A Rose for the Crown: A Novel

by Anne Easter Smith

  “All that night I agonized with Anne over what I must do. We prayed together for guidance, but in the end, we had no answer but to remain silent. We did not wish to alarm the people, and so many were expressing their happiness at the peace I seemed to bring them. My audience with Harry had not been long enough for me to find out what I now know. I believed he acted alone misguidedly to protect me. Kate, I did not want to take the blame for such a hideous crime. Therefore, I remained silent. My anger at Harry turned his love into hatred, I can see that now. But ’twas more insidious even than mere anger that made him rebel. Now he has gone to his grave leaving me to be blamed if ever those boys’ bodies are found. Now you see why I fear the flames of Hell.” He grimaced as he said the words.

  “Nonsense, Richard! ’Twas not your deed. I cannot say if you should have told the truth and taken the consequences, but you have chosen this way and those consequences are terrible, too. See what it has done to your poor body. Your punishment is here and now on earth. God sees all and knows you did not murder your nephews—or have a hand in it. If you can go to your Maker with a pure heart, He will recognize it. You must have faith.” Her absolute faith in her words calmed him, and she felt the intensity of his grip on her hand lessen. She gave him a minute to recover his composure before she coaxed him to continue the tragic tale.

  “Can you bear to tell me what happened to the boys? If your cousin . . . removed them, how did he accomplish it without arousing suspicion? Why does not all of London question their whereabouts?”

  Richard snorted. “Ha! For once Harry used his head, more’s the pity. He arrived one dark night from Brecknock and, as constable of England, his entry into the Tower was not questioned. He convinced Rob Brackenbury—he is the Tower constable, you know—that I had sent him to carry the boys to a safer haven. He told Brackenbury of a plot afoot by the Woodvilles to seize the boys, get rid of me and place young Edward on the throne. Foolishly, Brackenbury believed him, though why he did not remember that Edward was a bastard and could not be king, I do not know. All I know is that Brackenbury was sworn to secrecy, the boys were given into Harry’s sole keeping—now there was a point Bracken-bury might have questioned, had he not been half asleep—and Harry hurried the children into a waiting boat and disappeared on the river. You may well look astounded, Kate. But ’tis the truth as Harry told me.”

  “Then where did he take the poor children? They must have been terrified.”

  “It seems both boys, believing they were on some sort of adventure, fell in with Harry’s secretive behavior and enjoyed creeping past their sleeping attendants without disturbing them. Harry had slipped into their room, placed his hands over their mouths to awaken them. He whispered ’twas a game and that they were to be taken somewhere pleasanter to live but the journey might put their lives in danger and would they play along with him. Those innocent boys jumped joyfully into the spirit of the game, Harry proudly told me. He smuggled them out with nary a flicker of an eyelash from any guard.” He stopped and unceremoniously wiped his nose on his sleeve.

  “I know not the ways of royal commands, but is it not customary to send a written document with your seal for something as important as the removal of the princes?”

  “Certes! But Harry had a reason for the lack of one. ‘’Tis so secret, the king’s grace wants no tangible trace of the mission to spoil the chance of its success,’ he told Brackenbury. He thought of everything,” Richard admitted. “I would not have credited him with so much common sense. I later found out ’twas not his own idea but that of someone far more intelligent. More of that later. Let me go back to the Tower story.”

  He took a deep breath through clenched teeth and came to the tale’s tragic conclusion. “Harry had the boatman row them up the river to a spot past Westminster, where he had the boatman go ashore. He paid the man off and told the boys to wrap themselves in their cloaks and try to get some sleep for the journey in the morning. He fooled them into believing they would be met there by one of my men with fresh horses. While the boys were sleeping, he smothered each in turn and covered their bodies with bracken and undergrowth”—Richard’s voice rasped as he controlled his anger—“and left them there to rot, unshriven. ’Tis certain the dogs or other creatures would have helped to dispose of them. ’Tis unbearable to even speak of.

