This Son of York

by Anne Easter Smith

  “Aye, his birth. It was whispered that Warwick was prepared to declare Edward a bastard, and….” Jack quickly put his hand on Richard’s arm to stop the angry younger man from leaping to his feet. “Now calm down and hear me out.”

  And so Howard revealed the rumor that Duchess Cecily had dallied with an archer in Rouen while her husband was fighting the French at Pontoise, because Edward was born only eight months after York had rejoined her.

  Richard was scornful. “Mother and…an archer? You have to be in jest, Sir John. ’Tis a monstrous lie, and besides, who would believe it?”

  “Edward’s enemies—York’s enemies, it matters not. The record stands: Your father was not in Rouen at the usual time of conception.”

  Richard gulped. “My mother an adulteress? I don’t believe it.” He thought of the reaction Cecily would have to such a story and shuddered. Then he shook his head. “’Tis impossible. She and my father were truly in love. There must be some mistake.”

  Jack shrugged. “Sadly, people believe what they want to believe. I too think it absurd, but if the rumor persists, I would not discount Warwick’s using it to depose Edward and set George on the throne.” He could not tell Richard that when he had first heard the story he had briefly considered it; after all Edward stood six feet and three inches of pure muscle, a giant in those days, golden fair with bright blue eyes. Richard of York had been of below-average height, slight, dark-haired with brown eyes. But Edward had his mother’s Neville features, and Plantagenets of the past had been imposing. Didn’t Jack’s own son outstrip him by several inches and have his mother’s flaxen hair? Thus Jack had dismissed the idea within a few moments of hearing the fable.

  Richard played with the ring on his little finger and sat staring at the fire. “I would like to believe my brother George would never be complicit in such a monstrous plan,” he said. “But I don’t know him anymore, in truth. Perhaps he does covet the crown.”

  “And you, my lord?” Jack’s quiet words hung in the air like a puff of smoke down-vented from the chimney.

  “It has never crossed my mind,” Richard replied, turning to hold Jack’s gaze. “I was the fourth son. I did what I was told—supported my brothers and did my duty by my king.” He was suddenly reminded of his conversation in the chapel with King Henry, and he chuckled. “I was told once I would probably be a churchman—a bishop. But all I wanted from a young age was to be a knight. Besides, I now know I would hate to be a king.”

  Jack smiled. “Then I shall have no worries about your craving power, young man. In the meantime, may I congratulate you on your appointment as constable of England, a high honor indeed, and well deserved. Your brother has the measure of you.”

  Richard inclined his head in acknowledgement. He had underestimated Edward’s confidence in him, but he was pleased. Prone to undervalue his own strengths, Richard was eager for others’ approbation, which later in life—and especially in times of crisis—would render him vulnerable to flattery.

  Jack looked up as he heard women’s voices on the staircase landing above them. “Margaret, my love, Lord Richard and I are lacking your company. Come warm yourselves.”

  Richard jumped up then, and Jack noted the flush of pleasure on his young friend’s newly bearded cheeks as Richard watched a pregnant Kate follow Margaret Howard down the stairs.

  “When is it due?” Jack asked in Richard’s ear.

  “March, I think,” Richard said, grinning happily. “I pray it is a boy this time.” He had been overjoyed to hear that his and Kate’s tryst in the river near Bury had been fruitful. The news of the demise of Kate’s husband at the hands of outlaws later that summer had also greatly relieved him. The child could certainly be Master Haute’s, but the jealous husband could no longer treat Kate so cruelly.

  Having been faithful to two wives, Jack’s first instinct, upon learning from Margaret that Kate’s child was Richard’s, was to upbraid the young man—a mere boy, in truth—but he was disarmed by the couple’s deep devotion, despite long separations. But it did occur to Jack that promiscuity might run in the York family.

