The King's Daughter (Rose of York)

by Worth, Sandra

  King Richard closed his eyes and inhaled a long, audible breath. When he opened them again, he stared for a long moment at the effigy of Richard II’s queen, another Anne. I thought it a strange parallel that King Richard II had buried his Anne in a frenzy of grief.

  He resumed his steps. Near the south door leading into the shrine of Edward the Confessor, the procession came to a halt. There, in that place with its carved stone screen and gold feretory, King Richard and Queen Anne had knelt together to be crowned. Now her tomb yawned open, a cavernous marble pit set on a stone bier. The monks raised their voices to chant the solemn masses and dirges of the Requiem. When it was ended,Archbishop Bourchier stepped forward, opened his Psalter, and droned the Pater Noster.

  King Richard’s eyes fixed on the unyielding stone, and I could only guess the memories that came to him. His gentle queen, his childhood playmate, the grand passion of his life, was gone, her light extinguished; gone, too, the love that had seen him through the batterings of his childhood, through both his exiles and all the wars. Now, into that blackness, his beloved wife would be sealed forever; she, who had shared his dreams and his youth and his beginnings, and so many of his endings.

  As I watched his lonely figure, his shoulders took up a trembling and the tremors became heaves. Then I heard the most heart-wrenching sounds I shall ever hear in my life: choked sobs from a man famed for his deeds of valor and his inherent strength. At the foot of his wife’s tomb, surrounded by his nobles and the prelates of his realm, King Richard, who had stood fast through the loss of all his kin and the death of his only child, broke at last and, covering his face with his hands, he wept.

  CHAPTER 10

  The Parting, 1485

  WITHIN DAYS OF QUEEN ANNE’S FUNERAL, ON THE ADVICE of his councilors, Richard issued a proclamation denying that he intended to marry me. He didn’t tell me himself; I heard it from my little cousin, Edward, Earl of Warwick.

  “Are you s-sad about Uncle R-Richard?” he asked as I pored over the war banner I was helping him design as a gift to the king.

  I regarded the lonely little fellow with the deepest pity. One of King Richard’s first acts as soon as he took the throne was to send for orphaned Edward of Warwick and welcome him—and his sister, young Margaret—into his own household. The only happiness the boy had ever known was with Richard and Anne. What would become of him if Richard lost the battle?

  “I am sad for King Richard, for he suffers much,” I said, keeping my eyes on his emblem of the dun cow that I traced for him on the while silk.

  “I m-mean, about n-not wedding the king?” Edward explained.

  I hesitated for a moment, at a loss for words. “Why do you ask such a thing, Edward?” My heart pounded as I spoke.

  “J-J-Johnnie told me,” he said, as if he were going to cry. “I’m sorry, Lizzie—”

  I wrapped my arms around him and held him close to me, smoothing his soft golden curls. “It’s all right, Edward,” I soothed. “It’s all right.”

  But it wasn’t. My heart was breaking.

  Soon it became clear that a written proclamation wasn’t enough, and Richard would have to denounce the marriage rumors in person. Summoning the mayor, aldermen, and chief citizens of London, his lords temporal and spiritual, and leading the officers of his household, he rode to the hospital of the Knights of St. John in Clerkenwell. He had chosen it deliberately, for it was a place where students were schooled in the law, and the law was the foundation of his rule and dear to his heart. In a loud, distinct voice, he stood before them and denied the rumor spread by Tudor.

  WE WERE NEVER ALONE AGAIN AFTER ANNE’S DEATH, but our hearts were one each time our eyes met. On an April morning, as spring burst into leaf and flower around us, Richard summoned the family to his royal suite. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in days, and dark circles ringed his gray eyes.

  “I have decided that this battle with Tudor shall be my last,” he said. “I have done my best for England. ’Tis for God to judge me now. And for us to bid one another farewell.”

  A wave of panic assailed me. I didn’t understand what he meant, but I asked no questions and waited patiently like the rest.

