A Rose for the Crown

by Anne Easter Smith

  “Good morning, Mr. Magpie, how’s your wife?” Kate muttered, blanching. Such an omen directly in Richard’s path. She crossed herself and spat at the same time.

  The woman cackled when she saw the bird. “One for sorrow, hee, hee, ha, ha! Dickon of Gloucester, you’d best be taking t’other bridge!”

  “Hold your tongue, you old crone! Perhaps ’tis a bad omen for Tudor,” Kate said.

  “York, Tudor,” she grumbled, “it be all the same to me, lady. I still have to beg, no matter whose arse is on the throne!” Her next words were drowned by a fanfare, much closer this time.

  Kate was right to choose the stone bridge. The archers and men-at-arms marched to the wooden bridge, swinging south from behind the trumpeters. The heralds and pursuivants, all honored members of the king’s household, led the mounted royal party, which was headed for Bow Bridge and crossed a few feet from Kate. Richard followed, the sun glinting on the polished metal of his armor and caparison of his horse. White Surrey’s tail was all that could be seen of the courser, for it was covered from head to hoof in a protective mantle bearing Richard’s arms and badge of the White Boar and the Lions of England. Richard wore his helmet, encircled by the crown, the visor raised. The colorful tabard over his armor was blazoned with the royal arms. He held his battle-axe across his saddle. Someone had given him a white rose, which he had fixed to a strap on his armor. Behind him fluttered the standards and pennants that would be rallying points during the battle. He glanced down at the people on the narrow bridge, who were only inches from him, and saw Kate. On a whim, Kate had discarded her wimple that day and simply wore a gauze veil over her loose hair. Richard’s smile told her that her daring amused him.

  “Incorrigible, bold lady!” he said under his breath, and he urged White Surrey closer to her. In a moment of intuition, he reached inside his shirt and lifted the écu over his head.

  Kate gasped. “No, Richard! ’Tis your talisman,” she whispered as the curious crowd looked on. “You must wear it, I beg of you!”

  “Katherine’s lock of hair will protect me, Kate. But just in case, I want you to give this to Dickon. ’Tis all I have here and now, but if I do not return, he will have something to remember his father by.”

  He bent as far as his armor would allow and handed it to her. When he rose up and White Surrey jerked forward, Richard’s mailed foot grazed the large stone, causing a spark.

  “Arrrgh!” shrieked the crone, pointing to the stone and at Richard. “Another omen!” She turned to the crowd. “That same stone he struck with his foot will be struck again on his return to the city, but this time with his head! King Richard will die in this battle. That is my prediction!”

  “Out of my way, woman! I will not hear your rantings.” Richard had turned pale, however, and there was a trace of fear in the last look he gave Kate, for the old woman did look like a witch.

  “’Tis Hawise of Leicester. She is a soothsayer, a teller of fortunes,” a man in the crowd called. “They say she has the sight.”

  Kate flinched, but then she tried to dissipate the tension—for several in the company, including Jack and his son, Thomas, had heard the woman’s pronouncement—by waving gaily and blowing Richard a kiss.

  “God save your grace!” she shouted, and the others on the bridge took up the cry.

  She blew Jack a kiss and then Rob and Francis. Her heart pounded faster when she spotted her son sitting proudly on his horse, the Lovell coat of arms and dog badge on his tabard. He waved at her, his eyes wide with surprise at her apparel. He could not remember ever seeing his mother’s hair loose before.

  “Stay safe, John,” she called. He nodded and reached down to take her outstretched hand as she whispered, “I shall wait here to know. Send word if you can. Promise me?”

  “I promise. God keep you, Mother,” he murmured, and sat up again.

  Fortunately, there was only a handful of citizens who could have heard her exchanges with Richard and John, but she did not care. She returned to her perch and watched the rest of the procession with a heavy heart. The hag’s prediction had terrified her. The magpie, the removal of the talisman, the wise woman’s story—she was now certain it all added up to disaster for Richard. She felt helpless. What could she do? Run after him and tell him to take flight? It would be absurd, and he would look foolish. Turning tail was not in his nature, she knew. He must defend his crown and his land, even if he died in the attempt.

