“A tincture of bitter aloe, black poppy juice, and betony, sire. Good for bleeding and cough, and to ease pain and procure sleep.”
King Richard slid his arm behind the queen’s shoulders and supported her while he tilted the cup to her lips. She was so weak, she could barely swallow. Much of the vile liquid slipped out from between her teeth and dribbled down the side of her mouth. She pushed the cup away, seized by another coughing spell. He handed it to the monk and gently wiped her mouth.
“Is it bad today, my love?” he asked, taking a seat on the bed.
The queen laid her head against his shoulder. I curtsied before leaving, though he didn’t look my way. The servants followed and the countess, the last to go, shut the oak door behind her, leaving them alone.
Church bells tolled in the abbey and were echoed down river and across town. I winced. They had been tolling with increasing frequency since Christmas, for Queen Anne’s recovery. As I passed the table in the antechamber, I picked up the book I had borrowed from King Richard’s library. Heading along the hall, I turned into a small alcove off the private chapel where there was no one about and sat down in the window seat. Like all King Richard’s books, this one was a plain leather-bound volume, without jewels or ornamentation, for King Richard did not choose his books for display, but to read. I thumbed the pages open to the flyleaf that bore his signature and motto. His hand was clear, elegant and characteristically devoid of flourish. I lingered over the script, caressing it tenderly with the tip of a finger: Loyaulte me Lie, Richard of Gloucester. Loyalty Binds Me.
I turned the volume over in my hands. His book; Tristan and Iseult. I went to my marker, and bent my head to read:
Gone was Iseult’s hatred, no longer might there be strife between them, for Love, the great reconciler, had purified their hearts from all ill will, and so united them that each was as clear as a mirror to the other. But one heart had they—her grief was his sadness, his sadness her grief. Both were one in love and sorrow, and yet both would hide it in shame and doubt. . . . Heart and eyes strove with each other; Love drew her heart toward him, and shame drove her eyes away.
“Elizabeth—”
I jumped up with a gasp and the book fell to the floor. I made no effort to retrieve it.
“I didn’t mean to startle you. I meant only to thank you for what you’ve done for my lady queen,” King Richard said awkwardly, seeming strangely at a loss.
I blushed. “I wish I could do more, sire.” Emotion threatened my composure and I dropped my gaze. “I have prayed but—”
I felt his eyes on me, and my color deepened. I finally managed to tear my eyes from the floor and look at him. He was staring at me as if he’d never seen me before, and in his throat I saw a pulse beating with frantic speed.
“You look like my queen,” he said at last. “Not like your mother.”
A long silence fell.
So that was it. He saw me as a Woodville, not a Plantagenet.
He stood stiffly, as if unable, or unwilling, to leave. “You have Edward’s eyes. Blue as the summer sky.” He said nothing more and did not avert his gaze from my face.
“You were dear to my father’s heart,” I whispered.
“And he to mine.” I saw his color rise. The pulse at his neck quickened.
I cried out, “If we both loved him, how can we hate one another?”
“I—” King Richard tried to speak, and fell silent, as if he could not find the words. He turned his gaze away to the window.
Outside, I heard a young couple laugh. Assailed by emotions I had never known before, by a desire that I had never felt, I flushed and lowered my trembling lashes. “By your leave, Your Grace,” I said, summoning every ounce of my will,“I should see if the queen needs me.”
“She is asleep,” King Richard said. He looked utterly miserable.
I didn’t know what to say, what to do. I stood there, wringing my hands together. “Then, by your leave, I shall see if the countess needs me.”
He didn’t grant me permission, but merely stared at me. At last, he gave a terse nod.
I almost broke into a run. In my haste, I brushed past him too closely, and my gown caught on the golden spur of his boot. I yanked it loose and fled. But not before I saw him look at the book I had dropped, bend down, and pick it up.