  There was no doubt Jack was quite taken with the youngest York and was gratified Richard had sought to spend more time with him, discussing policies and asking for explanations after council meetings. Richard’s devotion to his brother, his paramour, and little Katherine showed the older, astute councilor a strength of purpose and sense of duty in the young duke that he had not seen in Clarence—nor, in some instances, in Edward. It was in these intimate conversations around the fire at Tendring, when Richard fled the hated halls of Westminster for a few days, that their friendship burgeoned.

  In late November, as the newly appointed constable, Richard received his first proper military command to depart into Wales and recapture two important castles from Warwick’s rebels.

  Richard relished his first taste of combat only a month after his seventeenth birthday. He rode out of London with a goodly body of men at his back, determined to swell the numbers along the route. Rob Percy kept him company, and behind followed Richard’s squire John Parr and his newly appointed secretary, John Kendall, whose father had given so many years of loyal service to Richard’s father.

  Winter in Wales was even colder than at Middleham, Richard decided, as his army climbed into the Welsh hills towards Carmarthen, an early snowfall mantling the landscape. Certainly the wind blew cold in Yorkshire and snow was no stranger, but this chill was damp and seemed to penetrate his bones and make his back ache more. He scanned the untidy hills for signs of rebels and marveled that he was now appointed surveyor and steward of this beautiful but untamed land with its mountains rising in the distant north, where he was also chief justice.

  Richard could now see the stark silhouette of his goal dominating the steep bank of the River Towy to its south, the castle’s keep rising above the high crenelated walls, and a shiver of anticipation ran through him. Carmarthen was a mighty fortress, and he was supposed to capture it. How many men and how much artillery would he be facing? All he knew was the Welsh were fierce fighters and had resisted invading armies time after time in their long history.

  The duke’s small army heard the faint wail of a shawm announcing the enemy’s arrival, and as he drew closer, Richard saw men clambering around the castle ramparts readying for an attack.

  “Remember our training,” Rob told Richard. “You were good at strategy in Blackbeard’s classes. Our intelligence is that the ap Griffiths have split their forces between here and Cardigan. Capture Carmarthen and the other will quickly follow.”

  Richard climbed to the top of a knoll and took stock of the castle and its high wall. As well as the castle, Richard could see the whole town was also walled, which gave him an idea. “What if we, too, split our army,” he said to Rob and his other captains. “We send the artillery to bombard the closest castle wall together with enough of our force to fool them into thinking it is a simple frontal attack, and the rest of us conceal ourselves right under the town wall and, keeping it close, we circle to the back of the town and enter there. Chances are the constable will concentrate his efforts on the army he can see.” He pointed to the city wall that stretched away into the distance. “You see, if they are short of soldiers, they cannot man the town walls as well. We shall attack the postern gate. I warrant one battering ram will suffice.”

  As the cannons began pounding the thick castle wall and arrows flew back and forth between the well populated ramparts and the troops on the ground, it became clear that Richard’s plan was sound. No one noticed the rest of the army stealthily creeping around the city wall until a few good runs at the postern gate with the battering ram alerted the terrified townsfolk to a rear assault. It was too late. The splintered door yielded and gave Richard’s soldiers the access they needed to swarm through the small town and threaten the northern side of the castle.

  Now the arrows came thick and fast, and Richard heard cries from his men as they were felled by the vicious flights, but be
ing attacked on two sides proved too daunting for the Welshmen. Besides they were no match for the English longbowmen’s deadly aims over the walls and into the defending soldiers, and when Richard’s cannons breached the wall, the fight was all but over.

  Not before Richard had made his first kill, however. He saw the pikeman run at him, and bringing his years of practice in the Middleham yard into play, he judged the man’s weapon to within a few feet and stepped sideways, swung his sword high and brought the blade down upon the man’s neck. He was momentarily surprised how easily his sword had sliced through flesh and bone, but he had no time to contemplate the taking of a man’s life before he had to maneuver his weapon again to thrust it into another Welshman’s belly. This time he felt the jarring in his arm as he tore through the man’s tight muscle and gristle and hit the spine, and the terrifying sound of the man’s death cry sickened him. He swiftly pulled the sword out and watched the fountain of dark red spout from the wound as the man fell like a stone.