  It was an hour at least before the last of the thousands of men rode or marched over the bridges and onto the dusty road to Market Bosworth. She saw them through a haze, her thoughts riding with the man at their head, his pale face and sad eyes etched on her memory. The townspeople returned to their homes, and Kate allowed herself to float along with them. She wandered blindly into a church and kneeled on the cold stone. She took the écu from her purse and, using it as a rosary, begged Father, Son and all the saints to keep her love safe.

  SHE DID NOT WITNESS Richard’s return into Leicester. The first to flee from the field were members of Jack Howard’s vanguard, broken in an early stage of the battle by the news of their leader’s death. They hurried back to Leicester, a distance of some eight miles. The yeomen archers ran through the streets, crying their news.

  “The king is slain! And with him our noble lord of Norfolk and many others. The day is lost! Richard Plantagenet is beaten!”

  The city was stunned. No one expected the upstart invader to vanquish the host the king had mustered. The odds were certainly against him. What had happened out there on Redemore Plain, they wondered. Their faces grim, they filtered down the lanes and streets to the West Gate and beyond to wait for the answer.

  The Wygston family stood on the street with Kate and Edith, straining to hear the cry. When they did, Mistress Wygston broke down and wept at the soldiers’ words. Kate stood in stunned silence. Then all went black, and she fell to the ground. Roger Wygston carried her into the house, where she gradually regained consciousness, puzzled by the ring of anxious observers. She accepted ale from Edith, for in truth she was extremely thirsty. She took a draught. Then she remembered.

  “Richard!” she screamed, dropping the cup and trying to rise. Roger gently forced her down. Her eyes were wide, and she shrank back in the chair like a cornered animal. “Oh, no, not Richard! Please, God, let it not be true!” She clutched Roger’s doublet. “Master Wygston, say ’tis not true.”

  Thanks to his wife’s revelation, Roger knew Kate was referring to the king. He gently removed her fingers from his doublet and held them. He could not say the words she wanted to hear. Mistress Wygston had dried her tears and now rubbed lavender oil on Kate’s temples, hushing her as Kate’s grief began in earnest. Her uncontrolled weeping embarrassed Roger, who retired with the curious children, leaving the women to tend her.

  “I knew he should never have taken off the necklace . . . and the magpie . . . the old witch . . . Oh, woe, I wish I could die. My love, my dearest love . . . I should have warned him. Why did I not warn him—stop him? Sweet Mother of God, help me . . . Where is Margaret? I need Margaret!” At Margaret’s name she gave another cry. “Oh, no, not Jack, too, ’tis not possible. What am I to do? Oh, woe . . .”

  She pressed her hands to her heart. Was it broken? Why did it hurt so badly? It was as though someone had punched her there. She could not breathe for the ache, and the tears that ran down her throat choked her. Between them, Edith and Mistress Wygston eased her from the chair and helped her upstairs to bed.

  The wrenching sobs into her pillow during the next few hours might have been heard in the street had not pandemonium broken out there. Hundreds of fleeing men-at-arms ran through the streets to reach the road for home through the north or east gates, begging citizens for food to sustain them on their journey. A youth burst through the Wygston front door, his face covered with blood, and begged for water or ale. Roger sent to the kitchen for food and drink and sat the boy down at the family table.

  “What news can y
ou give us, lad? We know the king is dead and also Norfolk. What of the Stanleys, Brackenbury, Surrey? What of them? And how was the king slain?” Roger talked fast, knowing the boy must leave or be caught. The archer was trembling and close to tears.

  “I know not how the king died, sir. I saw him charge down the hill with only a few mounted men. ’Twas after our lord of Norfolk was killed and we were scattering. I did not stay to find out the manner of the king’s death. All I know is that Oxford’s men fought well and they captured the earl. Brackenbury is dead, I know that.”

  “The earl? Which earl? Northumberland?” Roger demanded.

  “Pshaw! Northumberland sat on his fat arse and never moved. Traitorous whore! His force was the rear guard or reserve. All he did was guard his own rear! Nay, ’twas Surrey, Howard’s son, who was captured. With Northumberland we might have prevailed. But when we heard ‘Treason’ and ‘The king is slain,’ me and my comrades knew ’twas time to flee.” He shook his head, eyes wet with tears. “I will never forget this day. I hope I do not live long enough to see another battle. ’Twas hell on earth.”

