The Rose of York: Love & War

by Sandra Worth

  At his suggestion Richard sent the fabric and rosewater. What really held Richard back, however, was Edward’s warning that Anne, no doubt still in shock, might hold Richard responsible for the fate of her father and uncle. If she blamed him for their deaths, if love had turned to hate, he could not bear it. To see that in her eyes would be worse than any death. And so, while they paused at Coventry, he picked up his pen and scratched out a letter.

  My Dear Heart,

  I regret all that has happened in these two years since we have been apart, and I would undo all, if I could. You once loved me, but I fear that, too, has changed. My feelings for you are as they ever were. Middleham was always my greatest joy. In memory, and in my dreams, I have returned there often during these bitter years and I am aggrieved with sorrow for the loss of those we loved, may God assoil their noble souls.

  The King has made me Constable and Admiral of England, and Great Chamberlain. I go to London with him for one night, then north against the Scots.

  As soon as I return, I shall seek you out in London.

  You shall reside there with your sister Bella, and there I shall come and beg your forgiveness, and receive your comfort, I pray God.

  Know that I love thee, and will always love thee. If you can no longer care for me, you still have a champion who will give his life for your happiness. God and His Blessed Mother have you in their keeping.

  Richard of Gloucester

  Coventry, 19 May, 1471

  Then, with an anxious heart, he awaited Anne’s reply.

  ~ * * * ~

  Chapter 36

  “These be no rubies, this is frozen blood.”

  Leading the King’s army, clarions blowing, battle flags streaming, Richard entered London on the twenty-first day of May. His heart was swept with gladness, for he had received Anne’s reply. There had been no greeting, only a single line, but it had been enough. His hand strayed to the letter inside his doublet. If it takes forever, she had written, I will wait for thee. A smile lifted his lips. He wished he could go to her tonight…

  Not tonight. In an attempt to restore Henry of Lancaster to the throne, the Bastard of Fauconberg had attacked London from the river, firing his guns at the Tower, which sheltered Bess Woodville and her children, and burning London Bridge and the city walls at Bishopsgate and Aldgate. He had been driven off by Anthony Woodville but remained at large off the coast. Edward wanted Richard to deal with him as soon as he disposed of one other matter.

  Richard winced.

  All along the way to London, as Edward rode through towns and villages, smiling and nodding to the cheering crowds who waved kerchiefs and threw flowers, Richard had argued with him over Henry’s fate.

  “Edward, he is a holy man—almost a saint!”

  “There’s no choice. You know what’s at stake.”

  “Aye. Your immortal soul.”

  “A king can’t always be merciful and do the noble thing, Dickon. Sometimes he must simply do what needs to be done to secure a good end.”

  “What about principles, conscience… mercy?” Richard ground the words out between his teeth.

  “Easy for you to judge me! Do you really think I want to kill the doddery old fool? I don’t relish it, but it must be done. A land with two kings is a land with naught but strife. If Henry were dead, would the Bastard of Fauconberg have attacked London? While his son lived, nothing was to be gained by his death. Now…” He looked at Richard. “I’ve learned something being king, Dickon. Conscience is a disability, so are principles… and mercy. I was always ready to forgive, to trust. It almost destroyed me. A ruler must be ruthless. Otherwise he can’t survive.” Under his breath, he added, “To be a king, you have to kill a king. ’Tis the way it has always been.”

  Richard averted his face. Aye, the deposed kings Edward II and Richard II had been put to death to make room for Edward III and Henry of Bolingbroke. Henry of Lancaster had been allowed to live years longer than either of them. Maybe he was foolish, but he hadn’t truly expected Holy Harry to share their fate. Never in history had there been two anointed kings in one realm. Since the old rules no longer applied, he had been lulled into believing Henry could continue to live in captivity.

  They rode along in silence. “What will you tell the people?” he demanded at length.

  “I’ll tell them he died of grief,” Edward replied. “As he damned well should have, for all the grief he’s caused.”

