Perturbed, Richard nevertheless unfolded the parchment.
To my lord of Norfolk, my friend and my uncle’s trusted councilor, I greet you well. I write to beseech you to intercede for me with my dear uncle, that if he has a mind to marry again after the queen’s passing, I am willing—nay, desirous… Richard looked up aghast: “By Christ’s nails, what is this? It is fabricated, forged, fraudulent! Bess seeks to replace Anne, and so soon? She insinuated herself into Anne’s kind graces and all the time wished she were dead? She is not so unkind. It has to be a forgery. A monstrous jest!”
“Read on,” Francis insisted. “Bess is not false-hearted. ’Tis a girl infatuated, nothing more.”
Richard continued reading. He is my dearest love, as I have told you… “Damnation,” Richard interjected again angrily, “Howard knew this before and did not tell me? I’ll have his guts for garters.” He read on, …and I believe he has a fondness for me. “I did, I did,” Richard mumbled, “but as I have a fondness for all my nieces. Why must my actions be so misconstrued?”
He threw the parchment on the table and speared it to the table with his dagger. “Am I to be hounded even in my hour of grief. I must send Bess and her sisters away. Out of my sight and out of people’s minds.” He looked across at Francis who was shaking his head. “You don’t agree? Then what, pray, does Lord Lovell think I should do?” he snapped. “Poison her as I did her brothers?” And he grabbed an inkwell John Kendall had left open on the table and flung it at a valuable tapestry.
Francis bided his time as Richard stalked to the window to stare out at the mantle of daffodils below him in Westminster’s well-kept garden.
“It is the view of your privy council that you make a public denial of this rumor. It is the only way to put it behind you.”
He stopped there. Francis had been Richard’s friend long enough to know that, after an explosion of ill-judged temper, Richard had to process information before he could be reasoned with. Usually, he was reasonable, but Richard was not himself these days—Francis had not heard him laugh for weeks—and so he braced himself for the next onslaught. Richard suddenly swung round and said coldly, “I will not do it, and there is an end to it. Let the rumor-mongers go to hell.”
Francis bowed and quietly left the room. Richard was wrong, he knew, and needed time to calm himself. In the meantime, he went to find Jack Howard.
Richard stood by the fireplace and turned the delicate gold-filigree ring around the tip of his finger, wondering what had prompted Kate to send the keepsake back to him. When he had given it to her those many years ago, he had made her promise that if ever she had need of him she would send it and he would see her. Jack Howard had delivered it from Suffolk the day before, saying Kate had accompanied him and was now a guest at his townhouse in Stepney.
Reasons for her having sent the ring raced through Richard’s mind as he waited for her. Did she need money for Dickon? He doubted it for he had been true to his promise to Geoffrey Bywood to send a generous stipend to cover the boy’s provisions. Perhaps she had found a suitable husband? But why would she need his permission? Perhaps a relative had been unjustly accused and she was seeking his intercession?
The rap on the door startled him, and he dropped the ring in the rushes. When Kate came in, he was down on one knee searching for it, and she could clearly see the outline of his crooked back through his doublet. She felt a pang of sympathy; the last time she had seen him he had hidden that side from her. The protrusion was far more visible after all these years, she observed sadly.
As soon as Richard looked up and saw her, his spirits lifted, and he could not help smiling. Francis, who had stayed long enough to usher Kate through the door, hurried out with relief.
Kate curtsied as Richard, having retrieved the ring, stood up, but her face fell when she saw the reddened eyes, the shadows of grief, and new deep lines of worry etched on his face. She went to him then and, cradling his head between her hands, kissed him tenderly on both cheeks. “How truly sorry I am, Richard,” she said, “about Anne.”
Tears pricked, but Richard allowed himself to be gentled into a chair. She knelt on the floor beside him as she had done so many times. Although he would not touch her, he experienced a calmness he had not felt since Anne’s healthy days.
“Is that why you came, Kate?” he finally asked, toying with the ring in his palm. “Did you think I would not receive your condolence unless you sent the ring?”
“Oh, no, Richard, it was not that at all. I could have sent you a letter if I had only wanted to express my sympathies.” She rose, agitated now, as her mission was far more sensitive. “I came because I hear you have been somewhat…um…contrary of late. ’Tis hard to gain an audience with you, I’ve been told, and then it’s not pleasant. In truth, I should be flattered you agreed to see me.”
Richard looked surprised but then gave a reluctant grin. “Is that what they say? I suppose ’tis true.” He motioned her to sit on a stool. She listened quietly as he spoke of his grief and, hard though it was for her to hear, of his love for Anne. “But after all my many sins—and there have been some heinous ones, including wishing for your arms about me more times than I care to admit—I truly believe God has forsaken me. He took Ned, he has taken Anne, and soon Henry Tudor will take England from me. I know it.”
“Fiddle-faddle, Richard!” Kate retorted. “I cannot speak for God, but I hear what people say in villages and towns, where you cannot go. They praise you for your concern of us, the common people. They will not want the unknown Tudor who has not set foot in England for nigh on fifteen years. Your throne is safe, I am certain of it, and you are loved.”
