This Son of York

by Anne Easter Smith

  With Northumberland trusted to bring several thousand to swell Richard’s force, and Stanley another five thousand or so, Richard hoped that this Henry would turn tail and run, but a dark cloud of treachery hung over Richard as he contemplated the recent intelligence that Northumberland had failed to muster any men in York, citing plague as an excuse. York was Richard’s stronghold, and thus he had managed to impress upon the mayor the urgency of his need for loyal men. At the last minute, York had done its best to answer the call. There was, thus, a niggling doubt in Richard’s mind about Henry Percy, earl of Northumberland, and an even larger doubt about Thomas and William Stanley. He knew between the two brothers there were four thousand men at somebody’s disposal; his gut told him he could not count on their being at his.

  Richard entered Leicester by the Gallowsgate on Friday, the nineteenth day of August, and was greeted by cheering citizens and throngs of soldiers from all parts of the country shouting his name. The sight gave him tremendous confidence, and he began to believe his crown was secure. He reined in his great white courser along the route to the castle to address his faithful followers.

  “I thank you from my heart for this welcome, good people of Leicester. I well remember my warm reception here after my crowning. It is good to know I have your loyalty in the face of the invader, and, as loyalty is my watchword, I give you my word I will beat him back into the sea from whence he came and keep our kingdom safe. It is my sacred duty.”

  “God save King Richard! God save the king!” rang from the rooftops as Richard proceeded through the narrow streets to the castle overlooking the River Soar. Waiting for him were those he trusted most, and he slid off White Syrie’s back to greet his heir, earl of Lincoln, Francis Lovell, Jack Howard, Robert Brackenbury, Lord Ferrers, and his own son, John, the lad’s eyes shining with pride.

  After thanking them all for heeding his call to arms, Richard led the way inside the castle to be briefed. As they crossed the great hall to the smaller audience chamber, Richard drew Francis aside. “I have a favor to ask,” he said. “I would be grateful if you kept my son out of the fighting this time. He is only fifteen, and although eager to prove himself, he is too young for battle. Besides, his mother would never forgive me if aught happened to him.” Francis grinned and agreed.

  Jack Howard opened the strategy meeting by ruefully admitting: “Richmond has gathered a goodly number on his way, our scouts report. More than we anticipated. They are two days’ march from here, led by Oxford.”

  “Where is Northumberland?” Richard asked.

  “On the road south, I am informed,” young John of Lincoln replied, eagerly, “with more than five thousand.”

  Was he the only one who questioned Percy’s loyalty, Richard wondered, but he nodded. “That is good news. And what of my lord Stanley?” He hoped he sounded nonchalant.

  Silence.

  “God damn him to Hell!” Richard shouted and his fist hit the table. “Not even a word?” Jack slowly shook his gray head.

  Always able to calm Richard, Francis Lovell stepped forward. “It is not to say he won’t be here, Your Grace. We should not count him out—yet, although we know his brother did not hinder Richmond in Wales.”

  “Such perfidy,” Richard muttered and turned to John Kendall. “The charts, John. Let us look at our battlefield options.”

  A few minutes later, the lords were gathered, heads bent poring over the map, when Rob Percy entered the room and whispered in Richard’s ear.

  “Excuse me, my lords,” Richard said, and exited with Rob, who gave him the thick envelope, bowed and left.

  Instantly recognizing Kate’s untidy lettering, he frowned; he had no time for anything but the upcoming fight. Curious, however, he opened the crudely sealed parchment and Kate’s little gold ring fell into his palm. What this time, he wondered.

  I must see you, Richard. I beg of you, do not deny me, although I know you are occupied. I am staying with Master Roger Wygston on Church Lane. I await your summons. Yours truly always, Kate.

  Richard folded the paper and smiled to himself. Aye, you have always been true to me, Kate. But what, in Christ’s name, are you doing in Leicester?

  “Get out!” Richard’s voice carried into the great hall, where several of his friends exchanged meaningful looks. His raised voice was becoming an all-too familiar sound as Richard’s knights went about their business, some checking their weapons and armor or giving instructions to their squires, and others writing letters to their wives.

