This Son of York

by Anne Easter Smith

  Plainly garbed to avoid attracting attention on his short journey, Richard entered Coldharbour by a lower back entrance. He had chosen the dinner hour to visit, knowing the occupants of the house would be too busy to notice his arrival. No one hindered his climb up the narrow spiral staircase to the great hall, and he stood unheeded, observing the servants to-ing and fro-ing from the kitchens and buttery with plates of food and pitchers of ale. George and Isabel were seated together at a table on a raised platform, enjoying their meal, but, oddly, Anne was not with them. Richard frowned. As the duchess’s sister, she should have been there. He scanned the long table stretched in front of the duke but she was not there, either.

  Something made George look Richard’s way. The speared chunk of suckling pig froze halfway to his mouth, and he slowly rose from his chair. Richard hurried forward before the ancient steward could heave himself from his seat and attempt a formal announcement. Richard patted his arm and told him remain where he was.

  “You were not expected, my lord,” George said civilly as dozens of pairs of curious eyes watched intently; he knew servants loved to gossip. “Will you take some ale with us?” George offered his brother, pointing to a seat. Richard ignored the gesture and remained standing.

  He noted that Isabel’s face had drained of color, and he felt a frisson of anxiety crawl up his spine. “Forgive my intrusion, Your Grace,” he addressed Isabel, hoping he sounded nonchalant. “May I ask where is the Lady Anne? I have some news for her.”

  “You may give it to me,” George snapped before Isabel could speak. “Lady Anne is unwell and asked to dine in her chamber.”

  Richard heard a gasp behind him and knew George was lying. Richard smiled and shrugged. “Then I trust you will tell Anne I came. I will await word from you as soon she recovers. I don’t think my news will comfort her, so it can wait. I beg your pardon for interrupting your dinner.”

  Before George could object, Richard bowed, turned on his heel and hurried back to the staircase. But instead of going down, he ran lightly up to the ducal apartments on the second floor and, finding no one monitoring them, began to look for Anne. His fear mounting, he threw wide the final door to a small but sunny solar. He found a servant girl spreading fragrant rushes on the floor, who dropped her basket and curtsied.

  “Do you know where the Lady Anne is housed, girl?” he barked a little too harshly.

  “This be her chamber, my lord, but she be no longer here. Been gone a sennight.”

  “A week?” Richard cried, now very much alarmed. He could see the room had been stripped of anything belonging to Anne and the bedclothes had been removed. “Where did she go?” he demanded, grabbing her arm. The girl shrugged, tears starting. “Every…th…thing be gone,” was all she could stammer.

  Frantic, Richard retraced his steps to the staircase, bumping into Isabel at her solar door. She gasped. “You are still here?” She glanced anxiously over her shoulder.

  Richard gripped her elbow and pulled her inside the room. “Where is she, Isabel? Tell me. Where is Anne?” His face was hard, his gray eyes boring into hers, as he now held both her arms and was shaking her. “Tell me! What has George done?”

  Isabel began to cry. “I know not, Richard, I swear. Please, you are hurting me.”

  Richard let go and Isabel stepped back rubbing her arms. Her expression defiant, she said, “She disappeared several days ago. I think she ran away. George sent someone to look for her, but…”

  “I don’t believe you,” Richard snapped, grasping her again. “Why would she run away? And to where? She is a fifteen-year-old girl, for God’s sake, and all alone. Tell me what George has done with her?”

  “I will thank you to unhand my wife.” George’s voice behind Richard startled him, and letting Isabel go, he swung round to face his brother, fists balled, but George’s larger frame made Richard step back. “Isabel is right,” George confirmed, smoothly, “she ran away. I sent two of my gentlemen to search for her to no avail. Most likely she has gone to find her mother at Beaulieu. There is a horse missing from the stable, and that is all I can tell you.”

  Richard was dumbfounded. “What did you do to her to make her run away? It has been a week! Did she take her maidservant? Did no one in the stable hear or see her go?” His voice shook with anger. “This story is preposterous. Why did you not report her disappearance to Edward—or me? You will answer for this, George, as soon as I have found Anne.”

