A Rose for the Crown

by Anne Easter Smith

  Kate was seated in a balcony overlooking the dais in St. Edward’s Shrine, on which two thrones were set. Katherine had prevailed upon her father to allow Kate a seat of honor with her and the other women of the household. Katherine was proud of her mother as they sat holding hands in the balcony, although several ladies whispered behind their hands at the obvious resemblance between Richard’s beloved bastard daughter and the widow. Even Margaret had been surprised by Richard’s generosity. As wife of the new duke of Norfolk, Margaret now had a place of honor in the queen’s train.

  The procession was nearing the choir. The faces of the two men who ran backwards, unrolling a carpet of velvet for the new king and queen to walk on in their bare feet, were almost as red as the material they carried. The voices of the choir rang out with a glorious introit, “Regis regum rectissimi”—“The day of the King most righteous,” as the great cross of St. Peter was borne in front of a stream of clergy, bishops, prelates, abbots and priests, who crowded around the high altar but left room for Cardinal Bourchier, Archbishop of Canterbury.

  Next appeared the highest lords of the land carrying the regalia of state. Kate recognized Francis Lovell, who carried one of the two swords of justice; the duke of Suffolk carrying the scepter; Jack, now Earl Marshal of England, bearing the crown; and his son, Thomas, newly created earl of Surrey.

  “Where is Buckingham?” Kate whispered to Katherine, as the nobles processed below her and took their seats.

  “You shall see.”

  His expression humble and awed, Richard stepped through the portal and into the choir nave as the music reached a crescendo, the voices sending their song heavenward for God’s blessing on the new monarch. Clothed in purple velvet and flanked by two bishops, he walked solemnly towards the dais. He looked neither right nor left, and his impassive face now told Kate nothing. It was hard to imagine this man had once frolicked naked with her in a stream. She smiled at the incongruous memory, and, finding the event overwhelming, she needed the memory to ground her. Katherine nudged her and nodded her head in the direction of the man following Richard. Kate then saw who had the single honor of bearing the king’s train. Holding the wand of High Steward as well as the heavy mantle, Henry Stafford, duke of Buckingham, had made sure everyone watching knew who had helped Richard to his throne. His rotund face was wet with perspiration, its expression smug.

  Richard mounted the few steps of the dais and stood waiting the arrival of his queen. She, too, was wearing purple and was preceded by noblewomen carrying her regalia. Kate looked with interest to see who carried Anne’s train and did not recognize the plain, thin-faced woman in a widow’s wimple—another woman who had taken the vow of chastity—despite the fact she was married.

  “Margaret Beaufort,” Katherine enlightened her. Kate frowned. True, Margaret Beaufort was wife to Lord Stanley, but who was he compared with Jack or Henry of Buckingham? Indeed, in her own right she was a descendant of John of Gaunt and his mistress, Catherine Swynford, whose bastard offspring were named Beaufort. However, after Gaunt married his love, King Richard the Second had legitimized their children nigh on eighty years ago with the stipulation that the descendants should never be allowed to inherit the crown. Kate had listened to the talk among the Howard inner circle at Stepney that Henry of Richmond, Margaret Beaufort’s son by her first husband, Edmund Tudor, was being mentioned as a pretender to Richard’s crown, despite the age-old stipulation. Knowing all this, Kate thought it a peculiar honor for Richard to give Lady Margaret. Perhaps he was mending fences and shoring up loyalties.

  Finally, the ceremony began. As Kate took in the scene below her, she told herself the abbey could never have witnessed so rich and magnificent a gathering. The noticeable absences were Cecily, mother of the king, and the Woodvilles. Elizabeth had chosen to remain in sanctuary, and her brother, the Archbishop of York, was still in the Tower. Buckingham had not permitted his hated wife, Catherine Woodville, to attend. The two former princes were excluded for obvious reasons. Most significant among the absentees were Anthony, Lord Rivers, and Elizabeth’s son, Richard Grey, who had been accused of treason over the Stony Stratford incident and had been beheaded two weeks before. It seemed the Woodville power was finally at its nadir.

