“I will consider accepting the crown but only if I have Parliament’s and the people’s blessing. This must not look like a coup d’état, my lords. If I do my duty, it must be seen as England’s choice not mine. And it must be a peaceful solution, do you understand?” Remember my father, he was tempted to say. “If you are agreed we can discuss ways to bring this to a satisfactory conclusion.” He sensed the only reluctance coming from Archbishop Rotherham, but Richard did not blame him; he was a churchman who had sworn an oath to uphold young Edward’s claim—as had Richard himself. He changed the subject.
“I must report on further mischief by Thomas Grey, marquess of Dorset. I have intelligence that he is still at large and plots to ‘rescue’ his half-brothers from the Tower and assassinate me, to which end he has been in secret communication with his imprisoned brother and uncle in Yorkshire. As I would prefer not to part with my life as yet, we must find him, my lords.” Taking a deep breath, he again courted controversy. “And now, if you indeed wish me as king, then I would have the right to end Rivers’ and Richard Grey’s continued treason, would I not?”
There was a gasp from the clerics Rotherham, Bourchier and Russell, but Stillington merely nodded. Certes, Richard knew he could count on Stillington to support him now, if the man wanted to keep his position on the council. Henry Percy, earl of Northumberland, and no lover of Woodvilles, was the first to say, “Aye,” and the others followed.
Richard hid his relief, but he would not rest easy until he knew his enemies were dispatched. He was sorry Earl Rivers had tried to trick him at Northampton for he had always admired the handsome, erudite Anthony, as had Edward, but a traitor must be punished; Richard did not see the man as anything else. And so once again, Sir Richard Ratcliffe was sent north, but this time to give the order to execute the oldest brother and youngest son of the queen.
Despite the unknown whereabouts of Elizabeth’s first-born, Richard slept soundly that night for the first time in weeks.
Bastard slips shall ne’er take root, was the theme of that Sunday’s sermon at Paul’s Cross outside the Gothic cathedral in the heart of the city. Coached by the duke of Buckingham, Father Shaa, brother of the mayor, delivered an oration to a huge crowd that hung on every word of the scholarly cleric’s declaration that of the three adult sons of Richard, duke of York, the one most deserving of inheriting the crown was his youngest, the lord protector. Extolling Richard’s virtues, Ralph Shaa also pointed out that when King Edward had married Elizabeth Woodville, he had failed to disclose a previous contract with another.
The ensuing buzz among the spectators had to be silenced by a loud drum roll. At the side of the cathedral, seated on his horse and next to Buckingham, Richard scanned the crowd with apprehension, knowing Londoners eyed him with suspicion. How would the people react? Would there be a mandate for him to take the crown, or a bloody insurgence? He had been against Harry’s bold suggestion from the start to make a public announcement of Edward’s infidelity, of his betrayal of a vow, and worse his keeping this damning secret his whole life, jeopardizing his heirs and the country. Nay, Richard had told Harry, it was too humiliating to broadcast, but, sweet Mother of God, it was happening. He barely listened to the learned father explain Richard’s right to the throne, extol his upright nature, his piety and morality. He wanted it to stop.
“He is the true son of his noble father, Richard of York,” Father Shaa droned on, “whose direct descent from Edward the Third has never been questioned. The lord protector is the spitting image of him. Not so his brother and our former sovereign Edward, whose mother herself once acknowledged he was not York’s son, and thus did he doubly stain the throne with bastardy.”
Richard held up his hand to stop the man’s lies to little effect. The crowd, titillated by the idea that Edward might have been a bastard, turned restless and angry, and to his intense shame he could not summon up the courage to defend his proud mother. He hissed at Harry: “I suppose I have you to thank for this? Publicly insulting my mother was not anything we discussed. I am leaving.”
As he gentled his horse around, he caught sight of Kate in the crowd, standing with Margaret Howard and staring straight at him. Why was she there, he wondered as his heart lurched. Her eyes were full of compassion, but, thoroughly disgusted with himself now, he could not bear to accept even a modicum of goodwill, and, turning his back on her and the still-blathering preacher, he made for Baynard’s.