  Richard’s blood sang and his senses seemed heightened as never before. He was able to ascertain what was transpiring with great clarity, and he began shouting orders, as well as again and again lifting his deadly broadsword. The whole battle lasted no more than half an hour, when Willam ap Thomas ap Griffith surrendered the castle to the young English duke. Looking around at the carnage, Richard was relieved to see most of the dead were rebels. Rob Percy joined him, his tunic stained and his mail nicked, and the two comrades locked relieved looks at seeing each other alive.

  Richard gave orders for the proper burial of the dead, rounded up the rest of the rebels and penned them up, well guarded, for the night. He and his captains feasted on what the kitchen staff had abandoned when the battle began, and slept on trestles in the great hall along with their retainers.

  “Why not seek Thomas ap Griffith’s bed, Richard?” Rob said, peeved. “They must have better beds than these in the lord’s private apartments?”

  Richard shook his head. “Our men have marched and fought alongside us and are just as weary. No need to play the lordly one tonight, my friend.”

  Rob should not have been surprised by the reply; it was all part of Richard’s drive to understand the common man, which Rob thought somewhat eccentric. He himself had spotted a well-endowed Welsh girl and would probably find solace in her arms. “Suit yourself, Richard,” he said, chuckling. “I’m off to find a softer cushion for my head, and a warm port for my…”

  “Aye, I know what for,” Richard laughed. “No need to explain.”

  Cardigan fell to Richard’s army two days later, and he astonished the king and council by returning triumphant in time for the yuletide season at Westminster. Edward was delighted with his brother, especially as Richard had persuaded the captured rebels to swear fealty to the king in exchange for pardons. “Nicely done,” was Edward’s response to the news, and in very short order Richard was named chief justice and chamberlain of South Wales as well as in the north; ironically, both titles were held, until recently, by his one-time mentor, Richard Neville, earl of Warwick.

  However, despite Edward’s magnanimity towards Warwick, Clarence and their faction, and Edward’s determination to govern his realm better, trouble was always bubbling north of the Trent. The month of March saw Richard back in Wales and brought fresh outbreaks of rebellions. Once again it became clear that Warwick and Clarence were the instigators.

  It seemed Edward had learned his lesson, and this time he moved quickly to suppress the uprising. Richard was relieved when he got the news of Edward’s victory at Empingham, a battle later dubbed Losecote Field for the numbers of rebels who tried to shed their Warwick liveries and be spared by Edward. Thinking Edward had matters under control, Richard went about his task of holding several oyer and terminer sessions, pardoning some and imprisoning or executing others for their part in the Welsh defection to Warwick.

  A man had been caught with an incriminating letter about raising men for the rebel cause destined for a Welsh lord. The man was clearly guilty of treason, and it was Richard’s duty to condemn him. Owen Rhys was the same age as Richard and had his whole life ahead of him. He was brought before Richard, his heavy chains clanking on the stone floor, his face bloodied and bruised from bullying guards, and flaunting a defiant stare that hardened Richard’s heart.

  “You have been found guilty of treason, Master Rhys. You shall henceforth be taken to a place of execution where a priest will hear your confession before you meet your Maker. Do you have aught to say before you are taken away.”

  Several lawyers looked startled, and one whispered to another, “’Tis not customary. He will say his piece on the scaffold.”

  Richard held up his hand. “My brother, the king, is perhaps more merciful than you are used to here in Wales,” he said equably. “Let us give this man a chance to defend himself once more.” He rose and approached the prisoner. “Do you deny you aided the cause of the king’s great rebel, my lord of Warwick? Perhaps you were coerced?”

  “I deny nothing,” the man snarled in his sing-song Welsh and suddenly spat on the ground. “And that is for your English king, look you.”

  All pity vanished from Richard’s thoughts. “Then take him away,” he commanded the guards, “and may God have mercy on his soul.”

  Richard found he could now wall off his personal feelings about taking a man’s life. It became all about his duty to his brother.