THE NEXT DAY, KING RICHARD INVITED METO STROLL with him in the garden. The February landscape was muted with the earth tones of winter: half-melted snow, barren beds, bare trees. Against this dismal backdrop, the king sparkled like the sun in scarlet and gold. Together we crossed the palace cloisters and passed the snowy central garth, where a group of fur-clad nobles and ladies amused themselves tossing a gilded leather ball. Their laughter was subdued and their sober dress reflected respect for the queen’s condition, but I saw a muscle twitch in the king’s jaw as we passed. Instinctively, I knew it was because these strangers were merry while he was in despair, and their cheeks were rosy, while his queen gasped for breath.
I averted my gaze. We walked along in silence; King Richard seemed lost in thought and barely aware of my presence, but with every step I felt his nearness like the glow of the sun, and it plunged me into a state of unbearable, inexplicable yearning.
“ ’Tis a fine morning, my lord,” I managed at last, feeling myself blush. Hastily, I dropped my gaze. “The birds sing loud this day.”
“It will soon be spring,” King Richard replied. He said nothing more, but I felt him tense at my side. Though I had fastened my hair back at the nape of the neck, a gust of wind suddenly blew it loose around me. I drew my cloak tighter around me against the wind and pulled my hood up over my hair. I saw the king’s glance go to my hair and linger there. Then he turned behind him to gaze up at the high window in the white stone palace where Queen Anne lay in her chamber.
“I saw the first jonquil this morning; it broke through the snow,” I said softly. “I picked it for the queen. The joy on her face was—” My voice cracked and I fell silent.
King Richard nodded, but he said nothing.
We took the path down to the river and continued to walk along in awkward silence, past strolling clerics and knights with their ladies, and others seated on benches among the hedges. I felt their watchful stare bore into my back. Ahead, the great fountain splashed noisily. Swathed in furs, several young damsels sat on a carpet spread around its smooth stone rim, their admirers grouped at their feet, one strumming a lyre, another playing a flute. A love song floated on the wind. King Richard seemed aware of the eyes that followed us, and his expression darkened.
“It seems a long winter this year,” I offered, casting about for something to say. “I shall be glad enough of spring.” My mind was in such confusion that I could think of nothing else.
This time King Richard did reply. “Aye,” he said. He threw another glance up to Queen Anne’s chamber, as if he wished to be there, with her, not here, with me. And still he didn’t leave; he just kept strolling at my side, deep in thought.
A group of courtiers bowed. He acknowledged them with a taut nod.
“I hear Lady Scrope of Bolton had another girl,” I said. “That makes three daughters.”
King Richard didn’t respond for a long while. But just when I thought he would not answer at all, he said,“Aye, three. I shall have to consider what gift to send.” He bit at his lip and clasped his hands behind him as we strolled, and again he fell into silence. Abruptly, he spoke again. “You know her well; do you have a suggestion?”
I stole a glance at him and blushed again. “Perhaps some cloth of gold—” Shrieks of delight interrupted me and I looked toward the Thames, where a group of children played with a dog on the other side of the riverbank. “Or a hound,” I said. “My father, God assoil his soul, gave me a terrier on my fifth birthday, and she brought me much joy.”
King Richard winced. “I shall send cloth of gold,” he said curtly.
I looked at him, not understanding his sudden displeasure, except that it ha
d something to do with my father’s memory. Our gaze met and locked. My heart turned over in my breast and my whole being filled with waiting. A line from Tristan and Iseult came to me: Each knew the mind of the other, yet was their speech of other things.
He was the first to look away. He said, “My lady, I must leave you now. The queen has need of me.”
I fell into a deep curtsy.
He was half way down the snowy path when I arose. Swept with a wretchedness of mind I’d not known before, not even in the terrible days of sanctuary, I watched him, his bleak, solitary figure. For some inexplicable reason, all I could think was that my father had loved him, too. Without warning, tears started in my eyes and rolled slowly down my cheeks. Today was my nineteenth birthday, and I couldn’t help remembering.
FEBRUARY GAVE WAY TO BITTER MARCH. WEDNESDAY, the sixteenth, dawned cold, but sunny. After Nones, the queen suddenly began a strange gurgling sound in her throat, and the countess, who had seen much of death, turned moist eyes on me. “ ’Tis time,” she said urgently. “Send for the king—make haste.”