  Richard’s ruby ring caught the sun’s rays and glinted on his little finger. He thought of blood. Blood kept seeping around them; Barnet and Tewkesbury had not yet staunched the flow. When would it end? What was enough? Edward would do what had to be done, but he himself could never accept the deed, though he understood the necessity for Henry’s murder, and understood that Edward liked it no better than he did. Regicide was a mortal sin in God’s eyes and repugnant to a man of honour. He tightened his fists around his reins and clenched his jaw until his muscles quivered.

  Edward said quietly, “Very well, Dickon. I’ll hold a meeting to determine my councillors’ feelings on the matter.”

  “Your councillors will agree with you, naturally.” Richard met his eyes without flinching.

  Edward drew a long, weary sigh. “If they do, you shall come with me to Henry tonight to see for yourself that there’s no way around it… Lucky for you you’re not king, Dickon. You wouldn’t last the turn of an hourglass.”

  ~*~

  As Richard expected, the verdict of the council was unanimous. Henry must die.

  Richard looked around the table, at Hastings, Howard, Anthony Woodville. At Edward’s Chancellor, Robert Stillington, Bishop of Bath and Wells, to whom Edward had given the Seal he took back from Archbishop Neville. He looked at his brother George, and his brother by marriage, the Duke of Suffolk, John de la Pole, married to their sister Liza. Of all the men gathered in the council chamber at the White Tower, only Howard had voiced an objection, one quickly withdrawn when Edward turned on him angrily. No one but George drank his wine; no one but George moved. No one spoke—George from obvious indifference, though the others looked uneasy. Anthony Woodville and Suffolk had once been Lancastrian and had sworn an oath of fealty to Henry. At one point Anthony Woodville did open his mouth as if to protest, then shut it without uttering a word. Stillington, the cleric who should have pointed out the appalling enormity of the sin they were about to commit, made no effort to dissuade Edward, though he trembled visibly.

  It was dark when the meeting ended. With grim faces, the men descended the steps of the Keep in silence and disappeared into the soft night. Guided by a torchbearer, Richard strode shoulder to shoulder with Edward across the inner ward, then up to Henry’s apartment in the Wakefield Tower. A guard unlocked the heavy door with a jangle of keys and swung it open.

  The vaulted stone chamber was dark, pervaded by a stale smell. Candles burned in the oratory opening on the east side and Richard could make out a dark figure kneeling at his devotionals. A green linnet fluttered on a wooden perch by a bed beneath a great stained glass window, watching as they crossed the room. Their boots clicked against the tile but the monk-King didn’t turn. The bird squawked once, then fell silent.

  “Forgive the intrusion, Henry, but I fear we do not have all night,” Edward announced.

  Bringing his prayers to a close, Henry of Lancaster made the sign of the Cross, shut his Bible, and heaved himself up from the tiled floor. He was dressed like a cleric in a long dark robe, and beneath his cap his hair was spare and grey, but he looked younger than his fifty years. He came to them, a smile on his mild face. He was of a good height, but stooped. Richard, who had no memory of the king he had met in his infancy, thought Henry’s head too small for his body, and that it was strange he should resemble Edward.

  “Ah, my dear Cousin Edward, you are welcome,” said Henry. “’Tis a while since we last saw one another, is it not?”

  “Aye, and much has happened between,” said Edward dryly. “This is my royal bro
ther, Richard, Duke of Gloucester, whom you met when he was a babe.” Edward laid his gauntlets down on a table.

  Henry of Lancaster turned his dim eyes and kindly smile on Richard. “Fair cousin, we greet thee well.”

  Richard inclined his head in acknowledgement.

  “Do you like my bird? His name is Becket. He is good company.”

  “He’s a fine bird,” Richard replied, feeling oddly embarrassed.

  “Our gracious cousin of Warwick gave him to me. How fares our Cousin Warwick?” Henry said, addressing Edward.

  Edward exchanged a glance with Richard. The poor idiot no longer remembered ’64 when Warwick humiliated him after his capture by tying his feet to his stirrups and parading him around the city like a common felon. He remembered only Warwick’s recent kindnesses. “Warwick is dead, Henry.”

  “Oh, dear, dear, a shame,” Henry clucked sadly. “Poor Cousin Warwick, I shall pray for him. He was a good man.”