  Kate watched, intrigued, as the centuries-old ritual was performed. Richard and Anne shed their robes and walked naked from the waist up to the high altar for the anointing. The bishops then dressed them in cloth of gold, and the archbishop crowned them as the organ again thundered. Back on their thrones, the king and queen took part in a high mass. The incense rose in clouds, its perfume hanging in the air now warmed by the hundreds of bodies crowding the abbey. A haughty woman behind Katherine swooned and had to be carried out. Kate, too, felt faint and was relieved when the service came to an end and the trumpets and clarions proclaimed the new king to the impatient crowd outside.

  “God save King Richard! God save the Lord’s Anointed!” his people cried.

  LATER IN THE AFTERNOON, when the banquet was set, Richard and Anne stood together on the dais and received the homage of all present. Kate’s knees knocked as she approached the steps to wait her turn to curtsy. She bowed her head and spoke her pledge of fealty.

  “Well met, Kate,” Richard said in a low voice. “The queen and I are pleased you are present. I trust you had a good view.”

  Kate raised her eyes to him. He seemed so high as to be out of her reach, and she was startled to see him smiling at her. She smiled back. “Aye, your grace. My thanks for your indulgence.” She curtsied to Anne, who smiled graciously but turned quickly to receive another lady. “’Tis not an easy task you have set yourself, Richard. You are in my prayers.”

  “I thank you, Kate,” he said, aware people were wondering why he was taking so long with this widow. “You are always in mine.” With that, he looked over her to the next in line, and she backed away, bowing low. The familiarity in his voice left her weak but happy.

  The banquet began. Richard and Anne sat in solitary state at a table on the dais, Richard in the middle with Anne at one end. Jack, Thomas, Francis and Rob were among the privileged who served the couple from gold and silver dishes. Two of Richard’s squires spent the entire banquet prostrate at the foot of the steps in front of their royal master.

  Before the second course was served, the king’s champion, encased in white armor, rode into the hall on a silk-draped horse, shouting above the din, “Who will challenge me?” Since no one appeared to have any quarrel with the new king at that moment, the knight received a cup of silver and with a clatter of hoofs, rode out. Between the second and third courses, guests rose to relieve themselves or stretch their legs, and Kate looked about her for a familiar face. She was not disappointed, for across the hall and in deep conversation with the duke of Buckingham was Richard Haute. She idly wondered why Richard would be so intimate with the duke, forgetting that as the duke was lord of Tunbridge Castle and its hundreds of acres close to Ightham, Haute was Buckingham’s vassal. She could not cross the hall unescorted and interrupt the two men, so she was content to know he was there and, except for his now white hair, appeared well.

  “Mother! There you are. I have searched high and low.” John was bowing to her, his dark hair capped with a jaunty hat of blue velvet. She kissed him happily and clasped his hands in hers.

  “My son. I, too, have looked for you. I hope you are not becoming a popinjay; you appear to have unlimited funds for your wardrobe,” Kate teased him, drinking in every handsome inch of him.

  “Mother! I am no more popinjay than my father. So what if we both enjoy fine clothes. ’Tis not a sin.” He grinned at her. “Do not chide me today, I beg of you. ’Tis far too thrilling an occasion for a sermon from my mother. Today I want her adoration.”

  “You have it, John. I was never prouder of you than now,” Kate assured him. “Though there was another time—on the road to Fotheringhay. But you may not remember.”

  “I shall remember it to my dying day. How I hated you
for leaving me, and yet Father painted such a picture of what was in store for me, I could not hate you for long. Now I have to thank you for your generosity. The Lady Anne—I mean her grace, the queen—told me one evening the sacrifice you had made in giving up your children so we might have a better chance in life. Katherine and I have spoken of it with gratitude. You should know we speak of you often and always with love, dear Mother.”

  It was a long speech and heartfelt, and Kate gripped his hands hard to prevent tears forming. She was astonished that Anne had delivered such a homily and was puzzled again by the coldness with which she had first been received. A fanfare heralded the entrance of the next delicacies. John kissed her quickly and hurried back to his place with the other henchmen. She watched him go with pride, her spirits high. Her children had forgiven her. She had not known her heart had assumed a heavy guilt, but upon hearing John’s declaration, she felt a release like a bird from a cage. She sat down on her bench again and chattered on like a giddy girl for the rest of the feast. The torches and flambeaux were lit as the summer evening fell into night. Richard and Anne stood to greet their subjects one last time and slowly descended the steps, passed through the jostling crowd, under an arch and on to their royal apartments.

