Kate smiled back. “That’s better,” and she changed the subject. “Indeed, ’tis I who should thank you for the mercy you showed my cousin Haute for his part in the rebellion. How can I ever show my gratitude?” She picked up his hand and kissed it.
“You have given me two beautiful children, Kate,” Richard said softly. “That is payment enough,” and gently releasing her hand, he rose to pace, heartened by their talk.
“Three…” Kate said without thinking. “Three children.”
The king stopped mid-pace and stared at her. “What are you saying?” He went to her. “Three? Tell me truly, was there…is there a third child?”
As his reaction was sheer loving surprise, Kate continued, “Aye, I bore you another son six months after your marriage to Anne, and he is named for you. Please do not be angry with me.” Flustered by his silence, she plunged on. “You were not to know you got me with child on our last night together, and I chose not to tell you because I knew you had promised God you would go to Anne with our affair at an end. I could not burden you with having to lie to her.”
Richard sat down hard in his chair. He had another child—another son. “Does Johnny know? Katherine? They have…they have never said aught about another brother. All…all these years and nary a word…sweet mother of God…”
Kate chuckled at his stunned stuttering. “Dickon was born in secret at my family home in Kent. The children did not know. As you must recall, my husband died before John was born, but his family believed our two children were their grandchildren. They never knew the truth about us, and they had been too kind for me to visit this scandal on them—that this child could not have been George’s. I traveled to Kent before my belly gave me away, stayed until I gave birth, and my brother John and his wife agreed to raise our son as their own.” She sighed. “He does not know me, and only my brothers and the Howards know of him.”
Richard was speechless. Kate had given up her child to protect him. He could not conceive of such selflessness. It took him a moment before he spoke. “Jack Howard knows how to keep a secret, in truth. I am profoundly sorry for your sacrifice, Kate. What can I do to help the boy? Tell me.”
“He is better off thinking he is a Bywood. I, too, have felt guilt that I have never even seen him since he was a baby, but I have sent what money I could. Lately, I arranged with my brother Geoffrey, who is now the schoolmaster in Ightham, to teach Dickon his lessons, although,” and she smiled, “it would seem he prefers woodcarving to Latin. The boy is very happy, truly he is.”
“Dickon,” Richard repeated, a soft smile on his mouth. “’Twas my name as a child. He is in Kent you say? Then I must do what I can for him.” He could almost feel his spirits lift. “Can I see him? Is it possible?” He saw her frown. “I promise not to reveal myself to him.”
Kate hesitated, but seeing how Richard’s eyes had lost some of their sadness and his face its careworn expression, she could not refuse him. “You swear Dickon will not know you as his father.”
“I swear.”
“Then I will write and warn Geoff to expect you.”
Dickon was another secret Richard kept from Anne. He was consumed with curiosity about the boy in Kent, and he soon found an excuse to travel to Thomas à Becket’s shrine at Canterbury to ask the saint to bless his first session of Parliament. En route, he bore off towards the village of Ightham, where Kate had spent some of her childhood. He went alone with only a groom in attendance as he did not want to attract attention. Even so, his clothes spoke of wealth, which brought the villagers out to stare when he asked the way to the schoolmaster’s residence.
Although Geoffrey Bywood had been very young during Richard and Kate’s liaison, he knew immediately who the man was who slipped off his horse to the frozen ground outside the modest cottage where Geoff lived with his young wife. He began to kneel, but Richard murmured that he did not want to arouse suspicion. “Call me Master Broome,” Richard told him, liking the simplistic translation of Plantagenet. “I do not want Dickon to be afraid. Say I am a merchant who has heard of his skill with a knife and might perhaps buy one of his woodcarvings.”
“Come inside, Your Gra…Master Broome. You must be cold,” Geoff said, ushering the king into the cozy but plainly furnished kitchen parlor, where the family spent most of their day. Through the door into the adjacent schoolroom, Richard saw an orderly row of desks empty of pupils at that hour. A roaring fire drew Richard to warm his hands as Jane Bywood entered. Richard observed she was taken aback by their visitor, and he silently admired Geoff for keeping Kate’s secret.
