Turning and leaning over a crenelation, he glanced down from three stories to the grassy banks below. He immediately felt a queasiness and instinctively stepped back. Something intangible tempted him to look out again, and this time saw in the green carpet beneath him a possible end to his terrible turmoil. If he could just let himself float down into its soft embrace, his trials, his sorrow, and his wretched life would be over in a second. Sweet Jesu, let me end my misery. I am already damned to hell, so what is one more sin? Summoning the courage to indulge himself in ending it all, he leaned out over the wall farther, sending a shower of loose stones cascading to the ground. How easy it would be to follow them, to know no more…
“And You would leave Ned and me alone, Richard?” Anne’s voice in his brain was as clear as the shout of warning from one of the guards that jolted him from his self-destruction. Rufus gave a responsive bark, and Richard jerked himself erect. He waved off the guard and quietened the dog.
He shivered. How close had he come to self-slaughter, he wondered, dispirited and afraid. He slid his back down the damp wall to sit with Rufus, who nuzzled his master’s wet face.
“Good dog,” he praised him, and then looked up to heaven. Tell me this, Lord, were You not content enough to give me this pathetic body? Have You not denied Anne and me more children? Taken my brothers from me? Have You given me this crown as reward or curse? And now You have Harry betray me” He gave a harsh laugh. Ah, and lest I forget. What punishment will You give me for the deaths of my sweet nephews. I know I shall take the blame.
Aloud, he cried: “Dear God, have pity on me! How much more must I endure to satisfy You? In Jesus’s name, I can bear no more.” He buried his face in Rufus’s rough fur and let the dog’s devotion ease his broken heart.
Little by little, as the drizzle turned to rain, despair turned to resolve, and Richard’s spirit began to revive. He lifted his face to the heavens and made a heartfelt promise: “I will be a better king. I will take care of my subjects, if You will take care of me and mine, O Lord. Let me atone for my past sins by ruling well. I vow I will be strong and do my best for England.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Winter 1483
The old Richard was back.
At least that was how Francis and Rob perceived their friend and king following Richard’s decisive action to suppress the widespread rebellion. They had cheered when Richard had returned from the rooftop and declared: “First things first, I will rid the kingdom of its traitors and in particular my cousin, surely the most untrue creature living.”
He had issued a proclamation that denounced Buckingham as a rebel and traitor, ordered the Great Seal to be delivered to Richard in its white bag, and called his loyal subjects to arms. With two of his great lords, Northumberland, and Thomas, Lord Stanley, he moved to Leicester, where his troops were mustering, and pondered a move to defend London. When news came that Jack Howard had neutralized the East Anglian and southeast insurgency, he marched in the pouring rain to Coventry, intent on sweeping the southwest and Wales clean of rebels, including their leader, the perfidious duke of Buckingham. Others declaimed were Thomas, marquis of Dorset, the queen’s brother; the bishop of Salisbury; and one of the chief plotters, John Morton, bishop of Ely, who had ridden with Buckingham from Brecknock.
But two women were also colluders—two mothers in fact—each believing her son was the center of the rebel cause, so Richard learned. It was clear to him that Elizabeth must believe young Edward was alive, and he came to the swift decision that she did not deserve to hear the truth from him. Let her believe the boys had been sent away. Margaret Beaufort, on the other hand, must know they are dead from Morton and Buckingham, and so her cause was simple: to set her son Henry on the throne. For a moment, Richard felt sorry for the queen; the cleverer Beaufort woman had tricked Elizabeth into supporting Buckingham, promising that he would return the crown to young Edward. By this time, Richard was convinced Harry’s only goal was to take the crown for himself—his claim, in truth, was better than Tudor’s. “Batfowling scoundrel,” he muttered, “and bloody fool.”
A few days later, Richard issued another proclamation hoping to avoid as much bloodshed as possible: The crown promises to pardon any man who was duped into following that great rebel and traitor the duke of Buckingham, and the bishops of Salisbury and Ely, or the marquis of Dorset, whose damnable maintenance of vices make them traitors, adulterers and bawds.