  When the food arrived, he wolfed down a whole meat pie and some cheese, washed down with a jugful of ale. Roger gave him a loaf of bread and urged him to leave while he could. Fortunately, the fearful sounds from Kate’s chamber had stopped, and Roger presumed she had fallen asleep. He left the house and ran down to the Soar to witness the beginning of the new reign.

  Tudor’s first act did not impress him, as he told the household later. The Gloucester herald, carrying a tattered banner of the White Boar, had been forced to bring his king’s body back to Leicester. A lone drummer preceded the weeping horseman. The townspeople gasped when they saw his baggage. Richard’s naked body had been flung behind the herald and tied onto his horse like the kill from a hunt. The silence turned into angry murmurs. As the unlucky man rode over Bow Bridge, his horse stumbled, and Richard’s flopping head struck the stone, just as the hag had foreseen. Roger was shocked by the ignominy to which the once proud king of England’s body was now subjected. Bloody gashes and livid bruises covered every inch of his limp corpse. Henry had not even afforded him a covering for his private parts.

  “God damn this Tudor,” Roger said to his wife when he finished the tale. “King Richard was the Lord’s anointed. He should have been treated with honor.” He shook his head. “I will say this for my fellow citizens, they gave Richard their homage in silence, many on bended knee. Then I saw the Tudor. Never saw a man look more like a ferret. Pale, shifty eyes he has, a thin, mean face and straggly hair the color of a mouse. I saw nothing to recommend him, wife. ’Twas certain he had men planted in among us to shout ‘God save King Henry,’ but only a few took up the cry, I am happy to say. Not content with demeaning the late king, he was already wearing Richard’s crown.”

  KATE SLEPT THROUGH Henry’s entry into the city, and Edith did not wake her for supper. She was dreaming of Bywood Farm. She was nine years old again, watching her mother skin a rabbit. Martha turned to look at her, and Kate was horrified to see it was the face of Margaret Beaufort, grinning at her. Margaret Beaufort lifted a hatchet and began hacking off the rabbit’s head—chop—chop—chop—

  She woke up as the sound penetrated into her dream. There it was again, a rap upon the window. Her room was lit by the moon. Edith was snoring lightly next to her and the two Wygston girls were curled up on their trundle bed, fast asleep. She got out of bed, opened the casement and peered down into the shadows of the street.

  “Who is there?” she called in a whisper. Her head was pounding behind her swollen eyes, but the tapping’s persistence drew her like a beckoning finger. It did not occur to her to be afraid.

  “’Tis John. Mother, let me in! Quickly!”

  Safely inside, he clung to her, his manly bearing lost in the welcome embrace of his mother. They sat by the light of a candle, staring into the gloom beyond. They were the only two left with whom Richard had shared his heart: his first love and his beloved bastard son.

  “He almost reached him. He was so close,” John murmured.

  Kate frowned. “What do you mean, son?”

  “After Norfolk was slain, ’tis said Father suddenly took it into his head to charge himself directly at Henry, who was skulking somewhere behind his army but with his standard clearly marking him. For some reason—my Lord Lovell and Sir Robert tried to gainsay him—Father chose to wear his crown around his helmet.”

  Kate could hardly believe her ears. “Such folly!” she exclaimed. She was full of questions but let him catch his breath.

  “Lord Lovell and others of the household followed him through the fighting. Father appeared to have God-given strength, he mowed down so many in his path. His axe took down Henry’s bodyguard, a giant of a man, and his standard bearer. But his horse went down in the marsh—Redemore Plain is full of foul marshland—and he was left horseless. My lord Lovell said he heard a cry of ‘Treason’ from him, and there were red coats everywhere—the uniform of that turncoat, William Stanley. Oh, Mother, ’tis too terrible to contemplate the agony of Father’s death. He was surrounded and on foot, but he fought on with his sword until the thrusts by so many cowards finally . . .” He could not finish. His young imagination was reliving the slaughter, but he could not bring himself to pronounce the words that his beloved father was dead. He put his head in his hands and let the tears fall.

  “Holy Mother of God,” Kate whispered. “Would no one come to his aid? Where was Thomas Stanley? He had a great force with him.”