  “Good?” demanded Edward sharply. “Too ambitious for his own good would better describe Warwick!”

  The comment failed to register on Henry. “How did he die?” Henry inquired on a note of surprise, as if the thought that had just occurred to him was of sudden great importance.

  “In war, fighting for you.”

  Henry tilted his brow, looked at him uncertainly. “But war displeases me. I am a man of peace.”

  “For a man of peace, you’ve been the cause of a remarkable number of battles, Henry.”

  “’Tis God’s will then,” murmured Henry.

  “’Tis not God’s will, Henry. ’Tis yours!”

  Henry smiled blankly. “I’m not wise or strong, but God tells me what to do.”

  “Not God, Henry!” raged Edward. “Marguerite—Marguerite and Somerset! Do you know how many died at Towton because of you? Forty thousand!” He slammed his fist on the table. The bird shrieked, flew from its perch in a panic. “Do you care how many died for you at Barnet, or Tewkesbury? At St. Albans, Hexham, Edgecote, Blore Heath, Wakefield?” Edward’s bright blue eyes blazed. “Why didn’t you renounce your throne for an abbey, Henry? Then you could have prayed to your heart’s content and all would have been well with the world!”

  “Fair cousin, you know a king is God’s anointed until the day he dies. God put me here to rule, therefore everything that happens is His will.”

  “You half-wit, God also gave you a brain to reason with, therefore all evil that has been done is your fault!” Edward stormed. Then he fell silent, realising the folly of his remark. When he spoke again, there was resignation in his tone. “Henry, all would have been different had you renounced the throne to my father years ago. As you did not, I regret that Fate has forced us here, to this point.”

  He hesitated.

  “Farewell, cousin.”

  Henry tilted his head again and gazed at him quizzically. The silver crucifix hanging from his belt glinted in the candlelight. “Farewell, Cousin Edward. Peace be with you.” He moved back to his altar. Opening his Bible, he knelt again at his devotionals.

  Edward swept his gauntlets from the table and strode out the door.

  Richard stared at Henry’s crouching back, seeing there merely a harmless old man mumbling his prayers. When Richard was newly born, Henry had made a visit to Fotheringhay, had cradled him in his arms, and blessed him. Pity twisted his heart. Poor, gentle Henry must die; he who had only wanted to feed the sparrows at his windowsill and pray to his God, who had never wilfully harmed a living soul, who’d been so generous a king that he’d bankrupted his treasury and once given away the only robe he owned. Henry, who had been so distraught at the sight of a traitor’s torso rotting on a pole, he’d demanded that the body part be taken down, given decent burial, and the practice be stopped. Poor, innocent, saintly Henry whose only crime was to be wedded to Marguerite d’Anjou. Even that was not of his own choosing.

  It wasn’t fair.

  Richard followed Edward out the door.

  That night, Henry VI died in the Tower. The next morning, Anthony Woodville requested permission to go on pilgrimage to Portugal. After angrily denouncing him as a coward for wishing to leave while the Bastard of Fauconberg was attacking Kent and so much remained to be done, Edward granted his request. Throwing an arm around Richard’s shoulder, he said, “Dickon, what would I do without you? Who would I send to deal with Fauconberg? With the Scots? Now that John’s gone, there’s no one to guard the border. God knows, Percy’s too damned fond of his own skin to be a soldier. You’re my best general, my most trusted advisor. The only one I can count on, brother!”

  ~*~

  Richard had no need of his armour in Sandwich. When the Bastard of Fauconberg learned of Henry’s death, he sought and was granted Edward’s pardon. Richard received him warmly, called him friend, and took him into his service. After all, he was a Neville, and Nevilles would always claim his heart.

  There was yet one more Neville who needed his help. On his return to Westminster in early June, he immediately secured Archbishop George Neville’s release from the Tower. Of the other rebels, his sister’s husband, the Duke of Exeter, while badly wounded, had survived Barnet and was imprisoned in the Tower; Oxford had managed to reach France; and Jasper Tudor was still in Wales, fomenting trouble with his fourteen-year-old nephew, Henry Tudor, at his side. But the Lancastrian threat was dead for the present. Only the Scottish threat remained.