  “At this point in the story,” he went on, “I fear I lost my temper and sent the murderer away without questioning him as to the exact site. ’Tis doubtful Harry even knew. He said he instructed the boatman to stop rowing as soon as he could no longer see the lights at Westminster. Then he made his way back along the riverbank to the palace, pretended he was drunk and was put to bed in his apartments. The next day, he took a fresh horse and rode to me at Gloucester. The reception I gave him was not what he expected, in truth.” He gave another snort. “He rode off immediately for Brecknock, and I never saw him again.”

  Kate sat riveted to her stool. She saw the dreadful deed unfold in her imagination and felt a constriction in her chest when she thought of the two boys innocently sleeping under the trees, unaware of their imminent danger. Their naïve trust in their affable “rescuer” distressed her beyond words.

  “I am glad you executed him!” she cried, when she found her voice. “I hope he was afraid!”

  “Judging by the impassioned letter he wrote to me, begging for his life, you may be certain he was afraid. It was in his desperation to exonerate himself and gain a pardon that he let me know who my real enemies are.” A hint of menace crept into his voice. He released Kate’s hand and shifted his position.

  “What do you mean? You continue to tease me with your insinuations, Richard. I pray you tell me what you mean.”

  “I do not have proof, in truth, but in his final letter to me, Harry told me he had been fooled by his prisoner, Bishop John Morton, into believing there was a Woodville plot to kill me and seize young Edward. He confessed he had ridden straight back to Brecknock after our disastrous meeting in Gloucester and complained to the bishop of his ill treatment at my hands. With an ‘oily tongue’—Harry’s words—Morton turned Harry against me. My tomfool of a cousin stopped short of implicating Morton, but I can only guess the bishop promised him more rewards if Harry helped to support Henry of Richmond. ’Tis as clear as day to me that wily churchman was working with Margaret Beaufort, Richmond’s sour-faced mother. Poor gullible, greedy Harry. God’s bones! I was such a fool to trust that man! Now I will have those two boys on my conscience until the day I die.”

  “But Margaret Beaufort carried the queen’s train at the coronation. ’Twas the highest honor, so why should you believe she works against you?”

  “Ah, you have it the wrong way ’round, Kate. We knew her dearest wish was to see her son on the throne, and we believed that if we showed her respect and trust, she would be content to serve us quietly in England and give up her idea of seeing Henry crowned. Once again, my judgment was lacking! You see, if something happened to me and my little son, Richmond could claim a right to the throne through his mother’s Beaufort blood. ’Tis my belief she and her supporters have been working all along to remove me from the throne and place Richmond on it. In truth, I can count on but a few now, Kate. It has caused me to turn inward and to surround myself with only those I truly trust such as Jack Howard, Rob, Francis, Will Catesby and Dick Ratcliffe.”

  Kate did not know the last two names, but she hoped they were all more trustworthy than Harry Stafford. “If you feared Morton was behind the rebellion, why did you not arrest him and try him? Surely Stafford’s letter to you would have borne witness to his treachery.”

  “Aye, it might have, but the man escaped from Brecknock during the rebellion and disappeared. Chances are he has made his way to Brittany and is counseling Richmond at this very moment.”

  Richard stood up abruptly. He began to pace the room, characteristically fingering his dagger.

  “Richard, you must not brood so. Do not allow your enemies to see that they are bringing
you low. You have dealt with the crisis. It is over and the rebels have been punished or have fled. ’Tis time to govern and bring your people the peace they crave.” With mention of the rebels, she remembered she had not thanked him for his dealing with Richard Haute. Kate, you ingrate! she thought, using the chair arm to lever herself off the footstool and back into the more comfortable seat. “Forgive me for taking so long in thanking you for granting my cousin his life. I wish I might some day repay you.”

  “You have given me two beautiful children, Kate. For them I would pardon a thousand Richard Hautes.” He stopped pacing, his scowl turning into a smile.

  “Three,” she said, the word slipping from her mouth like a fish through a hole in the net. Her nonchalance caused him to believe he had not heard her correctly.

  “Did you say something, Kate?”

  “I said three,” she repeated, and she knew not why she had chosen this moment to tell him of Dickon, but she knew it was the right one. “I have given you three children.”

  Richard was dazed. Kate had a moment of panic when she thought anger flashed across his face, but he was simply nonplussed.