The castle yard was empty; everyone had been given leave to hear the sermon, and so he spent the next half hour stabling his horse to work off his frustration. How humiliating to be under his mother’s roof and hear the defamation of her ringing in his ears. Thank the sweet Virgin, she is at Berkhamsted, he thought. It was no work for a duke, but mucking out the manure and piss-soaked straw seemed to him to be exactly what he deserved at that moment. I am no better than shit, he decided, noticing his fine leather boots were ruined. The task may have served as a penance, but it also put him in the mood to confront his presumptuous cousin.
“Never plan any public action without consulting me first,” he railed at the astonished Buckingham, after having downed two cups of wine. “I assume I have you to thank that my noble mother was slandered. How dare you! How are we going to undo that wrong?”
Buckingham shrugged. “You worry too much, Richard. You do not seem to understand, it doesn’t matter. Alea iacta est—the die is cast, and you will be king. If you had stayed you might have seen how Shaa turned the crowd around so skillfully—‘England needs a man not a boy’ he told them. They were moved to shout your name. The people want you as their king.”
“Harry, you are exasperating,” Richard growled. “I never know when you are lying. Besides, how many times have I told you, I really do not want to be king.”
“God’s bones, Richard, why so reluctant? You will not be alone, Cousin,” Harry said eagerly. “You will have me at your right hand advising you. Together we shall be invincible.”
“I’ll have a whole council to advise me, Harry. So what do you propose to do next? I will accept nothing without the consent of Parliament, and we postponed that session when we cancelled the coronation.” He picked up his square velvet hat, and went to the door. “As you are so keen, you deal with it. I shall go and find Anne.”
“You do that, Richard. Leave everything to me,” Harry reassured him. There were skeptics who would not have credited Buckingham with a plan, but it seemed Harry had it all worked out. “I am doing this for you, Cousin—all for you.”
“For me? I have told you before I never wanted this. I am doing my duty for England, and that is all,” Richard snapped and turned away.
But nothing could deter greedy Henry Stafford now with so much power within his grasp.
In fact, Buckingham comported himself brilliantly for the next three days, giving elegant voice to Richard’s claim to the throne and the country’s need for an adult leader. “’Tis never wise for a king to leave a boy as his heir,” was the main thrust of his argument after touting Richard’s legitimate claim. He well knew that the bastardy story had preceded him, and he doubted only a few of the dignitaries of, first, the lords, then the Guildhall and finally Parliament—or rather, a large enough gathering of that body to warrant it being deemed Parliament—had not already heard the news. Those present tasked with chronicling events for posterity would say that the duke of Buckingham’s words were so well and eloquently uttered, and with so angelic a countenance, that no one had ever heard such an oration before nor did they question its sincerity. One scribe even mentioned that the duke was able to talk at great length without taking pause to spit. Buckingham was in the ascendant and even began to refer to himself a kingmaker. “Like my lord of Warwick,” he boasted to Francis, who ominously retorted, “Let us hope you, too, don’t turn your coat like he did.”
It was as well that Richard stayed away; he would not have sanctioned the zest with which Buckingham denounced Edward’s numerous indiscretions and his disre
gard of duty. No matter how exaggerated the lords and commons had found Buckingham’s claims, however, the outcome was inevitable: Richard was their unanimous choice for king.
The days dragged by for Richard, and Anne attempted to calm and comfort him. At night, he took solace in wine, and yet he still could not sleep. He spent time with his inner council and had even invited several to stay at Baynard’s, including Jack Howard and his wife, to facilitate frequent meetings. He was getting used to the fact he might be king, and he noticed how much more his councilors deferred to him.
One evening, after a walk around the ramparts with Anne to enjoy the balmy June air and the late summer light, Anne related a difficult meeting she had had that afternoon. She tried not to sound accusatory, but she could not hide her hurt. “Did you know your erstwhile leman was staying here with Margaret Howard?”