Thomas Stanley chuckled. “I assume you are referring to the adulterer Dorset? Isn’t that language a little strong, my lord?”
Richard did not hesitate. “That is what he is, Lord Stanley,” he snapped. “Do not forget he was mentored by Hastings to lure my brother into debauchery, and he is bedding my brother’s whore. I would prefer my court to be safe for virtuous and God-fearing people once more.”
Northumberland suppressed a smile. While Richard was Lord of the North, the earl had become used to Richard’s moral preachings. Stanley could only grunt an assent; he was not about to argue with the king when he himself was already under suspicion by virtue of his wife’s involvement in the rebellion. It was as well Stanley had been with Richard since leaving Yorkshire and had mustered a goodly number of troops to Richard’s banner or he, too, might have been suspected of abetting Margaret Beaufort and John Morton.
“We march on the morrow, my lords, despite the foul weather,” Richard told them. “We should have news of where the bulk of their force is by then.”
Never was Richard more thankful for the disagreeable English weather than he was that October. Perhaps God had heard him on the Lincoln battlements. The rivers to the west swelled and overflowed to bog Buckingham’s reluctant, resentful troops in the mud, and storms in the Channel forced Henry Tudor’s small invading fleet back to Brittany. Unable to unify, the rebels scattered and fled. By the time Richard and his force reached Salisbury, the rebellion was over “with nary a drop of blood spilled,” as he proudly told Anne later. Much of the success was attributed to Richard’s leadership. He had acted quickly and decisively.
“I shall have only the captured leaders executed, all the rest, the commoners, are pardoned. Let them go back to their homes with my blessing,” Richard told his new constable, Sir Ralph Assheton. “It was always my brother’s custom to spare the commoners.”
Two days later, on All Hallow’s Eve, as news of the fate of the other rebel leaders filtered into Richard’s council chamber in the cathedral close and after ten executions had taken place, Francis barged into the room to announce: “Buckingham is taken, he is being led to gaol as I speak!”
Richard leaped out of his seat, elated. “Where was he found? Who can I reward?”
How glad was Richard to discover that Buckingham in his turn had been betrayed. “Now perhaps you know how it feels, Harry,” Richard muttered under his breath, “and how fitting it was done by a servant.” He turned to Assheton. “You will try him on the morrow and give me a report. I have no doubt his lordship will wet the axeman’s blade before this week is out.” This time, there would be no quibbling as to the king’s meaning.
Any mercy for his cousin Richard may have held in his heart was expunged when he heard that it had taken only the threat of torture to convince Harry to deliver up his fellow rebels. Richard felt relieved and disgusted. Harry begged his guards to take him to the king, and when Richard refused to see him, Harry then sent his cousin a pathetic, pleading letter.
I appeal to your goodness, your mercy and your renowned sense of justice to spare my life, Cousin. I pray you remember our friendship, my invaluable support, and our many shared ventures on your path to the crown. Have you forgotten our shared blood? I beg of you to reconsider having my death stain your conscience…
That was enough reading for Richard. Damn you, Harry, murderer of children, he thought, if you believe I will count your traitorous death among my many sins, you are even more foolish than I now know you are. And he flung the letter into the fire.
The
garrulous, vain and once-powerful duke of Buckingham was led to the scaffold the very next day. Visibly terrified and surrounded by jeering townspeople, he stumbled up the hastily constructed stairs to face the hooded executioner. Shivering in his fine lawn shirt against the cold November air, he fell on his knees to be shriven by the priest before gingerly placing his neck upon the block. His treasured glossy curls, always so meticulously coiffed, fell over his face, hiding his shameful tears. Then his nerves took hold of his body, and a guard had to steady him as the axe was swung high and swiftly brought down to end Henry Stafford’s faithless life.
Watching from a window, Richard did not flinch.
With the rebellion quelled, Richard turned to governing in earnest. He first sent out a summons to all the lords and commons to convene at Westminster for a session of Parliament in late January.