  “What are you saying? Who . . . where . . . when? Are you lying to me, Kate?” He approached her and stopped a few feet from her chair. “Tell me truly, was there . . . is there a third child?”

  She smiled at him and crossed her heart. “I swear I am telling the truth, Richard. I bore you another son six months after your marriage to Anne Neville and he is named for you. How could I tell you when you forbade me to get with child again? How could I tell you when it was imperative that you clear me from your conscience before you plighted your troth to Anne? I chose not to tell you for many reasons. Those are two of them.”

  Richard slumped into a chair opposite her, questions crowding his brain. “You did this for me? You suffered the stigma of a bastard alone so that I could go guilt-free to Anne? You loved me that much?” He stared at her in awe. “Oh, how I have mistreated you, Kate. Can you ever forgive me?”

  “There is nothing to forgive, Richard. ’Twas my choice, and there is an end to it. In truth, I avoided the stigma, for I gave Dickon up as a baby. I could not soil my father-in-law’s reputation—Katherine and John were believed to be George’s children, you remember—and I decided ’twould be better for this child to think he was part of a happy family. I do not say ’twas the perfect answer, but it made sense to me at that time. He believes my brother, Johnny, and his wife are his parents.” She told him the whole story and gave him what information she had about Dickon, assuring him the boy was happy with Geoff.

  Richard shook his head in disbelief. “You gave up your son so that he would not know he was a bastard. ’Tis truly a selfless act, Kate. If it gives you some solace, I believe you did right by him.”

  He began to pace again, this time with a lightness in his step. The news was welcome in a strange way. He had lost a cousin but gained a son. How he wished he could see the boy. He swung round. “Can I see him? Is it possible? I should like to do my share, Kate, and pay his way with Geoffrey. Nay”—he saw her start to shake her head—“I would not reveal myself to him, but I would dearly love to see him!”

  Kate had not hoped in her wildest dreams that this would be Richard’s reaction. She had imagined he would be angry at her deception, had she ever told him. At best she had hoped he would be understanding. But she had never anticipated so much enthusiasm or that he would actually want to see Dickon. She was elated. “If you swear he will not know you as his father, I cannot see the harm. I will write to Geoff and warn him of your possible visit. ’Tis generous of you to offer his board, and I will accept gratefully, if it gives you pleasure.”

  “I shall go into Kent in the New Year, and I have no doubt I can escape with Rob or Francis for a few hours. Kate, this news has cheered me greatly. ’Tis like one of my nephews has suddenly returned from the grave. Perhaps I shall now dream of Dickon and not those two little boys foully murdered and rotting under the bracken. I am grateful to you.” He paused and fumbled in the pouch on his belt. “Before I forget, I must return your ring. It is yours always, I swore.”

  He gave it to her and offered his arm. “Come, let us find Katherine. You must be anxious to talk about the wedding.”

  KATE LEARNED RICHARD had indeed found time to visit Geoff’s school and had seen Dickon not long after their conversation. She was visiting Ightham, and Geoff gave her a detailed account of the brief visit. Dickon had even given Richard one of his carvings, Geoff said, though he was unaware he was giving it to his father.

  Now it was her turn to meet her son.

  “Dickon, ’tis your lucky day. Here is your aunt Kate from Suffolk to visit us.” Geoff shepherded the boy into the herb garden at the back of the cottage where Kate and Jane were analyzing the demise of a bush of rosemary. They turned when they heard Geoff’s voice.

  Jane was puzzled seeing Kate’s nervous fingers tear apart the rosemary stem she was holding. This was the first meeting of the two women, and Jane had immediately taken a liking to her sister-in-law. She had been struck by the resemblance between Kate and Dickon, but then Dickon could have been Geoff’s son, so she accepted the chestnut hair and freckles as a mere Bywood family trait. In the hour since Kate’s arrival, she had not judged Kate to be a worrier, however, and she wondered why this poised woman should be so anxious about meeting her nephew. She entwined her arm in Kate’s and led her forward to greet Dickon. Mother and son appraised each other and made an instant connection. Kate longed to take the boy into her arms and tell him he was her son. Instead, she bent and gently kissed his soft cheek, murmuring a greeting.