  Into the hubbub walked John of Gloucester escorting his widowed mother to see his father. Kate hesitated on hearing Richard’s repeated “Get out!” as a clerk escaped from the audience chamber on the run, clutching his bonnet.

  “Fear not, Mother, he will see you,” John reassured her, “although your news will not make him any less quarrelsome.”

  “Kate! Kate Haute!” Jack’s warm baritone made her turn only to find herself in a fatherly embrace. “So, my bold girl, you made it here safely,” Jack said, releasing her. “I was not pleased you left Tendring with only two escorts at such a dangerous time, but then Margaret and I have known you so long, why should I be surprised at anything you do, Kate. I do not envy you having to face,” and he jerked his head towards the audience chamber, “him. Sadly, he is not the cheerful young man I remember. Your news can’t wait, I suppose? Nay, it cannot,” he agreed as she shook her head.

  “Keep yourself safe, Jack Howard,” Kate said, kissing his cheek. “Margaret is waiting impatiently for you to come home. And then, no more fighting.”

  Jack forced a laugh. “I promise you, this is the last time, my dear Kate.”

  John boldly knocked on the door and ushered Kate through to the untidy office. Richard swiveled round, a frown creasing his face, but when he saw Kate, deep in her curtsey, he bent and raised her to her feet, his frown erased.

  “I think I shall have to claim this ring now,” he said, holding it out to her. “God’s greeting, lady. You are a sight for this soldier’s tired eyes.”

  “And greetings to you, too, my lord,” she replied, replacing the love token on her finger. “Forgive my untimely visit, but this could not wait.”

  He drew her to a bench, and they sat down. “What is it, Kate? You’ve been crying.” And then he knew.

  “Is it Katherine? Is she ill? I heard she was with child. Has she lost it? Speak, please.”

  Kate nodded. “Aye, it is our daughter, Richard. I am so sorry to tell you that she died in my arms a week ago.” She waited for a reaction, but Richard just stared at her, unseeing, his crowded brain and empty heart unable to process more ill tidings. “I could not merely write to you of this, could I? I had to come in person.” She took his hands. “She was so precious to you, I know, and I could not bear to have you hear the dreadful news on your own or from someone else. Selfishly, too, I needed to share my grief with you.”

  Richard clutched at Kate’s hands, and his throat constricted. He wanted to weep for his beautiful daughter, but it seemed he had no more tears. Kate gently opened his hands and put into them a folded strip of velvet containing a long lock of shining auburn hair tied in black ribbon.

  Richard gazed at the glossy tress and touched it reverently. “Ah, my sweet Katherine! Never was a father prouder of his poppet.” He looked up at the mother of his beloved child and asked, “How did she die?”

  “’Twas the sweating sickness. She came to visit me from Wales and apparently she brought it with her…”

  “Aye,” Richard interrupted harshly,” I know all about the sweating sickness that Richmond’s mercenaries carried with them. Now I have even more reason to run the bastard through.” He looked down at the auburn tress and carefully folded it back in the material, tucking it into his doublet.

  “Wear it for luck when you fight, Richard. Katherine will keep you safe.”

  She moved closer and rested her head on his shoulder, and there they sat for a few quiet moments mourning together until, with growing fu
ry, Richard pushed her aside, picked up his crown and flung it at the crucifix on the wall. Fearful, Kate rose and backed away.

  “Richard…Richard I beg of you…Contain yourself! What has happened to my gentle Richard?”

  “What happened?” he spat back at her. “What happened?” He picked up the dented circlet and shook it at her. “This happened! This crown has brought nothing but death. First Ned, then Anne, now Katherine.” His heart was cold stone, and his back ached. He kneaded his shoulder with his thumbs. “Now I know I am cursed. God has marked me, and I am finished trying to appease him.” Confronting the emaciated Jesus whose hollowed, agonized eyes bored into him from the cross. Richard snarled, “Look not on me thus. I, too, have sacrificed and suffered. I suppose You will not be satisfied until I am dead? I wish Richmond would walk in here this minute and put an end to me.” He gave a harsh laugh. “Then I could join Lucifer in the flames of hell, where I belong.”