  Jack was obliged to stay at the palace, as the festivities surrounding the coronation would continue on the morrow. However, Margaret had expressed a need for her own bed, so she and John Bourchier led the Howard party outside into the still night. The palace jetty was jammed with private and public boats being hailed by guests returning to the city. In the torchlight, Bourchier spotted the Howard lions on the canopy over Jack’s barge and called to the boatman. As they waited on shore, Kate turned back to catch a final glimpse of the imposing outline of the abbey—now a dark etching in the starry sky—that had seen yet another English king crowned in its sacred space.

  “Why, Kate—Kate Haute, ’tis indeed you, by my troth!” A ringing voice found its way to her, and her face broke into a happy smile of recognition.

  “Richard! Cousin Richard! Where are you?” Kate looked right and left, but as small as she was, she could not see past the person in front of her. Richard Haute’s large frame finally blocked her view as he smothered her in his fond embrace. He released her, drew Elizabeth forward and presented the women to each other.

  “God give you greeting, mistress.” Elizabeth’s deep voice was warm and friendly. “I had given up on meeting you. I am right glad to see you.”

  “And I, my lady.” Kate smiled at Richard’s tall second wife. Her skin was like milk, the beautiful brown eyes startling with her flaxen hair. “It gives me pleasure to see Cousin Richard looking so hale, and I am sure, madam, you must take the credit.”

  Elizabeth was surprised by Kate’s forthrightness, but Richard laughed. “I warned you about Kate, Bess.” He was looking at Kate but took his wife’s hand and pressed it to his lips.

  Kate became aware that the rest of her party had disappeared and she looked anxious. “Forgive me, my lady, dear cousin. I must not miss my boat. I must go.”

  “Do not fret. I can see the Howard barge is still docked,” Richard said, looking over several heads in front of them. “You must visit us soon. Anne’s boys are Geoffrey’s best pupils, you can be assured of that.”

  “And the other boys? Do they all go on well together?” Kate tossed off the question.

  “Aye, they are all good boys. Your nephew, Dickon, is learning Latin, but he is happiest when he has something to carve. A real talent, Kate, a real talent,” Richard said, and Kate’s heart sang at news of Dickon. “Geoff is a good master, and that little wife of his is a second mother to the boys.”

  “Aye, ’tis a happy arrangement. But now, if you will forgive me, I can keep Margaret waiting no longer.” Kate hurried to the jetty and climbed into the waiting boat.

  “A friend of yours, Kate?” Margaret asked. “I do not believe I recognize him.”

  “My cousin, Richard Haute. I should have presented him, but—”

  “Did he give you news?” Margaret cut her short. The others in the boat were half asleep and did not pay attention to the two women snuggled together in the stern of the barge. Kate quite forgot she was exchanging confidences with the wife of the duke of Norfolk, who, after Buckingham and Suffolk, was now the highest noble in the land.

  “He did, Margaret. He told me my ‘nephew’ Dickon was learning to read Latin and that he has a talent for carving.”

  “In truth, both those skills may be useful when he is older, depending on circumstances,” Margaret said with a chuckle. “He could go into the church—or build one.”

  Kate trailed her fingers in the water and went over and over her cousin’s meager morsel of news, trying to picture her son poring over a Latin text and whittling away at a piece of wood. Her heart ached to see Dickon in the flesh, but with Richard as king, revealing all to the boy seemed remoter than ever. Best left alone, she thought for the millionth time. She gazed at the stars and fancied the hundreds of bobbing lights from other boats were their reflection in the inky waters.

  * * *

  THE COURT CELEBRATED for six more days at Westminster and then moved to Greenwich Palace, from where Richard would begin his progress, showing himself to his people up and down the country.