I ran to Sir Richard Ratcliffe in the antechamber.
“The queen—she’s failing fast!” I cried.
“The king is at prayers in the chapel. I’ll have the archbishop summon him,” said Ratcliffe.
“Make haste—” I called after him, my voice breaking.
The Benedictine monks in the antechamber rose and filed into the queen’s room. They took up their positions at the far end of the room across from the window, their dark cowled figures barely visible in the shadows. The air filled with the mournful chanting of their prayers. King Richard appeared moments later at the threshold of the chamber. His legs seemed to fail him in the last instant, and he halted, grabbing at the pillar for support. His eyes fixed on the bed, he seemed to will himself forward as he approached. On his face I saw an expression of panic, and my heart twisted.
The silver curtains were tied back. The queen lay stretched out on the great bed, eyes closed, a pale, diminished, almost lifeless figure in white. A gleaming crucifix hung on the dark silk-draped wall over the bed, glittering with a sinister light in the flicker of the candles burning around her. He passed a hand over his face and looked back at the bed. I wanted to run to him, to take him into my arms, to comfort him, but I merely stood as still as a statue in the corner of the room, watching his terrible grief.
The countess sat at her daughter’s side in a tapestried chair, with her back to the windows. Sunlight illuminated her figure from behind, and her face would have been in darkness but for the light of the candles. She lifted her eyes to the king and vacated her chair to him. As the king moved to the bed, the doctors retreated, and the servants slipped away. In his gold and white robes, the Holy Book in one hand, a jeweled crucifix in the other, Archbishop Rotherham assumed a stance near the wall, until the moment when he should be needed.
At the queen’s bedside, King Richard reached over the velvet coverlet and took one cold hand in both of his. Her breath came in short, labored pants. Sensing his presence, the queen opened her eyes. She tried to speak. He bent his ear to her lips.
An expression of excruciating agony came over his face. He took a moment to compose himself. Then he began to sing:
Aye, aye, O, aye the winds that bend the brier!
The winds that blow the grass!
For the time was May-time, and blossoms draped the earth . . .
Wine, wine—and I will love thee to the death
And out beyond into the dream to come . . .
His voice was deep and resonant, and the words, slow at first, gathered force and flowed freely from his soul. He sang of the deer, the twilight, the wind and the water. I knew it was a song from their youth.
She calmed. Her lips curved into a smile. Then, as the king watched her, she gave a moan. “My little bird, what is it?” he said.
I heard the words from where I stood. “I will wait—for you—in heaven,” she said.
The king bent his face to hers, brushing her hair and cheeks and brow with his lips. “My love,” he whispered, “my dearest love . . .”
As her eyes closed, he knelt at her side. The monks resumed their low chanting.
“Richard . . .” she murmured feebly.
“I am here, flower-eyes,” he said, brushing her damp brow with his lips. “I won’t leave you, Anne. I’ll never leave you.”
The queen spoke again, and I heard my name, Elizabeth. . . . But no more. She strained for breath.
“Hush, Anne, hush,” King Richard said. He took her hand into his own. Through ashen, quivering lips, he whispered to her.
Queen Anne opened her eyes wide and looked at him. Pure violet, those eyes. Lit from within with a golden light.
“No need for tears, my beloved Richard,” she said in a strong, clear, steady voice.
The king gaped at her with astonishment, as I did, as everyone did standing within earshot. Hope flooded my breast; as it must have flooded his. A smile broke across his face, and I knew we both had the same thought. God has heard our prayers! She will be well!
“Flower-eyes, my Anne—” the king cried joyfully.
She lifted a hand, touched his cheek.
“I shall see Ned,” she smiled. Her hand fell limp at her side.
“Anne!” King Richard cried in panic. “Anne—!”
Silence.
With his head on her breast, he clung to her with a choked moan.
