This Son of York

by Anne Easter Smith

  “’Tis a curse to be born royal,” Richard said angrily. “There is always someone behind you ready to stab you in the back. I am trying to make amends by ruling justly, and I only hope history will record that fairly.”

  The duchess went to the door. “You have the measure of it, my son. And now I would counsel that you grieve for Anne apace longer, but then you must turn to the future. I know about the Tudor threat. Make ready and make it known. Ha! Margaret Beaufort’s son is no match for the best of mine.” Then she lowered her voice. “You do need an heir, ’tis true,” and she shook her finger at her youngest, “but not with your niece! End this rumor about Bess. Promise your aging mother.”

  Richard kissed her hand. “Aye, Your Grace,” he promised. He opened the door for Cecily and bade her farewell, giving her a low, respectful bow; she would never ceased to awe him.

  “Come and see me, Richard. Let us get reacquainted,” she urged over her shoulder. He nodded, not knowing the last sight he would have of his mother had just disappeared in a swirl of mauve silk.

  In a loud, confident voice Richard told the mayor and aldermen of London, the lords and priests, the officers of his household and his council gathered at the beautiful great hall of the Priory of St. John, that he had no, nor had he ever had, intentions to wed King Edward’s daughter, Elizabeth. The chroniclers duly wrote it down for history to judge whether Richard was telling the truth. What their version did not record was that this unfortunate rumor was just one of many aimed at Richard by a burgeoning number of Tudor followers, who meant to undermine his rule and stall any progress Richard sought to make for the kingdom.

  Even more difficult than the humiliating denial was his subsequent meeting with Bess. He owed it to the girl to tell her himself he had no feelings for her, other than those an uncle might have for a favorite niece.

  “I pray you to forgive me if I, in any way, led you to believe otherwise, my dear Bess,” he told her gently in Anne’s sunny solar, where he now spent most of his leisure time. He could see Bess had been crying, and he felt sorry for her, but he dared not lay a comforting finger on her in case she misinterpreted the action. “You must see how wrong any arrangement between us would be. I am your uncle and the king.”

  “And I a bastard—so they say,” Bess gamely retorted through tears that sparkled on her lashes. “I understand the king cannot wed one, but would you have considered marrying me had I not been, my lord? Could I have hoped?”

  Had she been his daughter Katherine thus heartsick, he would have taken her in his arms and soothed her. Instead he rose abruptly and turned his back to her, not wanting to hurt her further by his grim resolve to end this foolish fancy. “Nay, Bess, I have never desired you, and I would never have wed you. It may be that I will be counseled to take a new wife, but it will not be before I have ended this Tudor threat and found a suitable alliance for England.” Now was not the time to raise the topic of her so-called betrothal to Henry, although later he would request that she promise never to see it through. He turned back to her, his expression impassive. “My devotion was always to Anne from the day that I married her until the day she died. I dare any man to say I was untrue to her—and especially with you. You must forget your childish infatuation.”

  With tears running down her face, Bess shook her fist at her uncle. “I hate you, Richard, I truly hate you!” She jumped up. “I will marry Henry of Richmond, and won’t you be sorry!” she cried and ran from the room, leaving Richard cursing himself for his cruelty. He moved to the bed and sank into its softness, wishing for the thousandth time that Anne was still there. He stared at the flowers embroidered on the silk canopy above him and pondered Bess’s final remark. Should he not make her unavailable to the Tudor wretch? He sat up. Aye, first he would send her with the youngest members of the family to Sheriff Hutton for safe-keeping and then he would find her a suitable husband. There was no doubt that she might be a rallying cry if a promised alliance between York and Lancaster were used to attract supporters to the Tudor cause.

  Henry Tudor himself must have been relieved upon learning of the public denial. While he may have urged his English supporters to vilify Richard with the false rumor, surely he would not have sanctioned pushing Richard and Bess together to his own cost?

  Richard was determined to stamp out the spiteful falsehoods that were spreading throughout the kingdom, vowing to punish anyone caught perpetuating rumors of any kind or who published seditious articles about him or any of his household.