  John lifted his head and sneered, “Turncoat! Traitor! The name of Stanley will forever have that meaning. He sat and watched his brother kill the king. What disgusts me more is that same Stanley saw fit to place my father’s crown on the Tudor’s head! Oh, how I wish I had been able to follow Father. I might have saved him—”

  “You did your duty, John, and should be proud. You could not have saved him, my dear, although ’tis a noble thought.” She patted his knee. “What I cannot understand is why Richard took such a risk. He must have known that if he died, the battle was lost.”

  “Aye. But with Henry dead, their cause would have been lost! ’Tis what my lord told us. The York line would still be secure with my cousin Lincoln as heir.” They sat in silence only broken by the cracks and snaps of the settling house and sputters of the guttering candle.

  Kate hardly dared ask, “Who else was slain? I know about Jack Howard.”

  “Brackenbury, Ratcliffe, John Kendall and Sir Robert Percy I know for certain.”

  “Rob! Dear Rob! Oh, ’tis too cruel.” More tears sprang to her already well-washed eyes. “Richard loved him and Francis the best of his friends. And Francis, where is he now?”

  “He is gone into sanctuary. He gave me leave to come, and from here I shall go north to Middleham. He believes Henry will not harm me once I am with my cousins. I will write from there, I promise.” He held her close. “There is only you and I now, Mother.”

  Kate kissed him. This was not the time to tell John of his brother. She had one last question of him. “Do you know where your father is now?”

  “I did not dare look for him, but a groom told me he had been taken to the Grey Friars. ’Tis said Tudor did not even cover him. Poor father!”

  “I shall go and offer prayers for him from us both, have no fear. Now you must leave.”

  After filling his bags with food, she led him to the Wygston stables and gave him her horse. They embraced one last time. “God speed, John. Go, quickly! Write to me in Suffolk when you are safe. And never forget I will love you always.”

  “And I you, Mother.” He turned the horse and trotted out into the street.

  WRAPPING HERSELF in her cloak, she used the moonglow to light her path through the sleeping city to the Grey Friars’ gardens. She saw the watch approaching along the High Street and ducked into the trees. She gave a little cry as she fell over something on the ground. Dozens of bodies, brought there to be claimed after the battle, litte
red the ground. She was almost sick as she trod on one whose belly was slit open, its intestines slithering out on the dewy grass. Armless, legless and sometimes headless, the moon picked out such horrors that she was frantic to leave the place. She found a bush and sank down beside it, weeping for such senseless slaughter. The plant’s fragrance relieved the sickly smell of blood and death, and she pulled a blossom closer. It was a white rose. York’s rose. Carefully, she broke it from its branch and carried it with her to the church. The door was not locked, so she grasped the wrought-iron handle and let herself in.

  In the glow of a hundred candles, ten monks kept vigil around Richard’s battered body. A low murmur of prayer calmed her nerves and removed her from the gory spectacle of the garden. A monk turned when he heard the door open, and he smiled at Kate, although he may have wondered why a woman would break curfew to view the dead king. Kate fell to her knees when she saw Richard. The monks had cleaned his wounds and laid a simple woolen cloth over him from the chest down. But his face was barely recognizable between the gashes, crushed nose and bruises. It made her recall the knight’s face of her dream. She gave a little moan and crossed herself. The monks eyed her curiously as she leaned forward to place the rose on the blanket. They moved to allow her nearer, and she settled herself by his head and began to pray.

  Soon her praying gave way to reliving memories. Their first meeting; the look he gave her when she sang for him at Tendring; the clumsiness of their first lovemaking; his wonder at his first child; the water hole near Bury. She thought of his loyalty, the most important aspect of his character, how deeply he gave of it and how often it had been betrayed. Perhaps Richard’s tragedy was that he placed his trust in the wrong people, she mused. His brother let him down in the end, as did Warwick, Buckingham, Stanley and his scheming wife, Margaret Beaufort. Even Anne abandoned him, God rest her soul. But he had loyal friends, too, friends such as Jack, Rob and Francis. They did not desert him. Not even in death. She remembered the last conversation she had with him, his promise to reveal himself to Dickon—a promise she believed he would have kept.