  Kate dared to touch him then, but he flung her aside, needing to be alone.

  “You are not cursed, Richard.” Desperate, she tried again. “You are a loyal and dutiful servant of God—and England. God cannot…He will not forsake you.” She boldly ran on, “You have a son who adores you and looks to you as an example. He is right outside. Be strong for him. He will not forsake you, and neither will I. Someday Dickon, too, will know the truth, and be proud. You cannot go into battle from such a dark place in your heart. It only tempts Fate.” She wrung her hands. “Damn my rashness. I should not have added to your burdens by coming here. I should have waited until after your victory. Forgive me, my love! I beg of you, forgive me.”

  With supreme effort Richard pulled himself together and turned to her, his torment plain. “Nay, ’tis you that should forgive me,” he said, carefully placing the crown on the table. He took her hands in his, unable to resist her pleading eyes. “Know this, Kate Haute, that you have always owned a piece of my heart.” He reached inside his undershirt and pulled out the écu. “You see, you are always with me, God help me. And every time I saw Katherine or John, you were with me.” He replaced the coin and patted his heart. “You and Katherine will ride with me on the morrow, and thus protected, I cannot lose.” He paused. Despite his words, he suddenly felt fear, and, cursing, he turned away to hide it. She should not have come, and yet he hated his weakness for needing her.

  With his back to her, he gently but firmly said, “Now please go. I have more pressing matters to attend to.” He felt cruel, but she, too, had been cruel coming with such news on the eve of what would more than likely be the most important day of his life. “Go!”

  Kate swallowed a sob and left without a word. He sank down on the bench, pulled out his daughter’s strand of hair and finally allowed tears of sorrow to darken its green velvet covering.

  Richard tried to concentrate on billeting and the mustering of troops that continued to arrive, but thoughts of Katherine clouded his mind. By the time he had laid his head uneasily on his pillow at the Blue Boar Inn, he could not remember any of the orders he had given nor what his scouts had told him. (It did not help that he had consumed an entire gallon of claret, hoping the ruby elixir would work as a sleeping draught.) Was Henry two days or one away from the royal army? How many did they say the earl had brought with him? Where was Stanley? And had Northumberland come? Instead of conjuring those crucial answers given him by manly voices, he heard Katherine’s sunny laughter and oft-repeated, “Don’t you know, ’tis you I love best, Father?” When he closed his eyes, he saw so vividly her jaunty smile and toss of the head that the image made him open them quickly to confirm she was not real. Soon Katherine’s face dissolved into Kate’s youthful one, and his mind returned to a day by a stream where, naked, he and Kate had frolicked in the icy water and conceived John. He banished the vision, immediately remorseful for the unkind way he had dismissed his erstwhile mistress that day.

  Before the wine did its soporific work, he put out his hand to feel Anne next to him and touching nothing but a cold sheet, he turned in that direction, willing her come to him. “I think it will not be long before I shall join you and Ned, dear Anne,” he murmured. “I pray that through your goodness you have interceded for me with God Almighty, and He will welcome me to Heaven.”

  A sudden shocking thought occurred to him and he abruptly sat up. “King Henry!” he moaned into the darkness. Christ’s pity, Anne, he thought, you must now know my fearful secret, and I beg of you to understand that I performed the execution myself out of respect for the harmless, saintly man. Edward commanded it, and therefore it would have been done—one way or another. Better I than some paid, sadistic henchman.

  Tucking his body around the pillow, he held it as if Anne were giving him comfort. Finally he slept.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  August 21–25, 1485

  On Sunday, the twenty-first of August, hundreds jammed the road out of Leicester over the Soar heading west. Word was that Henry Tudor, earl of Richmond, was camped along Watling Street near the village of Atherstone. This meant he could either evade the royal army and march quickly south to London, or—and the honorable thing to do—he would advance and engage with Richard. The scouts further reported that Lord Stanley had reached the area and was encamped at Stoke Golding, with his brother a stone’s throw from there. They had not joined Henry’s force, and Richard’s commanders breathed a sigh of relief, but Richard was less easily fooled.