  A man named Colingbourne was given the grisly traitor’s death of being hung, drawn, and quartered for attempting to send a message to Henry Tudor in France encouraging him to invade England, and for having written the malevolent couplet tacked to St. Paul’s door slandering Richard’s closest friends:

  The Cat, the Rat, and Lovell our dog

  Rule all of England under an Hog.

  Richard wrote furiously to his friends on the York city council urging them to apprehend the bearers of false rumors for divers seditious and evil-disposed persons enforce themselves daily to sow seeds of noise against our person…to abuse the multitude of our subjects and avert their minds from us…

  In the quiet evenings now spent alone, Richard’s spirit flagged. He was losing the will to fight for his throne. “Without a wife, without an heir, what is the use?” he muttered into his wine one fine April evening, pushing away a half-eaten mutton pie. The news from France was also not good: Henry was gathering friends among the new king’s courtiers. Together with Oxford; the exiled, wily bishop, John Morton; Dorset; and Henry’s uncle, the troublesome Jasper Tudor, he had convinced the new French king to lend him support for an invasion.

  A knock on the door jarred Richard from his reverie and he slurred, “Come in.” It was Rob Percy, back from his estates in Yorkshire, where he had been commissioning troops. All up and down England, Richard had sent out commissions of array, and he had resurrected the beacon system of alarms that had worked so well for Edward.

  “Your Grace,” Rob began, going down on one knee. Richard waved him into a chair. “We have just had news from Calais. The queen’s…I mean Dame Grey’s son Dorset has forsaken Tudor and attempted to return to beg that he be readmitted to court.”

  “You astonish me, Rob,” Richard said, attempting to clear the wine fog from his brain. “Is he here now? I am glad to hear it, but I cannot say I trust him.”

  “Unfortunately, he got no further than Compiègne before being apprehended. Henry has him well guarded I have no doubt.”

  Richard drummed his fingers on the table. “Why now? Perhaps Henry has lost favor with the French king, and Dorset…”

  Rob shook his disheveled head. Richard loved that his old friend had never adopted the Londoners’ fussy fashions. “Nay, it is simpler than that. It would seem your inviting Elizabeth to return to court, coupled with the decisive way you quelled the ugly rumor about her daughter, has prompted her to urge Dorset to return and make his peace with you. It will be a blow to Henry’s ego if he thinks Elizabeth has withdrawn her support for his betrothal to Bess to side with you.”

  Richard felt as though some weight had been lifted from him. If Elizabeth has eased her mind about me, then she cannot believe I murdered her boys, he thought. “This is good news,” he agreed, “the first in a long time.”

  He may have sounded glad, but Richard had learned not to let down his guard. He had been misled by his too-trusting nature so many times he could not find it in his heart to believe his clever sister-in-law did not have ulterior motives in this apparent reversal. After all, he reasoned, she would win either way—as a family member again at his court or, God forbid Henry Tudor did invade and take the crown, as mother of a queen.

  He shivered. It was as though someone had walked over his grave.

  Chapter Thirty

  Summer 1485

  Richard the king marched through the balmy days of May and June fulfilling his duty to defend his kingdom from the invader. Richard the man w
afted through nightly mists of grief and bad dreams, sleeping fitfully and waking wearier than when he had put his head down the night before. His physician prescribed a potion of chamomile, hawthorn, and linden flowers, and it brought him some relief, although he wanted to ask the doctor if he had a cure for heartache.

  At the end of May, he held his last council meeting in London and moved on to Windsor. Confident of an easy victory against any invasion, Richard had persuaded the merchants and Italian bankers in London to extend him loans to pay for a royal army. “Help me stamp out this arrogant canker once and for all,” he had persuaded them. “Henry will see who is rightful king of England.”