“Dickon!” Geoff called up to the second floor, reached by a sturdy open staircase. “We have a guest. I pray you come down, and bring some of your carvings.”
Richard’s heart beat a little faster as he heard his son’s footsteps hurrying to the stairs. He could not remember being so nervous when he had met Johnny. Would the boy look like himself at ten? Would he be short and thin like Ned or stocky like John? He was therefore, surprised to see a mirror image of Katherine at the same age descend the stairs. An almost girlish face peered over the banister: freckles smattered over a small nose; a generous mouth; and a mop of thick auburn hair that reminded Richard of Kate’s magnificent mane. The familiarity immediately put Richard at his ease.
“Dickon, please greet our guest the way you have been taught. Master Broome has ridden here especially to see some of your work,” Geoff said sternly.
Dickon gave an awkward bow and stared openmouthed at the man by the fireplace. Despite trying to dress quietly, Richard’s deep-blue surcoat bordered in fur, his long leather boots, and beringed fingers, dazzled the young country boy. “G…God’s greeting, sir,” Dickon managed to stammer. “I am Richard Bywood, if it please you, but I like to be called Dickon.”
It gave Richard a start to see the boy close and recognize his own serious, dark-grey eyes looking back at him. He smiled. “Then Dickon it shall be. Why don’t you show me what you have made, Dickon?”
He winked at Geoff, who drew Jane into the schoolroom to leave father and son alone.
The boy displayed half a dozen exquisitely carved figures of animals of the forest for Richard to peruse. “Do you like them, sir?” Dickon asked eagerly.
“I like them very much, Dickon. Would you permit me to buy one?” He picked up a fox and could almost swear the animal’s brush tail was real. “Because you have red hair, like a fox, this one would remind me of you. How much would you like for it?”
Dickon’s mouth opened and closed. “I d…don’t know, Master Broome. How much will you give me for it?”
Richard laughed. “Good answer, Dickon. Remember, everything worthwhile is deserving of negotiation, and this little fellow is certainly worth it. How about a penny? Oh, I see that is not enough. I apologize, then would a groat suffice?” And he reached into the pouch at his belt and drew out the silver coin.
Dickon’s eyes glowed. “I thank you, sir,” he said, holding the money in the palm of his hand as though it were gold. “I am saving up for more tools. You see, I want to be a mason when I grow up. Do you think that is possible, sir?”
“If you want something badly enough—and you work hard, pray to God every day, and obey your uncle—anything is possible.” He tucked the fox inside his shirt and chuckled. “I shall give this to my son, Johnny. ’Tis said he behaves like a fox in a hen house when he is around the young…not that you would understand, young Dickon,” he hurriedly added.
“Fiddle faddle!” Dickon retorted, grinning and for a moment forgetting Richard was a guest. “Of course I know.”
Richard was so unnerved to hear Kate’s favorite expression, he rose and picked up his cloak.
Dickon blanched, suspecting he had upset the grand visitor. “I b…beg your pardon, sir. Did I say something to offend you? My father always said my tongue would get me into trouble one day.”
Just like your mother, Dickon, Richard thought, amused. His heart ached for Kate at that moment, but reaching
out and chucking the boy under the chin, he said kindly, “I am not offended, Dickon. Far from it. You have lightened my day. Now run along while I talk to your uncle.”
Geoff was astonished by the generous stipend Richard promised to send every year to help with the boy’s board, lodging, and education. “See to it that he finds a good mason to apprentice with, Master Bywood. The boy has a true gift.”