  Then shoving George out of his path, Richard ran down the stairs and out into the garden. There he stopped, his heart pounding and his mind a jumble of possible theories. That she had run away by herself he dismissed; Anne was too timid. Besides, surely someone in the house would have noticed Anne taking the horse and carrying her belongings. Everything had gone from her chamber, that seemed certain. She must have had a helper, and that someone might talk—with a little assistance from a rose noble.

  It was only on the way back to Baynard’s that Richard was consumed by self-reproach. He had stupidly put his trust in George, which once again George had betrayed. Richard blamed himself for postponing a decision to fight for Anne, and now he had put her in danger.

  “A curse on my brother,” he muttered under his breath, “and may he get what he deserves.”

  Richard enlisted the help of the newest member of his growing group of adherents, Lord Lovell. After Warwick’s death at Barnet, the young Francis Lovell had been without an overlord, and Richard was happy to have the intelligent seventeen-year-old as part of his inner circle.

  “As a newcomer to London, no one will recognize you in the Clarence household. The last time Isabel saw you, you were a boy,” Richard remarked, as he, Rob, and Francis sat discussing Anne’s fate beside a crackling fire in his private office. Duchess Cecily had allowed Richard to adopt her late husband’s treasured sanctuary at Baynard’s while he awaited his move to Crosby Hall. Richard could feel the duke of York’s presence every time he entered the room, making him want to impress his late father.

  “We must find Anne, and I am convinced someone in the house knows where she is. Rob and I have a plan for you, Francis. You will go there disguised as a squire come from the duchess of Warwick with a message to her daughter, Isabel, concerning Anne.”

  “Then what?” Francis looked perplexed. “Am I going to interrogate every one of the servants—there must be dozens.”

  “That should not be necessary, Francis,” Rob said, “A cleverly jingled purse will bring someone forward. Money talks, as the saying goes.”

  “You will have my undying gratitude if you are successful, Francis,” Richard said. “We must find Anne. It may take you a morning, but I’ll wager that, by terce, you will be handing out a noble.”

  It took less than an hour for Francis to discover that Anne, dressed as a scullery wench, had been secreted from the house one night and hidden in the kitchen of a nearby tavern or inn, the name of which was the only piece of information still missing.

  Richard was incredulous. He stared at Francis for a full ten seconds before hurling a filigreed silver cup across the room, stirring a memory of a similar scene with Warwick at Middleham. Francis winced, the cup having missed him by the width of a broadsword’s blade, and Rob suppressed a smile.

  “This is too outrageous to be true,” Richard fumed. “Is there no code of chivalry left? Do you have reason to doubt your informant, Francis? Perhaps ’tis a lie fabricated by George.”

  Francis scratched his wispy new beard. “Nay, my lord, I swear the man was telling the truth.” His hand went to his dagger and he grinned. “A little persuasion along with the noble went a long way to extracting the truth,” and he then put his hand to his codpiece. “The man seemed to want to hold onto his jewels.” Rob sniggered, but Richard was in no mood for humor, so Francis continued, “It was he who had smuggled the kitchen maid’s attire to George’s squire and helped dispose of Anne’s wardrobe.”

  Rob snatched up his bonnet and crammed it on his head. “Let us not was
te time talking about this, lads. We must find the poor lady as fast as we can.”

  Richard nodded, buckled on his shortsword and grabbed a fur-lined cloak hanging on the peg. “Onward!” he cried, flinging open the door and calling for his squire. “Fetch our horses immediately, John,” he commanded the brawny young man.

  Soon the trio was cantering out of Baynard’s courtyard and onto Thames Street. They began with the area adjacent to Coldharbour and shocked several tavern owners by sweeping into their modest establishments demanding to search the kitchens. Each time, they found nothing, and Rob began to think this a fool’s errand. And then their luck turned. At an inn at the top of Bread Street, the landlord, on seeing the three noblemen enter, was clearly flustered.

  Richard took the man by the arm and led him to a secluded corner. While Richard interrogated him, Rob and Francis moved quietly through the archway that led down to the kitchens.