“Kate?” Richard stopped and turned to her. And then he remembered seeing Kate at St. Paul’s. “I did not know she was at Baynard’s, I swear. ’Tis true I told Jack that he and Margaret were welcome to stay, but I knew nothing of Kate’s presence.” He frowned. By God, this was awkward. Why, he might have run into her himself. He would speak to Jack directly.
“It seems Katherine asked her mother to come to the small solar, and I cannot blame her for that. I went in there unannounced and was confronted with mother and daughter talking and laughing. It was…uncomfortable,” Anne said, staring over the wall towards London Bridge farther down the river. “Both Mistress Haute and I were civil with each other, but I let her know that I did not believe you would condone such an ill-judged visit—and in my own solar.” She paused. “I want to know that I can trust you, with her being so close…”
Richard took her hands. “I swear you have no need to worry, my dear. When it comes to trust, I well know how hard it is to be betrayed by someone who swears to it, but I would hope by now you know that I love you and would never be unfaithful.”
Anne smiled. “That is enough for me, my dear.”
Richard pulled her to him. “Sincerely, I am sorry for your discomfort, Anne, and you are right that Katherine should have known better, but you are wrong that I would have denied the girl a chance to see her mother. I am certain Kate still pines for her children, and I am sure you can sympathize with her need.” Despite being distressed for her, he felt the necessity to explain. “I cannot deny having loved both of you, can I?” And he let go of her to entreat her with his eyes.
Anne shook her head and drew his hand to her lips.
Richard grinned. “I cannot forbear to ask, were there no kind words spoken between you?”
“I invited her to sit, and we made conversation—for the sake of Katherine.” She gave a reluctant smile. “I know now where Katherine gets her unruly tongue. And yes, at the end, when I succumbed to my usual coughing, Mistress Haute gave me the receipt for a posset to ease it. She seemed concerned,” she had to admit.
“Then I am glad of that, Anne.” He kissed her. “I have wondered at her bitterness. It wasn’t easy for her to give up her children.” He did not add, and me. “Come, let us go inside. I fear our peaceful hours together now will be few and far between, and I cherish them too much.”
The very next day, Richard was proved right for his peace was shattered.
He was unprepared for the numbers of men who pushed their way through Baynard’s gates and thronged the courtyard. Buckingham had informed Parliament that Richard must be persuaded to take the crown, and that the protector would only have the decision from the members themselves. It appeared the duke’s gift of persuasion was boundless.
“As God is my witness, I did not ask for this nor do I want it,” Richard told Anne, watching the scene below them from a window. “But I am going to have to accept it, am I not? For England.”
For once, Anne could not mask her own nervousness. She was visibly pale. “I think so, Richard, but I am afraid.” He drew her close and kissed the top of her head. Filled with misgiving, he had spent the best part of the night in the private chapel on his knees praying for guidance. He often avoided speaking directly to God now; the Virgin had a kind face and was easier to address. During these past few weeks, Richard had shunned their bed, so bad were his dreams. When the great bell at Bow Church had rung for prime, he had gone to break his fast no more able to accept the inevitable than the night before.
“I must go and greet them, Anne. Will you come with me?”
Anne shook her head. “It is you they want, not me. Go now, and hold your head high,” she told him, trying to make him smile. “You are Cecily Neville’s son after all.” She pushed him towards the door leading to a platformed stair descending to the courtyard. Far from reassuring him, her kind comment took Richard back two dozen years to another terrifying moment in his life when his mother had made him and George walk through a scene of carnage and jeering soldiers to the Ludlow market cross. Strangely, he felt Cecily’s presence with him at that moment, and remembering her courage, he unlatched the door and stepped into the sunshine.
“Richard of Gloucester!” Harry cried loudly, holding a roll of parchment in his hand. “Come forth and be recognized.”