Richard rode on to Canterbury, his mind going over the extraordinary encounter. He did not blame Kate for keeping knowledge of the boy from him. After the turmoil of his own life as a royal prince, he envied Dickon his simple life. If only he, too, could have been an ordinary man. He patted the fox hidden in his jacket and marveled that he and Kate had produced such a prodigy. Had the lad been forced into the royal household, his talent would have been stifled. He decided to honor Kate’s wish that he not interfere in the boy’s upbringing except for the monthly stipend. How he wished he could have put his arms about the innocent lad just for a moment—his own flesh and blood.
Suddenly, his thoughts were all of Ned. His unruly hair, his lopsided smile and cheerful nature. He realized then how very much he loved and missed his heir and vowed to send for him as soon as the snow was off the northern moors.
Richard’s only Parliament opened on a frosty day in late January with a lengthy oration from England’s chancellor, John Russell, bishop of Lincoln, who proudly praised the body politic that was Parliament but that, under Edward, had lost its way. “Like the lost tenth coin of the woman in Christ’s parable, we look to our new sovereign to cleanse our house and recover what was lost: good governance and fairness for all people.”
Seated on his throne, Richard observed the depleted ranks of barons and bishops ranged around the bright walls of the Painted Chamber, with the commons crowded in on benches in the center of the room. His family’s war with Lancaster had certainly taken its toll on the nobility, he realized. He was not naive enough, however, to guess the failure of some to attend was a lack of support for his claiming the throne. As well, some of the dead nobles’ heirs were still in swaddling clothes, but it was a poor showing of the lords indeed. No matter, he was determined to enact the reforms that he and his council had labored over for weeks.
But first there was old business.
In a move guaranteed to please the new king, William Catesby had been appointed speaker of the house by the commons. He began by reading a document entitled Titulus Regius, an act of settlement or formal ratification of Richard’s right to rule by the three estates of the realm: the lords spiritual, temporal, and the commons. With Richard’s insistence that any one of his subjects should be able understand the document, it set out in English many of the justifications for Richard’s crowning that Buckingham’s proclamation had made the previous June at Baynard’s.
As Catesby’s somewhat nasal reading went on, Richard, anxious to get beyond this part of the proceedings, wondered what the many members staring motionless at the floor were thinking. He knew many men had questions as to his own motives and actions and what had happened to the two boys, and he had heard the malicious monikers. He looked calm, but he felt far from it. Every day he feared that the tide could turn on the shifting sands of men’s loyalties and at any time someone might leap up and shout “usurper” or “murderer.” He knew rumors abounded about another possible Tudor attempt to invade and claim the crown; such unease haunted him day and night. Richard had to consolidate control, and he hoped to God this Parliament would ratify his right to rule.
However, all was proceeding smoothly, and he breathed more easily as he heard the final statement of the important document read:
And over this, that, at the request, and by the assent and authority abovesaid be it ordained, enacted and established that the said crown and royal dignity of this realm, and the inheritance of the same, and other things thereunto within the same realm or without it, united, annexed, and now appertaining, rest and abide in the person of our said sovereign lord the King, during his life, and, after his decease, in his heirs of his body begotten.”
Catesby then moved on to the bills of attainder for the autumn rebellion. Buckingham, Dorset, John Morton and more than ninety others were attainted, and all of Margaret Beaufort’s estates were confiscated and, rashly Richard thought, put in the hands of her husband, Lord Stanley.
Last but not least, the bill addressed Queen Elizabeth. As soon as Richard had been informed that a secret marriage contract between Henry Tudor and Elizabeth’s oldest daughter, Bess, had taken place at Rennes—on Christmas Day of all days—Richard had lost all patience with her. “It means Elizabeth must now believe her sons are no longer alive,” he deduced, grimacing as he talked with Francis. “She is seeking another way to regain power.”
“Now you have lost me,” Francis answered. “Why should betrothing young Bess to Henry help…. Christ’s bones! I see,” he cried, slapping his forehead. “If Henry does invade and capture the crown, then Bess will be queen of England! By all that is holy, the Grey Mare’s a canny one.” He paused and then blurted: “But why does that mean she believes her boys are dead?”