Richard smiled at her naïveté, but he did not contradict her. Instead, he gave her back the ring and asked: “Enough of my woes. So why are you here, Kate?”
She took a deep breath, replaced the ring on her finger, and started slowly. “The reason is important, or I would not have come. There are rumors…I have heard…it is said…” she struggled for the words and finally settled for, “…it is said you have in mind to wed your niece, Elizabeth.”
Richard let out a harsh laugh. “Aye, so I have been told. And the rumors are false.” He was curt now. “But why should this concern you?” He cursed himself for his cruel tongue, but he was tired of the subject. “They are just rumors. Ignore them, as I am trying to do.”
Kate leaned forward, her expression earnest. “But you should not ignore them, Richard. That is why I am here. You should listen to your good friends like Jack, Francis, Rob Percy and the rest of your trusted advisors. You need to deny the rumors not dismiss them.”
“Why should I deny them?” he shot back, and sprang from his chair. “Why not Bess? She was the one who wrote the letter; she was the one who started this,” he railed at her. “How dare they ask me to make a public denial. I have done nothing wrong. Nothing!” and he pummeled the paneled wall in frustration. Kate was distraught by his uncharacteristic anger. This was a Richard she had never seen before.
A door flew open beside the fireplace, startling Kate into knocking over her stool. Will Catesby entered, dagger drawn, only to be told: “Get out! Out I say!” by his king. The man hurriedly bowed and retreated.
“God’s nails, can a king not have any privacy?” Richard complained, glowering at the door.
“Calm yourself, Richard, I beg of you,” Kate implored him, trying to understand the complexity of this man she had loved for so long. He must truly be mad with grief, she reasoned.
“Calm myself, you say. As if it were that easy. I shall never be calm again,” he said, his voice rising. “I am doomed, ’tis certain.” He lifted his eyes to the ceiling. “God in heaven, I never asked for this. I sought only to serve my country, and I have tried to expiate my sins. Why do You hate me so?” he cried, sinking back into his chair.
Now Kate was truly worried. She had known him to be angry at injustice and treason, but never this disconsolate. His grief had led to self-hatred, she believed, a
nd time alone would heal him. But Kate, like Anne, had never known the deeper reason for Richard’s belief that God had forsaken him. No one but God knew the terrible burden he carried. For that sin, Richard would never forgive himself, but he had hoped that, in His infinite mercy, God had.
“You have every right to be angry at God, my dear Richard,” she said, kneeling beside him again and taking his hands. “But your subjects need you. The council needs you. Even though you are innocent, you must let them know you have no intention of wedding your niece. Only then will you quell the rumor.”
He stared at her for a few moments and held onto her loving fingers while he fought the urge to deny her request again.
“Please, Richard. It is the right thing to do,” she whispered. “Please think of Anne, think of our son and daughter and the hurt it would cause them. And think of the peace of England. I beg of you, deny it.”
Without warning, he pulled her to him and kissed her hard on her mouth, taking her breath away. It was the kiss of a desperate man, she knew, but she allowed herself to caress his head and hold him close one last time.
“I will think on it,” he murmured. “You are perhaps right. For now you have my thanks and my love.” He held her head between his hands. “You know I will always love you, Kate.”
It was Duchess Cecily, the indomitable York matriarch, who finally swept into Westminster’s draughty corridors and convinced her son of the need for a public denial.
“Your morals have been impeccable until now, Richard. You did right by Anne at the time of your marriage and gave up your leman—aye, I knew about her from the moment she played her harp for us at Margaret’s farewell. Since then you have wisely learned to conceal the passionate nature you had as a boy.” She paused to chuckle. “Always asking questions; always loudly championing the peasantry; even lying for George because you could not bear to be disloyal; and announcing your displeasure to the wrong people when injustice had been done.”
“I have tried, Mother,” Richard said, annoyed at her ability to reduce him to a little boy when she leveled her gaze at him. “I have tried to rule as Father would have done had he lived to wear the crown.” At that, he saw Cecily’s face soften and knew he had disarmed her, which he hoped might temper the sermon he was expecting. After all, she had just ridden all the way from Berkhamsted, when she had not even left her seclusion to attend his coronation. But now the York name was being besmirched, and the lioness had come to correct her cub.
“Your father would have been pleased to see the man you have become, Richard, a man worthy to wear the crown. It has become clear to me since you became king that you are perhaps the best of our sons. You are certainly a better king than Edward and certainly a better man than George. Edmund had promise, so I cannot compare you with him, struck down so cruelly and so young as he was.” Cecily noticed how straight and tall Richard was standing now. “Your father would have been so proud of you.” She hesitated. “Until now. He would never have countenanced a scandalous rumor to have spread about his son and his granddaughter.” The very idea was abhorrent to her that she had to pause for breath. “You must rectify this matter now, Richard,” she commanded.
All the way to London, Cecily had been weighing how to threaten her son should he exhibit his usual stubbornness. “You must make a public denial of this vicious rumor,” she persisted, “or I will expose you as a liar.”