  Richard stared at us as if he would commit our image to memory. The countess wore her dark robes of mourning. Beneath her wimple her face was aged, deeply etched by sorrow, but she held herself gracefully erect with the same dignity she had always shown. Little Edward stood at her side, dressed in black velvet. He was ten now, and nothing in his face or manner resembled George of Clarence or the Kingmaker’s daughter, Bella, or his proud grandfather Warwick, for there was nothing gay, or proud, or bright about him, and he did not dream great dreams. But his heart was gentle and would always remain so, because it would forever retain the blessed innocence of childhood.

  My eyes followed Richard’s gaze to his son. His love child, Johnnie of Gloucester, would be fifteen in May. He had his father’s dark hair and strong square jaw, but his eyes were green, and if his broad shoulders and long muscular legs did not lie, he would be tall, maybe as tall as my father.

  Richard brought his eyes to me, but only for an instant. Then he averted his gaze. I bowed my head and smoothed the green fabric of my gown, my heart filled with woe.

  “You must go to Sheriff Hutton, you will be safe there,” the king said, his voice thick. My lashes flew up. I opened my mouth to speak. Surely he didn’t mean me? Surely it was enough to deny the rumor of marriage? Surely he wasn’t sending me away as well? But no words came. He read my expression, however, for he added, flushing, “All of you.”

  I almost choked on the sob in my throat.

  Somehow I managed to nudge little Edward forward. He fumbled with his hands shyly. “Uncle, I would s-seek . . . a favor of you.”

  Richard looked at him with soft eyes. Gently he said, “Dear nephew, whatever it is, you know I will try to grant it.”

  “I w-w-wish I c-could fight for you—” Edward drew a deep breath and made fists with his hands in an effort to suppress his stammer. He succeeded, for the words poured forth like a waterfall, “I wish I could fight the bastard Tudor, dear lord uncle, but as I am too young to help you slay him, will you take my banner into battle instead of me—?” He hung his head, embarrassed by his emotion and the effort it had taken him to get the sentence out.

  I placed my arms around his little shoulders and nodded to a servant in the corner of the room. The man brought the folded banner to King Richard, knelt, and unfurled it. A blaze of gold tassels and golden embroidery on white silk shot across the carpet. In the center stood a nut-colored tartan cow.

  King Richard winced as he gazed at the Dun Cow of Warwick. I knew his thoughts. The last time he’d seen that emblem, it had been in the fog of Barnet and he had fought on the opposing side.

  “We’ve been working on it all winter,” I said gently. “Cousin Edward helped in the design. He is talented in things artistic.”

  King Richard knelt and took the child’s hands in his own. “I shall bear your banner at my side and my thoughts shall be of you, Edward, and of your noble grandfather, the Earl of Warwick, and all those of the House of Neville whom I loved so well.”

  A loud sob escaped from the boy as he stood with bowed head, staring at the floor. Richard pulled him close in a last embrace and rose stiffly. “Go now, Edward. Worship God devoutly, remember to apply yourself to your studies, and never forget knightly conduct. For there is wisdom in prayer and learning, and a great lord has need of both.” He gave the boy’s hand to the manservant and watched him leave. Suddenly, he called out after him,“May God be with you, fair nephew!”

  One sad, lingering backward glance and Edward was gone.

  Richard regarded Johnnie. “You have nothing to fear, my Johnnie. You have no lands, no titles, nothing, my son. You are a threat to no one. No one will hurt you, no matter what happens to me—”

  “Father!” his boy cried. Richard clasped him to his breast for a long moment. Then he loosened his grip. “Fa
re thee well, my dear son,” he said, his voice cracking. Johnnie fled his arms, stifling a moan as he ran.

  The countess stepped forward. They gazed at one another for a long quiet moment. “Dear lady, whom I have loved as a mother,” Richard whispered, taking her hand tenderly into his. “I thank you for the comfort and the love you have ever shown me.”

  Tears sparkled in her eyes and rolled slowly down her cheeks. “You were the son I never had, Richard.” Her voice trembled. “I shall pray for your victory.”

  He bent his head and stood motionless as she left him, and the rustle of her skirts sounded in my heart like the great sighing of a wind that sweeps away the dying leaves of autumn.

  He bit his lip. Then he looked at me. He had to know from my red, swollen eyes that I’d been weeping. With a motion of the hand, he dismissed the servants and waited until the door thudded shut behind them.