  “Well met, nephew. I am happy to meet you at last. Your uncle has told me of your progress in the schoolroom and of your fine wood carvings. Come, walk with me a spell and tell me all about yourself.” Kate was aware she sounded formal and stilted, but she needed to retain control.

  Geoff and Jane disappeared into the house, and Kate was grateful. She took Dickon’s hand, and they walked to the woods. Dickon was overawed by this beautiful woman wearing an ugly headdress and had been afraid to utter a word. A bird’s song drifted through the air from the nearest tree.

  “Do you know what bird that is?”

  “Oh, aye, ’tis a blackbird, my lady. ’Tis my favorite song.” Dickon’s shyness evaporated at such an easy question.

  “Is it? ’Tis mine, too. Is that not strange?” She smiled. A cuckoo flaunted its song from another part of the woods. Kate and Dickon called back cuckoo in unison and turned to each other, laughing.

  “Do you know about the cuckoo?” The boy shook his head. “She is a very lazy bird, or perhaps she is very clever. She never builds her own nest. She finds other birds’ nests and lays her egg there. She hopes the mother bird will not notice a strange one and will sit on it for her.” As Kate described this natural procedure, she was guiltily struck by the parallel of her running off to Bywood to have this child and leaving him to be brought up by a substitute mother. She changed the subject. “I hope you like the forest. Except for being by a river, I am happiest in the forest. Oh, look at the bluebells. I had forgotten about bluebells.”

  She let go of his hand, picked up her skirts and ran like a girl into the blue carpet. She began to pick the flowers, inhaling their powerful scent, which brought back memories of the night Richard and Elinor Haute dined at Bywood Farm. How long ago it seemed, and who would have guessed the journey life had in store for her. She turned and laughed as Dickon ran into the bluebell patch and began to gather plants for his aunt, who was not as formidable as he had first thought.

  “Be careful, Dickon. You must not pull the white root up or the plant will not flower again!” She used her mother’s very words.

  After filling their arms with the flowers and chattering about animals and birds, they returned to the house the best of friends. Dickon ran to the dormitory he shared with the other boys and not long afterwards came down the steep stairs two at a time. He found Ka
te in the kitchen helping Jane to put the bluebells in jugs.

  “By your leave, Aunt Kate, I would like you to have this.” He shyly offered her an exquisitely carved squirrel he had been creating. “’Tis a squirrel.”

  “Certes, ’tis a squirrel, Dickon. You have captured him completely. I will accept your gift with pleasure, thank you.” She took the carving and turned it this way and that. “’Tis beautiful. You have a God-given talent, child.”

  “You really like it?”

  “Like it? Why, I love it,” she said, kissing him on the forehead. Her heart was ready to explode, but she had to remember that Jane did not know she was Dickon’s mother. “And I have something for you, Dickon. Let us go and find Wat and the horses. Can you spare me, Jane? I shall only take a few moments.”

  Although in her final month of pregnancy, Jane was healthy enough. She waved Kate away. “Certes! But you will stay longer? I have so longed to get to know you. I shall insist you stay and sup with us.”

  Kate smiled. “I shall be delighted.” She took Dickon’s hand and found Wat languishing in the sunshine by the side of the house. He jumped up and busied himself with one of the saddles as they approached. Kate arched an eyebrow but said nothing. She was far too exhilarated to chastise him further. “Come, Dickon, let us find what I brought you in my saddlebag. This is my nephew, Wat. He is a fine little wood-carver.”

  “Aye, your nephew. How be it with you, young Dickon?” Wat knew this was Kate’s son but played along obediently.

  When Dickon made Wat a formal bow, Kate laughed. “Wat is my groom, Dickon. You do not need to bow to him. But your greeting was courteous and proper. I can see my brother has taught you well. Now for that gift.”

  She lifted out a leather bundle and handed it to the impatient Dickon. He sat down on the mounting block and unwrapped it. His face gazed in wonder at the set of tools neatly slotted in a row. He stared and stared until Kate could stand it no longer.