Richard was dumbfounded. “A liar?” he protested. “How could I be a liar if I have never even expressed a wish to wed Bess?”
“That is not the lie I am speaking of, my dear Richard,” she replied, deliberately inscrutable. When she purred, Cecily was at her most dangerous, and Richard knew he was about to be scratched. “Did you or did you not instruct Doctor Shaa to proclaim Edward a bastard at that infamous oration from Paul’s Cross?” Richard paled, but she continued. “Aye, that disgusting slander announcing to the world that I had cuckolded my husband—your father. You are the king—some say usurper—and thus you can say whatever you wish…” She saw the fleeting wince and pounced. “Ah, I see that you are not insensitive to others’ opinions of you. You do not like that word ‘usurper.’ Well, I don’t like the word ‘adulteress.’” Watching him avert his gaze, she pushed on. “Suppose I expose your lie? How many lords’ support do you think you might lose, most of whom have never had cause to doubt my word? You cannot afford to lose any, Richard, but if those lords believed you had lost my support, I wouldn’t like your chances.”
“It was Buck…” Richard tried to interrupt, but he was cut off.
“Do not pass the blame, my boy. You could have stopped Shaa there and then!” Seeing him sufficiently chastised, she softened. “It could be that all the good work you have done so far—and you have done good work, my son—will go down the garderobe chute.” She sighed but reiterated: “Deny the marriage rumors, Richard, and I shall return to Berkhamsted and resume my silence.”
Richard was dumbfounded. Perhaps he had never fully comprehended his mother’s intelligence and power all these years, yet he had observed before her strength and wisdom in a crisis. Cecily’s ploy was a master stroke, but he could not help being angered by it. “Well played, Mother,” he said, wearily, “It would seem you have me by the….”
“…short and curlies, my boy,” Cecily finished, approaching him and taking his stiffened shoulders. “Do the right thing, Richard. If you do not want to do it for yourself, do it for Bess. Don’t let this rumor fester so that it ruins her life. Say nothing, and no one knows for sure and people’s salacious imaginations will see you in bed with her.” Richard sagged, and she caressed his cheek. “You are grieving still, and in that state, one says and does things without fully considering the consequences.” She sighed. “I should know. Believe me, the Dickon I know who braved Ludlow, stood up to the great Warwick, and stayed loyal to Edward throughout his short life would have done the right thing.”
Richard had long awaited such words from his mother, and now they consoled him somewhat. However, his guilty conscience knew he did not deserve all this praise. He gently extricated himself from her hold and turned away. “I have done things, Mother, terrible things…” he began.
Cecily waved him off. “I do not want a litany of sins, my boy. We have all done things we regret, but it doesn’t make us evil. I know you are a good person, Richard, and God knows it, too.” She changed the subject. “I apologize for not coming to you sooner after Anne’s tragic death. I am much moved by how devoted you have been to her. I see it in your face, heard it in your voice. I have been too wrapped in my Berkhamsted cocoon to care about my life—or anyone’s—much anymore. I am seventy years old next week, and I have lived through more upheaval and unhappiness than most people, and I needed to withdraw from the world. But I should have been here to support you in those demanding times after Edward’s death.” She went to the window to let in some air, her figure still elegant if a little stooped, Richard noted. “I tried to help Edward at the beginning, but he was headstrong and we quarreled. Then I did not want to interfere when it seemed you were handling everything so well.”
Richard harrumphed. “If only you knew, Mother. In truth, I would have been glad of your counsel, but events happened so fast, I did not think to consult you—especially during those first weeks of upheaval.”
Cecily turned back to him. “You need to know that I do not believe the hideous rumor that you had Ned’s boys murdered. You have the courage to render justice, but it is not in your nature to callously execute innocent children, and your own nephews at that.” She shook her head. “Impossible. Whatever has become of them—and their demise is certainly one very real option—I can believe that ambitious Margaret Beaufort had a hand in it. Even my nemesis, the other Margaret, might have had she lived. Elizabeth Woodville, too, would stop at nothing to secure her family’s power…” She paused and chuckled. “Listen to me disparaging my own sex. In truth, we can be as ruthless as men when we feel our families are threatened.”
“So they are dead? Dear God!” she exclaimed and crossed herself. “How? Those poor boys.”
Richard lowered himself into his chair. “It was Buckingham. Even worse, he did the deed himself and came gleefully back to me expecting my gratitude. Gratitude? I almost ran him through there and then.” Richard began pacing, remembering the scene. “Instead, I sent him away, and…”
“…he turned against you and rebelled,” Cecily finished the sentence for him as the truth dawned. “You did right to execute him,” she said vehemently. “At least his crime died with him. But why did you not get a signed confession? And, more important, why did you not reveal his crime when you had the chance?”
“Because I thought no one would believe me,” Richard muttered, shamefaced. “I had elevated him so high, if he fell I was going to fall with him. I regret I did not have the courage or the wisdom to reveal the truth for the peace of England, and, selfishly, for the peace of my own soul. And now…now…”
“…it is too late and history will say you are guilty,” Cecily once again finished for him, fingering her ebony and pearl rosary.
This Son of York Page 53