  When the news was given at the final briefing before the lords and knights of the household donned their armor and joined the procession, Richard had grunted, “I cannot trust Thomas Stanley. Why did he not obey my command to muster here? Send out an advance to keep an eye on them.” He then looked around the room making eye contact with his commanders as he thanked each one for their loyalty to England. “I will be honored to fight alongside every one of you, and I pray that you may honor me by wearing this token on the field.” He nodded to a young squire, who with great solemnity, had handed each commander a silver boar badge.

  First to cross Bow Bridge across the Soar was Richard’s vanguard, jointly formed by the Howards’ forces, father and son. Thomas Howard, earl of Surrey, led the procession, guiding his snorting courser out of the castle yard and onto the road over the river. Richard saw that he was wearing the little silver badge on his tabard and was pleased. After a thousand troops had kicked up the dust far into the distance, it was time for Richard’s middle guard to move out of the city.

  Richard stepped onto the mounting block and was helped into the saddle by Francis and Rob.

  “Don’t forget to wave,” Francis teased, earning a grin from his sovereign. Handing Richard the helmet encircled with a dented, golden crown, he cried, “Listen, my lord, they cheer for you.”

  Indeed they did cheer. The townsfolk crowded the entry to the castle, trying to get a glimpse of their king, but they fell back to a respectful distance when he emerged from the gateway, trumpets blaring, heralds and pursuivants carrying colorful pennants and banners behind him, and the arms of England and France fluttering above him on the standard borne by Sir Percival Thirwell. “God save King Richard!” the citizens cried, and some even shouted, “Death to the Tudor traitor.”

  Riding either side of Richard were his two other battle commanders: Jack Howard, duke of Norfolk, and the latecomer Henry Percy, earl of Northumberland, who would command the rearguard. Northumberland had not been present at the final meeting, having arrived too late; he too had received a silver badge but had chosen not wear it. Richard hoped the omission was not deliberate. Burying the doubt, he concentrated on acknowledging his subjects’ good will.

  As he neared the end of the stone Bow Bridge, he suddenly spied Kate, her long chestnut hair flowing free of the customary widow’s wimple. Reining in his mount, he sidled up to her. “Shocking, bold lady!” he murmured, his fingers itching to touch the glossy tresses. “I did not think to see you.”

  It was then that a single magpie alighted a few feet in front of them. K
ate gasped. Was it an omen? Richard crossed himself as Kate muttered in superstitious country fashion: “Good morning Mr. Magpie, how’s your wife.” As their eyes met, Richard instinctively reached for the écu on its lanyard. He suddenly realized this might be the last time he saw her. He pulled out the talisman, untied it and bent down to give it to Kate. He heard Northumberland grumbling behind him, but Richard decided to let him wait. I waited long enough for him, he thought.

  “Nay, nay, Richard,” Kate protested. “You will need it now more than ever.”

  Richard smiled. “I have Katherine’s lock of hair, remember. You must give this to Dickon. It should go back to a Bywood, and he will have something to remember me by.” He bent down to her, dropped it into her outstretched hand and whispered. “Forgive me for yesterday. Farewell, my rose.”

  Kate reached out her hand and caressed his cheek. “God keep you, Richard.”

  As he eased his horse away, his mailed foot caught the bridge abutment, and he saw Kate recoil in fear. He was momentarily curious, but their brief interaction being over, he set his horse once more on the path to Henry Tudor and forgot the incident.

  Finally alone in his pavilion and with several black hours of waiting ahead of him, Richard had whiled away one of them ruminating on the twists and turns his life had taken to this point. Holding King Henry’s gift in his hands, he tried to concentrate on the text and accompanying illuminations, but, as always, the memory of the dark night in the Tower returned. Why he had not divested himself of the prayer book long before now, he could not imagine, but perhaps it was God’s way of holding him hostage to his guilt for all these years. God’s bones, why can I never forget?