than the left…the right clavicle was a different size and shape, much bigger than the left.
—Philippa Langley, The King’s Grave
Chapter Fifteen
Summer 1468–Spring 1469
London had never looked so festive as it did on the day its citizens bade a bittersweet farewell to one of England’s most precious assets: the king’s youngest sister, Margaret. The cheering throngs were sending the twenty-two-year-old princess on her dutiful journey to Bruges as bride of the powerful duke of Burgundy. It was said to have been one of the greatest matches of the century, and it may have been that Londoners understood its significance even then. Whatever the alliance may have been deemed later, Edward appeared mightily pleased with it then.
Richard slapped a bluebottle off his soft kid glove as a plague of them continued to worry his horse. The animal’s tail swished them from its rump and its shaking head kept Richard busy with the reins. It was unbearably hot that June day, not a cloud in the sky, and the scent of so many garlands and strewn blossoms, mingling sickly sweet with the masses of sweating bodies, horse droppings, and general London filth, was overwhelming. He saw one old woman swoon onto the dirt and called to an escorting guard to fetch water for her.
He was riding side by side with George, and although both regally robed in royal purple doublets with white slashed sleeves, Richard knew most eyes were on his handsome, garrulous brother, who flung coins into the crowd and bent to accept nosegays from giggling maids. Richard sat his horse quietly, hoping the tailor had adequately padded his jacket so his uneven shape would not show. They did not know him here in London, and most stared at him curiously. He knew he should wave, but his horse was skittish, and he kept his eyes on Warwick, who, astride an enormous black courser, was leading the procession with Margaret riding pillion, her scarlet cloth-of-gold gown draped artfully over the horse’s back and tail. Somehow from the February fracas to this auspicious occasion, Warwick and Edward had darned the hole in their former friendship, and Warwick had agreed to be Margaret’s escort. Richard was much relieved; perhaps now he could resume relations with the earl.
Richard had not been privy to the discussions Edward had held with Warwick in February at Coventry, to which the earl had been persuaded to attend by his brother, Archbishop Neville. Warwick had reluctantly reconciled with two of his adversaries, but he would not keep company with the Woodvilles. Edward also refused to take warning from the earl’s ire that he had forged alliances behind Warwick’s back with Burgundy and Brittany against France, leaving the earl to keep his own counsel and the wounds to fester. How the two men arrived at this day of unity was testament to Edward’s naive dealings with the powerful Warwick—of which the earl would fully take advantage in the not too distant future—and Warwick’s arrogant belief that he was the power behind the throne.
Was it Richard’s imagination or were the Londoners cheering Warwick as much as Meg? He thought he heard, “à Warwick” in the cacophony of voices, trumpets, and bells, and he observed how the earl smiled and bowed left and right, throwing coins into the crowd. Richard had often admired his mentor’s ease and generosity towards the Yorkshire yeomen. Warwick seemed to reserve his arrogance for the nobility below him and not for the commoners. Edward would do well to copy him, Richard thought, for once Warwick and Meg’s horse had passed a well-wishing group, the cheers became less enthusiastic for Edward following them.
Halfway down the Chepe, Margaret caught Richard’s eye and blew him a kiss; without a moment’s hesitation, Richard looked over at George. Surely it was for him, Richard thought, but George was busy bussing a plump woman’s blushing cheek, eliciting catcalls from the fishwife’s intimates. Richard pointed at himself, and Meg nodded and blew him another. She looks so confident, he thought. Happy almost. She was sitting tall and proud behind the earl, waving to the wish-wishers lining the windows, doorways and street. But Richard knew Meg was dreading going “to her fate” as she called her arranged marriage.
“’Tis my duty,” she had told him. “As a woman, I was born to be of use to my family. This is what I am useful for, like it or not.” Richard understood duty only too well and had acquiesced. If only Edward had considered duty before marrying Elizabeth, he thought. Although consumed with passion for Kate, Richard knew their love could not lead anywhere; his duty would not allow it.
A cry of “God bless our own Lady Margaret!” from a group of nuns jolted him back to the present, and he remembered learning how Meg spent hours of her time nursing the sick and giving alms to the poor in this overcrowded, plague-ridden city. He would miss Meg. He felt pride for his generous, intelligent sister, and wished instead it were George leaving to be married to young Mary of Burgundy—an alliance that had come to nothing.
He shifted in his saddle and turned to watch a juggler fling balls high in the sky. Is that what Edward must do as governo
r of his people, he idly wondered. Keep so many balls in the air? All of a sudden he recalled the conversation he had had with poor King Henry about the burden of kingship, and now Richard thanked the saints he was not destined to wear a crown.
One-by-one her family said goodbye to Margaret in the hall of the archbishop’s palace at Canterbury, where they had all stopped for the night to pray at Thomas a Becket’s shrine. Edward, Elizabeth, George and Richard each presented her with a parting gift, while Cecily, stoic as always, took her daughter aside into an adjoining room and gave her a mother’s blessing.
Watching Meg’s carriage and her entourage move slowly out of the courtyard on its way to Margate, and hence by ship to Flanders, Richard, standing with George and Edward, felt a real sadness at her loss. He had been touched when she sought him out at her wedding festivities at Stratford Langthorne Abbey to whisper that she had divined who was his lady love. “Such a beauty, Richard. And she is with child, is she not?” Meg had asked. Richard had known his flush confirmed her suspicion. He had inveigled Jack Howard to bring Kate to the abbey, amusing the older man who could not refuse. “Even if she were not such a beauty, I would not blame you for having fallen in love with her voice,” Meg had told him. “It is surpassing heavenly.”
Indeed, Margaret’s cheerful attitude throughout the week-long pre-marriage proceedings had impressed Richard so much, he had at one point actually concluded that Margaret would have made a better leader than the men in his family. Her regal bearing—at five-foot eight inches—and her ability to converse as easily with men about policy as with women about fashion would endear her to her new Burgundian subjects in a very short time, Richard had no doubt.
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