Richard approached the railing on the platform and held on to it like a lifeline. He scanned the upturned faces and recognized many from the weeks of meetings at Westminster, but many more were merely curious citizens who had pushed their way into Baynard’s yard. His gaze settled on Buckingham, whose bright blue hat, golden curls and angelic smile reminded Richard of an oversized cherub. “I am here, my lord Buckingham. At your service,” he said, surprised his voice sounded so strong. “To what do I owe the honor of these distinguished visitors?” Harry was grinning now, and Richard began to feel a little ashamed of the way Harry had planned this theater.
“My lords, members of the council, members of the commons, citizens of London and all present shall bear witness that this day Parliament petitions that the most mighty Prince Richard, the lord protector and duke of Gloucester, take to himself, as is his right, the crown of England.” He read on from the parchment, a more formal version of Father Shaa’s sermon, and ended by going down on one knee to declare: “Beyond this we consider that you are the undoubted son and heir of Richard, late duke of York, truly inheritor to the crown and royal dignity of England.”
Despite his apprehension, Richard found himself moved to tears by the thunderous accolade he received at that moment. As the cries died down, Buckingham held up his hand for silence. “My lord of Gloucester, will you accept the crown?”
The crowd held its collective breath as Richard removed his hat and held it against his heart. He could still refuse, he told himself, and hesitated. But then, as he gazed down upon his cousin and the expectant faces of the onlookers, they melted into an earlier time in that very courtyard—a day when he had seen his father for the last time. He clearly saw his father walking towards him saying, “Now there is someone with fighting spirit.” The memory faded instantly but the words had inspired him, and his voice rang out over the people: “I accept your petition. I will be your king, and I do it as my duty to my country.” Do I have enough spirit for you now, Father? he thought, gazing skyward.
Anne came forward to join him, and they stood side by side thrilling to the shouts of, “God save the king! God save King Richard!”
“You are a good man, Richard, and you will make a good king,” Anne whispered.
“Only with God’s blessing,” Richard answered. He was uncertain he could count on it.
In the dimly lit crypt, Richard knelt at the altar rail and contemplated the crucified Jesus, ghoulishly fashioned with hollowed eyes, a shrunken bloodied face, and a cadaverous body. His hands and feet were a gruesome pulp, cruelly caused by the crude, oversized nails.
“Richard of Gloucester,” a voice spoke to him from the figure, “do you know me?”
As Richard watched in horror, the skeletal form disengaged from the cross and moved towards him. Richard shut his eyes and sank lower on his knees,
praying hard.
The voice commanded: “Look at me! Do you know me now?”
Richard dared to look again and gasped. The face was King Henry’s, and the bony finger, so often telling a rosary, pointed straight at Richard. “Aye, you do know me. See these bruises? They are from your fingers, the fingers that murdered an anointed king. And now you will be king? Why, you are not fit to wear my crown!”
Terrified, Richard rose and tried to make his feet move backwards, but someone was standing right behind him. He swiveled and came face to face with Will Hastings, whose bloodless lips pulled over his teeth into a grisly grin. “Aye, you might as well have held the axe, Richard Plantagenet, for you alone did murder me. Was it to take the crown?”
This time Richard lifted his hand out to ward off the specter. “I did it for England, my lord, I swear,” he pleaded. “Leave me be, both of you.”
“Are you trying to usurp my son’s throne, Brother?” Edward’s resonant voice accused as the larger-than-life figure of the late king glided towards Richard on ghostly legs. “You betrayed me and my son! Usurper!”
“Nay! Nay! I did not!” Richard shouted. “God knows, I did not!”
“Richard! Richard! You are having a bad dream,” Anne’s voice broke through his nightmare, and he sat up in bed with a start his nightshirt drenched in sweat. “Hush, my love, ’tis but a bad dream. All is well, I am here.”
Richard was trembling. He fingered the cross and écu coin around his neck, hoping both charms would protect him from such hellish images as he had just seen. He had never been able to tell his wife about his part in King Henry’s death. It was hard enough for him to own, much less expect his wife to understand or forgive. It must be his burden alone. “I dreamed I was accused of stealing the crown,” he admitted. “Jesu, ’twas frightful. Should I refuse it even now, tell me truly?”
This Son of York Page 45