  Kate found herself in a boat once more, but this time it conveyed her downstream from Stepney to Greenwich. The flat marshlands of the Isle of Dogs contrasted strangely with the wooded hills on the Kent side of the river. The river was teeming with wildlife: white herons strode elegantly through the rushes, an otter played in and out of the water, fallow deer stood like statues on the edge of the forest, and a flock of swans swam sentinel in front of the boat. Half a mile from it, Kate had her first glimpse of the palace gleaming white between the trees. When the boatman turned towards the pier, she saw why Elizabeth Woodville had enjoyed her Palace of Placentia more than all the other royal residences. Built only fifty years previously, it had the most modern of amenities and its façade was less forbidding than older castles. A retainer in the royal livery helped Kate out of the boat at the water steps of the state entrance to the royal apartments and escorted her to an antechamber on an upper floor. She sat in a sunny room overlooking the river with a gentleman usher for company and waited. From the pouch at her waist, she drew the letter she had received the day before. The royal seal was massive, but the familiar lettering was as economical as always. She re-read it to pass the time.

  “’Tis with a great happiness that I write to inform you of Katherine’s pre-contract with William Herbert, now earl of Huntingdon. The formal marriage will take place sometime in the next year, when Katherine is fifteen, and I will bear the cost. I trust you will come to us at Greenwich to felicitate our daughter and meet Herbert. She is well pleased with my choice, I believe. God’s greeting to you, Richard R.”

  “R?” she had asked Margaret.

  “Rex. ’Tis Latin for king.”

  Richard’s letter did not give a curious woman enough information, she thought. At least, the impression it left was that the earl was not an old man, like Thomas Draper. If Katherine was well pleased with Richard’s choice, there was hope of contentment in the marriage for the girl, Kate decided.

  A door in the paneling that she had not noticed opened silently. Richard’s voice startled her into dropping the letter to the floor.

  “You may leave us, James,” he said to the usher, who bowed low. As the man did as he was commanded, Richard bent to retrieve the letter. He grinned when he recognized it.

  “Kate, ’tis good to see you once more, and so soon.” She attempted to give him obeisance, but he stayed her. “Nay, sweet lady, too much has passed between us for you to kneel before me. In public I must accept it, but here, with none to witness us, ’twould be false pride on my part.” He took her hand and kissed it. “You look well. I confess, widow’s weeds do become you.”

  “Fiddle-faddle, Richard! I look like a hag, in truth. But ’tis gallant of
you to say so.” She smiled at him. “If we are being frank with each other, I must tell you that you look tired. Nay, worn out would be closer to the truth. Are you well, my love—your pardon, ’tis force of habit,”—she stumbled over her faux pas—“I meant ‘my lord,’ to be sure.”

  He responded by putting his finger to her lips as he used to do whenever he felt she was overly talkative. She thought for moment he might kiss her, which usually followed the gesture, but he stood back quickly. She saw anxiety in his eyes and knew at once that he had been tempted. She could not know how often he longed for her, despite his affection for Anne. She hoped her eyes told him that she had never stopped loving him.

  He cleared his throat. “Sit, Kate, and I will tell you how it is with me. I cannot take too long. One of the banes of my life now is the lack of privacy. The king’s body seems to belong to everyone but the king.” He chuckled, but then his face settled back into the anxious, hardened expression Kate had seen at the abbey. “I bounce between joy at my new status and despair because of it. Certes, Jack must have told you of the circumstances . . .” Kate nodded, her face serious, as he went on, “I swear to you, Kate, ’twas not in my mind until that day Stillington came with his tale-telling of Edward’s pre-contract with another woman before Elizabeth. My heart sank into my boots, for I knew at once what the outcome would be. It would mean the quiet life Anne and I had grown to love at Middleham would be finished. It would mean I would never know who my real friends or my enemies might be. As Lord of the North—a name I was given and quite liked, if the truth be known—I knew who was on my side and who was not. Northumberland—now there is a fence-straddler, and I would swear Thomas Stanley’s backside is full of splinters from sitting one also—will always be a riddle for me. For the rest, ’twas black and white. They were with me, which meant they were with Edward, or they were not. ’Twas easy to govern the council of the north, and in all modesty, I think I did it well.”