  At the council meeting, he ordered Francis to depart for Southampton and organize its defenses; Jack Howard and his son, Thomas, were to return to East Anglia and await commissions of array; Brackenbury was to stay in London and keep it safe with the new artillery installed at the Tower; and his supporters, including Richard’s son-in-law in Wales, were told to remain vigilant.

  “Only the northeast is doubtful,” Richard observed quietly to Chancellor John Russell. “Can I count on Stanley or will he and his brother risk splinters in their arses by sitting on the fence?”

  Russell smiled at the imagery. “Lord Thomas has been a good member of your council and your trusted steward of the household, Your Grace, so why the concern now?”

  “Because he and his brother—indeed his family—have always managed to end up on the winning side. If you notice, Thomas rarely makes an opinion contrary to the majority on the council. I also have good cause to be wary of his wife, as you know. It is impossible to believe he cannot be privy to any communication between her and her son.” Richard tapped his temple. “Nay, my lord bishop, I shall use my head this time and take Stanley and his son, Strange, with me to Nottingham. I want my eye on them.”

  “Very wise, my liege,” Russell replied.

  Nottingham.

  The castle on the rock dragged his memory back to the awful day when he and Anne learned of Ned’s death. “My ‘castle of care,’” he said to Rob Percy, as they rode under the portcullis. Rob was one of only a few of his closest advisors, with Catesby and Ratcliffe, to accompany Richard.

  “I am surprised you returned, Your Grace. And I am even more surprised you are come without an army. Is this wise?”

  Richard smiled. “Thank God for your northern candor, Rob,” he said. “I get tired of flattering fawners. All is ready around the south and east coasts for any sightings of Richmond, and Neville has the fleet patrolling the French coast for a possible French flotilla. With commissions of array in every part of the country, I am thinking I can have an army assembled more quickly where it is needed rather than have all of it here and have to march to the other end of the country as a whole.”

  Rob nodded his approval of the strategy. “Always thinking, aren’t you, Richard?” he teased, evoking similar conversations from their days at Middleham. “What about Stanley? Should he not be mustering on his estates, too?”

  “Stanley stays with me for the time being,” was all Richard would say.

  Richard had been watching Stanley grow more and more taciturn since learning the king wanted him to stay close. Stanley was no fool. The earl realized his loyalty was in question, but there came a day in late July when he could no longer remain obediently at Nottingham.

  “It has been many months since I oversaw my affairs on my estates, Your Grace,” Stanley said, affecting a pinched grimace of pain “Besides, I have not been well of late. I beg your leave to return home where I can recoup my strength and prepare my own troops to support you.”

  Richard stared long and hard at the fifty-year-old earl of Derby, his sharp features, wispy gray hair and drooping mustache and beard making him look like an aging weasel. Stanley attempted to hold Richard’s eyes, but his lie forced him to avert his gaze. Finally, Richard spoke. “I will let you go, my lord Derby, on the condition you leave Lord Strange with me.”

  Stanley looked startled. “My son? What for, may I ask?”

  “Insurance, my lord,” Richard told him coolly. “And you know very well why.”

  Two men-at-arms stepped forward to flank Lord Strange, who seemed perplexed. “Insurance against what, Your Grace? Surely you do not question my loyalty or my father’s? We have served your family well.”

  Richard inclined his head. “And so you have, George. Up until the autumn of ’eighty-four, I had no worries as to your family’s loyalty. As I say, ’tis merely insurance.”

  Stanley sighed. “I understand. It is my wife, is it not? Very well, I will take my leave and prove my loyalty to you by bringing a sizable force whenever you summon me.”

  “I hope that you do, Thomas. Your son’s life depends upon it.”

  Lord Strange suppressed a gasp, but Richard was gratified to see Stanley’s hand waver as he fumbled his hat to his head before bowing stiffly.

  It was then that Richard called for the Great Seal to be brought to him from London and under it, he issued a proclamation calling all to resist the man Henry Tudor, earl of Richmond, who is descended of bastard blood and claims the royal estate of this realm where he has no interest, right or colour. It denounced all who would support him or other divers rebels and traitors.