Returning to London in early December, it was clear to him from the reception he was given by the grateful citizens that he had been accepted wholeheartedly as king, especially as, with her complicity in the rebellion acknowledged, Londoners had lost all sympathy for Elizabeth Woodville.
Richard welcomed Anne to London for Christmas but was disappointed that Ned was not well enough to travel through the cold and snow.
“It is nothing serious, Richard,” Anne assured her husband as they snuggled together on her first night in London. “I would not have come if I thought our son were in any danger. He had the croup—he has had it before, but it takes a week or two to subside. Never fear, Mother will take good care of him.”
“Has he grown? Does he miss me? Can he hit the quintain squarely?”
Anne was amused. Richard was so full of questions, the way she remembered him from their childhood, that her heart glowed. She stared up at the beautiful canopy above the bed in the spacious firelit chamber at Westminster, the tapestry depicting a scene from the story of Ruth, and answered every one. Later, she whispered that she preferred Crosby Hall’s intimacy, but that “this is more comfortable than drafty Baynard’s.” She began to caress his chest and tease his nipple, which soon achieved the desired effect. “Never mind Ned,” she said seductively, sliding her petite body on top of his. “Have you missed me? Or have you found a mistress while I was away.”
Richard smiled and took her face in his hands. “If only I had had the time,” he said, feigning regret. “And even Jane Shore is no longer available. Oh! Would you believe she has conquered yet another willing fool—this time my own solicitor, Thomas Lyneham. He was supposed to prosecute her but he fell in love with her instead. They are to be married.”
Anne’s laughter roused Rufus, curled up on the Turkey carpet. He put his whiskered nose on the bed and wagged his tail.
“Lie down, Rufus,” Richard admonished him, and, chastened, the old dog padded away. “Now, my dearest wife, where were we?” He slipped Anne’s chemise over her head and pulled her to him. Soon the rediscovery of familiar urges and intimate places put all but pleasuring each other from their minds.
Their passion slaked, Anne lay content in Richard’s arms. She sighed pleasurably. “I love you, Richard,” she whispered. “The Virgin help me, but I love you more than God.”
Richard stiffened. “Do not say such things, dearest. You need not bring down His wrath on you as He has on me.”
Anne sat up and turned to him. “What now, Richard? What do you think you have done now to displease Him?” Richard would not meet her gaze and instead tried to pull her close again, but she resisted. “Can you not be happy for once? I pray you, tell me your troubles. How can I be a good consort if you can’t entrust your worries to me? If you won’t trust me, then I cannot be happy. ’Tis as simple as that.”
“’Tis not so simple, my precious wife,” Richard replied. He rolled awkwardly onto his right side and then to a seated pose next to hers. Their shadows in the candlelight flickered eerily on the curtain, and he flung it aside. She is right, we must trust each other, he suddenly decided. And so he confided in her the tragic tale of his nephews’ deaths at the hands of Buckingham.
Anne stared open-mouthed at her husband, and then she reached out and took his hand. “You have lived with this since July, Richard? How have you borne it, my love? ’Tis no wonder you are not sleeping and are afraid for your very soul.” Tears rolled down her cheeks as she imagined the plight of the two innocent boys. “’Tis monstrous, and Harry deserved to die.”
“You must swear to keep silent, Anne. Most believe they are sent far away to safety. Let them think that, and soon the lads will be forgotten—except by you and me, and a few close friends.” And he spoke their names.
“Poor Edward, poor Richard. Those boys had done nothing to deserve such a fate…other than being born royal,” Anne realized and shivered. Both knew they were thinking of Ned.
Richard then spent much of December dealing with the continued harassment of English shipping by the Breton fleet. With the capable Jack Howard as admiral of England commanding the English Navy, Brittany was quickly subdued, and Duke Francis eventually signed a new treaty with Richard, admitting his error in having supported Henry Tudor. Before Duke Francis could hand the young earl over to the English, however, Henry escaped and found refuge in France.
“Bon débarras!” Richard told the council. “Good riddance.”