  He said thickly, “I regret the death of your Uncle Anthony and your brother Richard Grey. I know they bore me no ill will and were but unwilling pawns.”

  “Aren’t we all?” I whispered, but it was not a question.

  “Can you—can you forgive me, Elizabeth?”

  I swallowed hard and bit back tears. “I forgive you, Richard. Because I love you.”

  “No!” he said roughly, sharply. “No, don’t—I’m old, finished. God has taken everything from me, left me alone, barren. But you are young. You have your life before you. You’ll change. You’ll forget me.”

  “You can’t believe that!” I cried on a sobbing breath. “This is no childish infatuation. I’m a grown woman and I love you, Richard. Anne wanted us together—she made me promise—”

  Richard held up a hand and averted his face. “You must not say these things. I must not hear them.”

  “Don’t send me away, Richard! My heart will break without you.”

  He turned and looked at me again. “It’s impossible, Elizabeth,” he whispered hoarsely.

  We stared at one another until, without warning, we were in each other’s arms. He held me close, my cheek against his, and I could taste the salt of our tears. Exquisite joy and profound despair swept through me, all at the same moment, and I felt my grief like a burning in my blood.

  Then he thrust me from him.

  This is the last time I shall ever see him. The thought struck me so forcibly, I almost reeled where I stood. I cried out in panic,“I crave a favor, my lord!”

  He waited.

  “I wish a portrait of you. It would be a comfort to me.”

  I couldn’t bear the suffering look that came into his eyes. I dropped my lids. I spoke again, my voice a tremulous whisper, “—and your book, Tristan and Iseult.”

  He held his back rigid, then gave me a nod. There was silence for a long moment. I bent forward and caressed his cheek with my lips, lingering there for a fleeting second, trying to imprint its feel, its memory, on my soul.

  “I’ll never change,” I whispered. “I’ll go to my death loving you, Richard.”

  And then I left.

  AS I CAST A BACKWARD GLANCE TOWARD LONDON, MY vision blurred with tears. This was what Anne had feared: leaving Richard alone and vulnerable, with no heart to win the fight for his life and throne. I tore my gaze away and nudged my palfrey forward.

  Our journey to Sheriff Hutton took several days; how many I did not know, for one folded into the other. Once again we passed through the villages, the hamlets, and the small towns, and I saw the gilded Maypole across the fields. Strangely, the sight sent despair flooding through me. Yet despite the revels, a great listlessness hung over the land in the warm days of May. The entire realm seemed to be waiting. Few smiles greeted us at the abbeys and the inns; no laughter came from the thatched roofed cottages where sharp-tongued mothers chased their children; no song issued forth from the men working the fields, and in the taverns, the chatter was subdued and patrons sat thoughtfully silent, staring at us and the royal blazon of the white boar. There had been too many kings in too short a time; too many wars; too many rivers of blood, too much horror of betrayal and beheadings. In my mind’s eye, I saw Tudor waiting at Harfleur, preparing for invasion, and Richard waiting at Nottingham, checking for allies, searching each man’s face to see if he could pry open his heart.

  Waiting, in his castle atop the black rock where the tidings of Ned’s death had come; where the tidings of Tudor’s invasion would be brought.

  Waiting, in the place he had named his “Castle of Care,” from his book, The Vision of Piers Plowman; the grand poem that had once fueled his hopes and dreams of carving a new, just world.

  I looked at Johnnie and Edward, my two charges, riding silently beside me. Richard had sent us to his old northern friends of Yorkshire, the comrades of his youth, for safekeeping. His instructions to us were simple. To wait.

  To wait.

  For the victors there would be life and a throne; for the losers, there would be death and calamity. God’s judgment would decide all.

  We received a warm welcome from the servants and keepers at Sheriff Hutton. But the days bore down heavily on me. Sheriff Hutton, with its eight mighty towers of stone, magnificent wall hangings, hallways, and stately stairways, was a lonely place. I spent my time in silent companionship with my two cousins, grateful that Edward’s innocence and weak mind protected him from fully comprehending the misery of our situation.

  “W-what are you doing, Lizzie?” he asked me one afternoon as I sat before my mirror.