  Richard prayed he had won his people’s trust and that they would honor this decree. Unfortunately, the people were tired of war and even more tired of the barons who fought it, and they still did not entirely believe that Richard’s path to the crown had been innocently paved. His people were not privy to Richard’s inborn sense of duty, however. He would never betray England’s trust, although there were many who still could not trust him.

  Perhaps an invasion would not come. That hopeful thought hovered in Richard’s mind as the first torrid days of August slunk by without news. He vacillated between wanting to give up the crown that should not have been his in the first place and the desire to prove that it was. In the latter mood, he prayed for battle with Richmond in which he would demonstrate his prowess as a military commander and dispense with the invader.

  “I would rather die in battle as king of England than lose the crown and live,” he confided to Rob one day when he was being fitted for a new cuirass. Having assessed the increased curve in Richard’s back, Signore Vicente had tactfully suggested a few months earlier that Richard’s old armor had been irreparable after the Scottish campaign and that he needed to craft new harness. Richard now praised the faithful craftsman for his meticulous work, never suspecting the true reason for the beautiful new backplate. “It almost feels like a second skin,” Richard told the delighted man. “He is a genius,” Richard murmured to Rob as they left the armory and went to the training yard for their daily workout. “With this harness, I shall send Henry packing!”

  “Pray God you will not have to, Richard,” Rob said, vehemently. “I would like to die from old age rather than a sword thrust,” and the two friends went, chuckling, to pick up their weapons.

  When Richard finally learned of Henry of Richmond’s landing in South Wales, he was almost relieved: the long wait was over. Richard was well represented in Wales, thus he had no doubt the Tudor upstart would never make it across the Marches into England. Nevertheless, he sent out messages to all awaiting his command to array, and then he went hunting.

  “I have done what needs doing to prepare,” Richard announced to his household. “It is the feast of the Assumption, and thus after honoring the Virgin, let us enjoy some sport at Bestwood while we wait further news, rather than wearing out the tiles here with our pacing. I warrant a brave stag will show more courage than Henry Tudor.”

  His retainers gave a cheer—albeit half-hearted.

  “It is not your lucky day, Lord Strange.” Richard’s voice dripped with sarcasm as he kept the young man on his knees. “It would seem your father has been taken ill of the sweating sickness. How curious that this new ailment seems to have arrived along with the invaders. Now, how do you suppose he contracted it?�
� Richard had been disgusted at Stanley’s lame excuse for why he was not already on his way to Leicester with his force. How stupid did Stanley think his king was?

  “I would have gladly let you join your father, had he obeyed my command and sent me a force. Now, I am obliged to retain you further. This time I will have no doubt about my condition for his presence at Leicester. If he does not join my army, you will be sacrificed.”

  George Strange assumed a stoic expression, but he gave a nod of understanding. “My father will not betray you, your grace, not while I am here.”

  “For your sake, I hope you are right,” Richard said, and left the room. He had no doubt that Stanley—and his brother, William, who had apparently not stopped the invaders on their way through his territory in Wales—would play a waiting game. He had no tolerance left for anyone who bore the Stanley name.

  Lord Strange attempted to escape that night and having been thwarted, the unfortunate heir to the vast Stanley estates found himself under heavy guard.

  Richard’s army began the move to Leicester, where he had ordered his commanders to meet him to do battle with Richmond and his followers. Although men joined his ranks, it would seem that England was tired of war and weary of watching the crown move from Lancaster to York and back again, because by the time he reached Leicester, Richard had far fewer troops than had fought for Edward at Barnet.

  Richard rode alone at the head of the column, listening to the jangling and clanking of an army on the move and was suddenly catapulted back to that day in Ludlow when he had first heard the sound. He could hear his father’s voice clearly ordering the flight of the Yorkist lords in the middle of the night rather than face defeat by the royal army. He grunted at the irony that another Richard of York was readying to do battle with another Henry of Lancaster, but this time, the roles were reversed: York wore the crown and Lancaster mounted the challenge.