  “Do you know who I am?” Richard demanded. The frightened landlord, his rheumy eyes darting in all directions, shook his head at the grim young duke. “I am Richard, duke of Gloucester, brother to his grace, the king,” and he grasped the small man’s stooped shoulders to make sure he was paying attention, “and brother to the duke of Clarence. Has a servant of his placed a kitchen maid in your employ recently? The man would have worn the bull badge of Clarence.”

  The unfortunate landlord trembled and was silent. He had been paid handsomely for taking on the useless wench. It was clear she had never washed a dish in her life nor cut open a fish, and it was only the promise of more reward for silence that had prevented him from turfing her out.

  “Well?” Richard barked, forcing the man’s arm behind his back. “Answer me, you fool, or I will break your arm!”

  Luckily for the landlord Rob’s excited voice broke in from below: “My lord, she is here!” Richard threw the man onto a bench and growled, “Don’t move,” before hurrying down to the kitchen, where the rest of the servants stood gaping.

  Anne was huddled on a stool sobbing, Francis crouched beside her offering his kerchief. When she saw Richard, she ran into his arms. She reeked of onions and fish. Her long, light-brown hair was matted with grease, her hands raw from cold and lye, and her homespun gown stained with blood and gravy. No semblance of the noble lady remained in the waif, who clung to her savior with such desperation, her red, swollen eyes framed by dark hollows.

  Richard stroked her face and whispered her name, trying to calm her. “Anne, Anne, hush, sweetheart. Never fear, I am here, and you are safe now.” He turned to the curious onlookers. “Away with you! All of you,” he commanded, and the servants scurried away.

  Her sobs abating, Anne spied the landlord creeping up the stairs, and pulling away, she pointed at him: “George paid him to take me, and he has treated me abominably,” Warwick’s daughter cried, regaining her composure. “He beat me and threw me to the ground. I have bruises…”

  The landlord was clearly terrified that the lazy girl’s accusation could get him arrested or worse, and he attempted to defend himself. “I was paid to take a servant who they said was soft in the head. They said she would pretend to be a lady.” He feigned bravado as a last resort: “Ha! look at her. Does she look like a lady to you?”

  He was unprepared for the fist that hit him square on the jaw. “This is the Lady Anne Neville, widow of Prince Edouard,” Richard hissed over the pathetic figure on the ground, who spat out a bloody tooth. “Rob, send someone upstairs for the sheriff. This man should be in irons.”

  The blubbering landlord crawled to Richard’s feet, begging for mercy, for which he received a swift kick. “You are no better than a dog!” Richard snapped. “Come, Anne. Let us away.”

  Anne was too grateful to be shocked by Richard’s violent behavior, but she wondered later at the change in him. He was still her beloved Richard, although a black cloud seemed to hover about him, but perhaps her predicament had angered him, and she could only be secretly thrilled.

  Gentling his cloak about her pathetically thin shoulders, Richard led the way out to the street, leaving Rob behind to deal with the landlord. “Francis, all is arranged with sanctuary at St. Martin’s?” he asked.

  “Aye, my lord,” Francis answered his lord, whom he revered. It would be many years before he would allow himself to acknowledge the growing friendship.

  “How can I ever thank you?” Anne said, melting into the safety of Richard’s protection.

  Richard smiled. “Marry me, my lady,” he said simply.

  “With all my heart,” was Anne’s happy response.

  Anne’s devotion to him and the gallant way in which he had sought her out led her to assume that Richard returned her feelings. She never considered the young man’s understandable ambition to marry into the wealthiest family in England, and, just as her sister had been for George, Anne Neville was the best match for a brother of the king. But for Anne, she wanted only to wed the man she loved.

  Three steps lay in Richard’s path to the altar, and only two were legal obstacles: George’s sanction and the Pope’s dispensation. The third was a task Richard dreaded: bidding Kate farewell.