With rebellion dead along with its self-proclaimed figurehead—Buckingham never ceased thinking to the end that it was all about him—the court settled down to celebrate Richard’s first Christmas as king. He was determined to make it a merry one, and he chose to hold it at Baynard’s instead of at the vast palace of Westminster. Duchess Cecily had been invited to join them, but she claimed that a dislike of traveling in winter prevented her presence. To tell the truth, Richard was relieved he did not have to answer any awkward questions his mother would have asked.
Even though the death of his nephews haunted him daily, it surprised and saddened him that they seemed to have been forgotten elsewhere. No one spoke of them anymore; it was as though they had never existed, he thought. And, God help me, I am not about to remind them.
Two days before Twelfth Night, Richard received another surprise—this time one that pleased him.
He had chosen an eminently suitable husband for Katherine, and knowing Kate was staying with the Howards at their Stepney town house, he wanted her to meet their daughter’s bridegroom. Although it had been sporadic, Richard and Kate had exchanged a few letters about their children over the years. Their bond had turned into one of deep friendship, and he wanted to honor her now. He sent Rob Percy down the river to fetch Kate and then paced in his privy audience chamber awaiting her arrival.
Her lovely face fell when she saw him, and he was concerned. “Are you ill, Kate?”
She shook her head. “Nay, Richard, not I. But I see that you are. You appear to have had no sleep for several days.”
“Weeks, if truth be told,” Richard admitted. “I look that bad, do I?”
Kate nodded. “Do you have something important to tell me, Richard. You have never before summoned me. Has it to do with John or Katherine?”
Richard smiled. “Aye, but I think you will be pleased. I have found a husband for Katherine. William Herbert is the earl of Huntington and a loyal Yorkist.”
Kate’s eyes lit up. “An earl? Can this be true? My Katherine?” Then, in her inimitable frank fashion, she added, “but does he know she is a bast….?” and immediately clapped her hand over her mouth.
Richard chuckled. “Aye, he knows of her birth, Kate. But as he is an impoverished earl, he will be glad of the dowry I will bestow on my beloved only daughter. She is a beautiful and kind young woman, and we should be proud of her.”
“I am,” Kate replied, “and I always have been. She was created with much love.” She lowered her eyes to her hands, wondering if she had overstepped a line. Richard watched her absently turning the gold filigree ring he had given her the day they had parted. Suddenly looking up, her eyes met his, and as if he were reading her
thoughts, Richard pulled out the écu on its leather cord. “Aye, I still wear it.” He hesitated, averting his troubled gaze. “Although I am not certain it has always brought me good fortune.”
Kate felt emboldened to go to him and take his hands, encouraging him to talk as they had done so many times during their affair. She gently removed his soft velvet hat and stroked his dark hair, noticing its flecks of grey. “What is it, Richard? What is worrying you? Tell me.”
Feeling her so close again and sensing her love for him, he broke his resolve and allowed her to lead him to the window seat. He could trust so few these days, but Kate he trusted with his life, and so, with difficulty, he disclosed the fate of the young princes to her.
Certainly Kate was not unmoved by the tragedy. “’Tis one of the most hideous tales I have ever heard,” she pronounced, but her concern was all for her beloved, and she guessed he did not need her sympathy; he needed her counsel. She took his hand. “Richard, you must not brood so,” she began. “Do not allow your enemies to see you so low. ’Twas not your fault. Lord Buckingham’s evil is not yours.”
Richard jerked up his head. “God knows I did not order their deaths, but because Harry did it for me, I must carry the guilt. Do you see?” He implored her to understand. “It will always be my fault.”
“Stop this, Richard!” Kate said, shaking him. “God knows you did not order their demise, you just said so. You must put it behind you. It is over, and you are king. Nothing will change that now, and so you must get on with the business of governing. Your people need you; they need to know what a good and just man you are.”
Despite his present self-loathing, Richard was desperate enough to listen. Kate’s advice was sound, and her passionate conviction that he was indeed a good man helped convince him. He patted her hand. “You are right, my rose. I do need to look to England’s welfare. Doing my duty has not been easy, I admit, but I have sworn an oath and I must fulfill that promise. I thank you for reminding me.” He smiled for the first time.
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