  And duty called soon after, when Edward found himself chasing Warwick and Clarence southward, who were making for the coast and an escape to France.

  “God’s bones, Ned!” Richard cursed, reading the latest missive a messenger had just delivered. “What a fool you are.”

  Rob and a new member of Richard’s circle, Sir Richard Ratcliffe, looked up from their game of cards. “What now, my lord?” Rob enquired. “Are we called to action? I am bored to tears in these dreary Welsh hills.”

  “I do not doubt we shall be called now. You will not believe it, but the king has returned Northumberland’s earldom to Percy, stripping the loyal John Neville of his prized possession.”

  Ratcliffe whistled through his teeth. “‘God’s bones’ indeed, my lord. Warwick’s brother has remained the one loyal Neville until now…” he did not dare voice what the other two were thinking.

  Richard nodded. “Just so, Sir Richard.” He snatched up his bonnet, stuffed the letter into his doublet and went to the door. “Come, friends, I believe I need to muster the troops. For all he is doing the chasing, I fear the king will be needing our help.”

  Poor Anne, Richard thought, riding hard for Southampton, his soldiers now mingling with Edward’s. The king’s army had discovered the rebels’ destination upon arriving at Warwick Castle, where the earl had gathered up family once again and continued south.

  Anne must be fourteen now, Richard mused, remembering fondly shared times with her at Middleham. She was a kind-hearted girl and did not deserve the turmoil in her young life that her father had thrust upon her. He supposed the same could be said for his own father’s actions back in 1460, but he had an inkling it might be harder on a girl. She should be betrothed by now, he thought, but who would choose the daughter of a traitor—albeit a rich one? And perhaps she had no wish to give up her allegiance to Edward and have to follow her father. Poor Anne indeed.

  Her sister Isabel had married for love, but that love was a millstone as well. The king had been told at Warwick Castle that her grace, the duchess of Clarence, was heavy with child. What an abominable journey for George to inflict on his wife, Richard fumed, but at least they would be together. Part of him prayed that George would come to his senses, forsake Warwick, and return to the family fold—but perhaps he did not deserve to, Richard’s less charitable side decided. Aye, George is just as traitorous.

  Richard’s back was hurting him, and the road seemed interminable, despite the blossoming countryside along the way. The blooming of wild daffodils, cowslips, oxlips, dandelions, primroses, not to mention
the plantagenista or broom, for which his royal house was named, had all caused Duchess Cecily to dub April her “golden month.” It was not long before thoughts of Kate filled Richard’s head and took his mind off his discomfort. As itinerant as he had been in the past weeks, he knew news from Tendring might be greatly delayed. Their child should have come by now, he calculated, and although he prayed nightly for mother and babe, he surmised it would be many more weeks until he would see them. Although he rejoiced in being a father, it saddened him he could not share in the children’s daily lives. One day, he promised himself, he would see to their well-being.

  All should have been well, once Edward’s great rebels—as he had taken to calling Warwick and Clarence—had sailed off from Southampton. Unfortunately, he was only given that summer of 1470 to take stock of the turmoil the rebels had left behind before the news of a possible invasion sent the country reeling once more.

  Who could have guessed that, being denied entry to Calais, Warwick had managed to evade both English and Burgundian fleets to find safe haven in France in May, where his old ally, Louis the Spider, sat waiting to lure him into his scheming web.

  Richard reeled in shock two months later as he listened to the envoy from France tell Edward what had transpired there in June. They were clustered in a small audience chamber at Westminster, for once the thick stone walls useful for keeping out the summer heat. Edward was glowering at the quaking messenger.

  “M…my lord of Warwick has entered into an alliance with…with Queen Margaret, my liege,” the elderly diplomat said. “Warwick has pledged his support for an invasion that will place King Henry back on the throne.”

  He shrank back, waiting for the explosion, and he was not disappointed. Edward slammed his hands down on the arms of his chair and almost levitated from it, shouting: “You lie, you spawn of…of! Warwick and Margaret? It is not possible. Tell me you are lying!”