  “Plaiting my hair, Edward,” I replied gently.

  “I l-love y-your h-h-hair. ’Tis s-so soft, l-like an a-angel.”

  “Thank you, Edward.” I gave him a hug and left for the stables. Along the way, men-at-arms fell in behind me. I wished I could be alone, but I knew it wasn’t safe. I mounted my white gelding and broke into a gallop. I rode low in the saddle, over meadows of flowers, beneath vast gray skies laden with silver-edged, frothy clouds. The wind whipped my face, and I found its touch cool and soothing. From behind me came the thunder of hooves. It was Johnnie. He drew to my side on his chestnut, but he didn’t speak, and we rode on together in silent companionship. Finally, out of breath, I drew rein, and Johnnie helped me dismount. We sat down on a blanket of wild red poppies. I mulled my thoughts for a long time before I spoke. “What is going to happen, Johnnie?”

  He inhaled a long, audible breath. “No one dares guess, but I fear the worst. Father has no heart for kingship any longer.”

  I nodded miserably. “I know.”

  “What will you do if he loses? Have you given it thought?”

  “I have thought of naught else.” I plucked a poppy and twirled it in my hand, staring down at its black heart. “I want to flee. Oh, how I want to flee! But I fear I must stay.”

  “You will be made to wed Tudor if you stay.”

  “I know, Johnnie. But this is larger than me. It is about England. If I flee, the war continues, and more will perish. But if I stay—”

  “You shall be queen.”

  “Aye, queen. And England will have peace.” My grief was a huge knot inside me, and all at once the flower seemed a heavy weight in my hand. I dropped it into the sea of red at my feet. “My sisters are in London. What will become of them if I leave? As queen, I could protect all who depend on me—not only my sisters, but little Edward. ’Tis what Richard wants. He wants me to accept the outcome of the battle with Tudor as the judgment of God, whatever it may be.”

  Johnnie took my hand, his gray-green eyes dark, brimming with sorrow. “Elizabeth, I shall pray for you, my fair cousin.”

  “And I for you, my dear Johnnie.”

  SOMETIMES, IN MY DESPAIR, I ROAMED THE GARDENS, rode through the fields and parks, and sought the wind in my face, but little helped to lift my despondent spirits. In the evenings, I played my lute and sang for Johnnie and Edward. But the songs were all laments, for the merry tunes would not come. Richard was everywhere around me.

  News came to me in dribbles, none of it good. Tudor had given
Sir William Stanley and his brother, Lord Thomas Stanley, bribes to draw them to his side. The month of August arrived steamy with heat and thunderstorms, and the tension in the castle rose to unbearable proportions. August is when Tudor will invade, said the whispers.

  Many times during the early days of August, Johnnie, Edward, and I ran to the window as horses galloped into the courtyard. Then, not waiting for the tidings to be brought to us, we rushed downstairs to receive them.

  “On August seventh, Henry Tudor landed at Milford Haven in Wales, the land of his fathers!”

  “King Richard has left Nottingham for Leicester, the point of muster for his army!”

  “King Richard has permitted Lord Stanley to leave his side! No one understands why.”

  This last report was devastating, and astonishing.

  “Sir William Stanley and his brother, Lord Thomas the Wily Fox, are powerful in Cheshire and Lancashire. Now the king will have to do without them,” someone exclaimed, echoing my thoughts. “What is he thinking? Does he wish for death?”

  “King Richard knows the Stanleys’ motto is ‘a foot in each camp’!” said another.

  “The old fox is too clever to commit until he sees which way the cat jumps,” a different voice added to the medley.

  My head ached, and the sick giddiness behind my eyes swelled. I turned away, unable to view the look of horror in the eyes around me, a hand over my lips to smother my cry. Is Richard vainly seeking for loyalty and trust? Is he leaving his fate to Fortune? Is he courting death and relief from the agony of his memories? I had no answer.

  A week later, we had more news.

  “A wise woman has prophesied King Richard’s defeat! When the king crossed the bridge at Leicester on his way to give battle, his spur struck the wall and the wise woman said that where his spur struck the stone, his head would strike on the way back.”