  Matters on the Scots border were so urgent Richard couldn’t stay in London past the day, not even for a special ceremony dear to Edward’s heart. Richard’s little nephew, seven-monthold Prince Edward, born to Bess in Sanctuary at Westminster during the troubles with Warwick, was to be created Prince of Wales. Edward was sorely disappointed that Richard would be absent for the ceremony. Richard didn’t share his regret. The child might be his brother’s son, but Bess would see to it he grew up a Woodville, infected with her own destructive avarice.

  Urgent as Scotland was, however, Richard had decided not to wait to see Anne, but to delay his departure and go to her after he spoke with Edward. He found Edward in a corner of the Painted Chamber, laughing with his courtiers and a blubbery cleric. Edward caught sight of Richard, disengaged himself from the group, and with an arm around Richard’s shoulder, drew him to a far window where they could converse privately. He arranged his magnificent form comfortably in a tapestried chair, and Richard took up a position in front of him. Servants bore them wine, which Edward accepted and Richard declined.

  “Who’s the cleric?” Richard inquired.

  “Bishop Morton,” replied Edward, sipping his wine. “You’ve heard of him. He was one of Marguerite’s advisors. Now he’s seen the true way and wishes to serve me as diligently as he served her.”

  Something about the man bothered Richard. His face was hard as an iron pot and his protruding dark eyes watched them carefully across the distance in a way that made Richard uncomfortable. “I don’t like the look of him,” he said.

  Edward laughed. “Neither do I, but what difference does that make, little brother? If I depended only on those I liked, there would be precious few to help me govern.” He held out his wine cup and a servant hurried to refill it.

  “I wouldn’t trust him,” Richard persisted. “There’s something unsavoury about him.”

  Edward followed the direction of Richard’s gaze. “Now that you mention it, he does resemble a toad somewhat. Nevertheless, there’s a good brain behind that ugly face that I can use quite well. Now, tell me about Kent.”

  Richard made his report on Fauconberg and received his instructions regarding Scotland. Their talk concluded, Edward gave him a grateful smile. Then the smile faded from his face and his expression grew serious. “I suppose you’re going to see Anne now, Dickon?”

  Richard was caught off guard by the anxiety in Edward’s tone. “Aye, briefly. I could make it to George’s house and back by noon if I hurry.”

  Clearly uncomfortable, Edward rose, went to the window.

  Richa
rd followed. ““Dickon…” Edward said. “Dickon, I must ask you to wait.”

  “Wait?” Richard demanded, a trifle loudly. From the corner of his eye, he saw heads turn across the hall, but he didn’t care. “Wait for what? God’s curse, I’ve been waiting all my life! I’ll not wait any longer. You said…”

  “I know what I said, the Devil be damned!” Edward snapped. Aware of the sudden silence in the room, he lowered his voice. “Dickon, we have a problem. Can you not guess what it is?”

  Richard frowned, his tension mounting.

  Edward drew an audible sigh. “Then you’re even more blind than I knew.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “George.”

  “What about George? He’s been sulking more than usual lately, but that’s just George. He’s always been moody.”

  “He demands that you not see Anne.”

  Richard stared, dumbfounded. He found his voice at last. “Demands?” he echoed with disbelief.

  “He fancies himself her guardian, and as her guardian he can deny her company to whom he chooses.”

  “You never appointed him her guardian.”

  “No. But ’tis how he sees himself…” Edward held up a weary hand to forestall Richard’s heated protest and continued in the same tired voice, “because as her guardian, he is master of her wealth.”

  “She has no wealth. She’s a traitor’s daughter, for God’s sake.”

  “I know that, and you know that, but George lives in his own mad world. Since I haven’t attainted Warwick—and have no plans to do so—he thinks of Anne as her father’s heiress, which I suppose she is, in a way.” He passed a hand over his eyes. “Frankly, Dickon, I can’t deal with him right now—his lunatic ravings, his insults, his tempers, his foul accusations…” He dropped his hand, met Richard’s angry gaze. “I can’t manage him alone. I need you here beside me. I need respite, Dickon… Grant me respite and I swear that nothing will keep you from marrying the girl once you are back.”