And as the king grieved, something happened, something so terrible that I took a step forward in disbelief. The archbishop, who had lifted his great jeweled crucifix and made the sign of the cross over the queen’s body, broke off in the midst of his prayer for the dead. Looking up at the window, he stared at the sky. The monks lifted their heads, followed the archbishop’s gaze, and ended their song with a gasp of horror. The servants who knelt in prayer crossed themselves for fear. Everyone stood immobile, their faces uplifted to the heavens.
In what seemed an instant, the room had darkened into night. There was no light anymore, only a dismal gloom lit by the flickering light of candles and a strange, eerie silence. No birds sang; no church bells pealed; there was no sound from man or beast. For where the sun had shone a moment before, only a shadow remained. The mighty sun had been blackened by the hand of God.
Clinging to the body of his dead queen, who lay as pale and still as a marble effigy, the king moaned. At last he became aware of the silence, of the shadow that had fallen at his shoulder. He lifted his head, turned behind him, then rose and moved to the window.
He stood there with his head in his hands, a solitary figure in an agony of soul, making no sound, no movement. I couldn’t bear his torment any longer, and went to his side. “So many angels came down to guide her to heaven,” I said softly, “that their wings darkened the sun.”
The king dropped his hands from his face. I smiled at him through my tears, though my heart broke to look at him. Pain was carved in merciless lines across his brow, at his mouth, around his eyes. Jesu, but he had aged ten years in a day. I touched his sleeve. “She has been rescued from this dark world, my lord. God has one more angel at His side this day.”
We looked for a long moment into one other’s eyes, and between us lay our love for Queen Anne and all that we had shared across the years. King Richard took a step forward mutely and collapsed against me. My arms went around his head, and I held him to me like a suffering child.
I saw the countess turn away, tears streaming down her cheeks; the servants bowed their heads, sniffling. Only Archbishop Rotherham remained gazing at us dry-eyed, his face hard.
THE RUMORS BEGAN THE NEXT DAY. KING RICHARD poisoned his wife to wed his niece, the placards said. The vulgar sniggered that I had bedded my uncle and borne him a child. The king’s councilors met with him behind closed doors, urging him to deny the rumors. But first there was the queen’s funeral to attend.
Beneath drizzling gray skies, to the chanting of monks, with the Lord Cardinal Ar
chbishop of Canterbury leading the way and lords and ladies following, Queen Anne’s funeral procession wound from Westminster Palace to the abbey. Her bier, covered with black and white velvet and drawn by four black horses, rumbled slowly across the cobbled court, escorted by four knights bearing torches. For once the eternal church bells hung silent and there was no sound but the hoofbeats of the horses and the weeping. Queen Anne had much endeared herself to the poor by her acts of charity and goodness, and the common people came in great numbers to pay their last respects. Gathered before the walls and gates, they watched the solemn cortege.
With dragging steps, clothed in plain dark saye without girdle or trimming, bareheaded and unadorned by any jewels save Queen Anne’s small sapphire ring, King Richard walked behind her coffin, and I wondered that so much had changed for him in the mere twenty months since he had taken the throne.
Inside the abbey it was dark and cool. The smell of burning incense filled the nave, and curls of smoke wafted to the gold bosses on the soaring vaulted ceiling. Hundreds of candles and tapers flared; the monks’ chant rose in volume and their song resonated against the stone floor and soaring arches. Slowly the funeral procession wound along, past the shadowy sanctuary and the high altar, past the tombs of other Plantagenet kings of England: the Henrys, the Edwards, the Richards . . .
King Richard didn’t glance at HenryV’s tomb and painted wood effigy of silver and gilt, which had been erected to his memory by his widow, Katherine of Valois, Henry Tudor’s grandmother. But at the tomb of Richard II, he looked up at the carved marble figure. I followed his gaze to the mild, childlike face with winsome curls. This was the man who had sown the seeds of the Wars of the Roses between York and Lancaster. For nearly a hundred years England had paid in blood for his deposition and murder. The realm had thought the dynastic struggle had ended with Henry’s death.
The King's Daughter (Rose of York) Page 14