“Because, muttonhead, if Henry does become king and goes through with the marriage, he will not agree to wed a bastard and have her crowned,” Richard explained. “He would have to legitimize her and…”
“…I have it!” Francis interrupted, excited. “It would make all of Elizabeth’s children legitimate and thus, if young Edward were still alive, he would be the legitimate king!”
Richard nodded. “Ergo, Elizabeth must believe the boys are dead.”
Attempting to cheer Richard, Francis had said, “But their plan has only an outside chance of succeeding. Tudor cannot have the support he needs to overthrow you—not while he has spent the last decade abroad and you are here, the anointed—and chosen—king of England.”
But Richard, in a dark mood and doubting God’s favor, had harrumphed. “Anything can happen—as I well know. Poor Bess, I warrant she had no choice in the matter. A sweet child with a witch for a mother.”
And thus, as punishment for her part in siding with the exiled Henry Tudor, Elizabeth—like Margaret Beaufort—had all her lands and titles stripped from her, relegating her to plain Dame Grey.
“’Tis fortunate for both of them that England does not execute traitors of the fair sex,” Francis remarked, “for both of them deserve it.”
The most important business to be debated in the three-week parliamentary session were the laws and reforms Richard was proposing. Thanks to his stint in the law courts and his many years meting out justice as constable of England, no one could question Richard’s ability to draw up fair and just reform, even though he must have angered some barons and merchants in the process.
The first act, however, was enthusiastically received as Catesby read: “The king, mindful that the commons of this his realm have been enslaved by intolerable charges and exactions as the result of new and unlawful inventions and inordinate covetousness, contrary to the law of this realm, and in particular by a new imposition called a benevolence…” He looked up and saw astonishment and approval on many faces. King Edward had imposed these so-called benevolences upon his people, which was nothing short of robbing the poor to feed the king’s coffers for possible use in war. Richard remembered how unpopular the collection of them was for the foolish French campaign. Unlike borrowing from bankers or the rich merchants, Edward had impoverished his subjects and pocketed a pension from King Louis into the bargain. Richard was determined to end the practice.
As Anne told him, after he had outlined his reforms to her one quiet afternoon spent in her solar, “You will be remembered for protecting the poor and the powerless. Surely many of these acts—how many are there, fifteen?—will end the many injustices inflicted on commoners that you have talked of. I am so very proud of you, my dear.” Richard was grateful for her support, but he knew he would lose favor with those corrupt officials who had benefited from these taxes. He just hoped the co
mmoners would thank him.
Certainly, they would benefit from another reform he was proposing in the jury selection process, in which he insisted that a man must now be judged by property owners of upstanding character who were respected and invested in the community and not by just any vagrant, paid lackey, or warm body brought in to stack the jury. This law, it turned out, would stand for centuries.
Later in the session, Richard was to receive approbation for a statute that had been in his mind for several years—ever since he had encountered the distraught woman in St. Alban’s on his way to London. The law had said her husband’s property could be forfeit as soon as he was taken into custody yet was not formally indicted of a crime. Richard’s new law decreed that bail be made available to someone in custody before being indicted, in the same way that a man ready to face trial might be. If a man were innocent, he could return home knowing his property was intact.
The final decision he made after all the new bills were ratified was that they be written down in English so all, from high to low, would understand.
Richard hoped God was taking notice. Am I atoning for killing a king—who was a good man but a bad ruler? It was the only way he thought might appease the Almighty now.
In the middle of March and after many assurances that she would not be punished further for her part in the rebellion and could return to Grafton, Dame Elizabeth Grey agreed to leave sanctuary with her daughters.
“I am sorry for you, Elizabeth, but you cannot deny you deserved it,” Anne said to her sister-in-law the day before Elizabeth was to finally quit sanctuary. “You gave Richard no choice. It was treason, Dame Grey. If you had been a man, you would have lost your head.”
This Son of York Page 50