  She arrived with the two children at Crosby Hall during advent. As well as delighting in being a father, Richard’s passion for his beautiful mistress kept him away from Westminster night after night while he imprinted on his mind the image of her naked body rising above him, lying beside him, or thrilling him with every caress—memories that he hoped to carry with him forever. How he wished he could take her to court, show her off, and introduce his family to three-year-old Katherine and baby John. But Kate had begged to remain anonymous, high-born gossiping a real fear. “I would embarrass you,” was her excuse, and so Richard had kept his promise to her. Later he would also keep his promise to acknowledge the children by placing them in noble houses. “Let them never forget they have a royal father,” he begged of her, “and one who loves them.”

  “This is farewell, is it not?” she whispered into the dark, fingering the écu talisman she had given him and that was always about his neck. “Can I guess? You are to be married? Is it…will it be…soon?”

  “’Tis not settled yet, love. I have Edward’s permission at last, but my brother, George, is opposed, and there is much dissension between us. You see, I hope to marry his sister-in-law…”

  “…Anne Neville.” Kate’s tone made Richard wince, but he would not flinch from his duty.

  “Aye, ’tis Anne and no surprise. You must know that I marry for other reasons than love.”

  He explained as much as she needed to know about the obstacles he faced and the intricacies of why Anne was the right consort for him, but he hastily promised his tearful mistress: “It has nothing to do with my heart. You have that, I swear. How could I ever forget our precious times together. You have taught me what true love is by loving me despite my having to forsake you now. But to honor both you and Anne, I must foreswear our liaison. One day, I promise, Anne will know of my love for you—and our children—and she will have to accept that I have a divided heart.”

  “I think I understand,” Kate answered, sadly. “But I cannot help hoping my part of your heart will be the larger.”

  Richard smiled in the dark, took her in his arms and cradled her to sleep. He wondered if the honorable Kate would love him still knowing he had so recently committed regicide. He prayed fervently that no one but he and God would be privy to his crime and closed his eyes.

  “Let me dress you today,” Kate pleaded the next day, as they bathed together. “I want you to go to court with my scent upon your clothes.”

  He kissed her trembling mouth, tasting tears. This would be the last time they would be naked together, and the ache in his heart almost translated into tears of his own. He touched the new ring he had given her; delicately filigreed in gold, inscribed with his chosen motto: Loyaulté me lie—Loyalty binds me. “Know I shall not forget you, Kate. And if you have need of me for anything at all, send me this ring and I will ans
wer.”

  “Fiddle-faddle!” Kate retorted, bravely. “Why would I ever need you, pray?”

  When she had lovingly clothed him in his finest velvets and satin, he left her standing proudly in the middle of the room clutching the first love poem he had ever written. Before he could change his mind, Richard fled. So long as Katherine and John lived, he knew his love for their mother would never die. It was also a sad certainty that this was, for him, the close of a chapter.

  Chapter Nineteen

  1472–1473

  Edward watched his two brothers with growing impatience. His admonition to them during yuletide appeared to have kept the peace for the season, but the two dukes had circled each other for most of the festivities like a couple of rival tomcats.

  The court had removed to Sheen, a favorite palace of the queen’s, and Richard’s fight for Anne had reached a climax. Still stuck in sanctuary, the pawn in the two men’s game awaited her fate, although her confidence in Richard never wavered. “’Tis what I like about her,” Richard had admitted to Rob after yet another visit to St. Martin’s in early February with no news of his success. “Her loyalty to me has not diminished despite my inability to win her. I must not let her down.”

  Now George goaded his brother, sarcasm dripping like goose grease off greedy fingers. “Such the gallant lover, aren’t you? Anne must be loving her cold little cell at St. Martin’s while you sleep on a featherbed under a coney coverlet. At least she has no excuse to spend as much time on her knees as you do, O perfecte quidem pie hominem.”

  George believed Richard’s Latin was as bad as it had been in the schoolroom, but Richard surprised him. “I am no ‘perfectly pious person,’ George. Pietate autem Diabolus esse melius quam,” he retorted. “And you are no better than a devil. Anne is safe, warm and cared for, which is more than can be said for her time at Coldharbour.”