Now to the yeoman, Brecher, who’d given him shelter one long ago summer’s day when he and Anne had disguised themselves as peasants, fled Barnard’s Castle, and were lost in the rain.
“Corrupt juries obstruct justice. Therefore, every man serving on a jury must be of good repute. To ensure that he has a vested interest in his community, he must own property. Verdicts of unqualified jurors are to be declared void, and tampering with jurors must be a felony.” More cheers. More dissension. Finally, it was agreed; the wording strengthened.
One by one, in addition to the grant of bail to the innocent and improvements in the jury system, the rights dear to his heart were debated and adopted into law. These included economic protections against unscrupulous sellers of land, and the protection of the art of printing, which was hotly contested by the prelates. Book writing had long been the sole preserve of the Church.
“One last item,” declared Richard in his resonant voice. “My laws are to be enacted in the common English, not Latin, so that the poor may know their rights.” He noted Archbishop Rotherham’s glum expression and the many glowering faces among the clergy. In one sweep, this measure stripped the Church of a power it had enjoyed for centuries and deprived it of another rich source of revenue. Richard realised he had made few friends here this day.
Finally, Acts of Attainder were passed against the chief rebels of Buckingham’s uprising, but as he had promised Anne, their wives were given full protection against the loss of their property.
Only one had her property confiscated: the former queen,
Bess Woodville.
~ * ~
It snowed heavily in London on the first day of March as a bearded knight with kindly eyes rode into Westminster Palace. Richard watched him from the window of his privy suite where he waited with Francis. He had chosen Sir James Tyrell for this urgent business, knowing Tyrell would not fail him. He was related to Francis, and others of his kin had sided with Warwick in his rebellion against Edward. Yet he had fought for Edward against his kin, and with such bravery, that he had been knighted on the field of battle.
The knight strode into the chamber and knelt in homage. Richard held up a hand for silence until Francis had shut the door. “Speak softly, my good Tyrell,” Richard whispered, motioning him to rise. “In castles even murals have ears.”
“All is ready, Sire. Metcalfe awaits your command.”
“Are the lodgings safe?”
“Aye, my lord. He is with kin of Sir Marmaduke Constable.”
“Very good. Send my squire to announce my arrival and have Metcalfe bring him to the Abbey. We shall await him there.”
“So far, so good,” Richard said to Francis when Tyrell was gone. “I pray we can return him to the North without anyone discovering his identity.” Francis assisted Richard into his furred mantle, grabbed his own, and followed him to the cloisters.
An icy wind blew, lifting swirls of snow in the courtyard, yet the North Walk was lined with clerics sitting on benches by tables and bookcases, and along the West Walk, others were washing. The sound of splashing water and the voice of the Master of Novices instructing his charges filled the cloisters, but Richard knew all attention was on him. Heads turned as he passed the long row of rush-strewn chambers with doors cracked open for air, emitting welcome drafts of warm air from their charcoal braziers. At the East Walk, which led to the Chapter House, he parted company with Francis and a hush fell over the cloisters. The last time he had come to Bess Woodville, it was to remove her son from her custody. Even then he had not gone to see her personally but had sent John Howard and Archbishop Bourchier.
The Captain of the Guard snapped to attention at the door.
“Let Metcalfe in when he gets here,” commanded Richard in a low voice.
“Aye, my lord.” The man unlocked the door to the Chapter House and threw it open.
Clad in blue velvet trimmed with ermine, Bess stood rigidly erect near the central pillar in the octagonal room. The chamber was crammed with the treasures she had carted from the palace, the glowing tiled floor scuffed by the heavy coffers and partially obscured by the Saracen carpets she had laid out. The brilliant wall-paintings were nicked and marred by chests she had stacked one on top of the other, then moved again. More coffers, more rolled carpets, and piles of tapestries and plate were set on top of these. Richard remembered with disgust how she had broken down walls in order to speed the delivery of her goods into Sanctuary.
Bess Woodville glared at him with the haughtiness she had always mistaken for dignity. He thought her a pathetic figure. Her hair was dyed, her cheeks over-rouged, and her scanty lashes blackened with charcoal. Even her mass of glittering jewels couldn’t hide the fact that she was no longer beautiful, for in these months of confinement she had lost a front tooth and her figure had run to fat. Richard’s gaze went to the corner where his five nieces cowered together like mice before a snake. They were all pretty girls with fair hair and bright eyes, the oldest eighteen, the youngest barely four. With shame he realised that to them he was the monster who had killed their brothers. Anne was right, Richard thought. He was glad he had come.
“Dame Grey, I wish to set matters right between us,” he said.
“Indeed? Do you intend taking your life?” she snarled.
Richard clenched a fist at his side, maintained control by force of will. “You do me an injustice.”
“You—you dare to speak to me of injustice? You who set aside my marriage to Edward, who imprisoned me here and took the throne from my son!”
“Lady, you knew of my royal brother’s bigamy long before the rest of us. You even committed murder to protect your secret. As to your so-called ‘imprisonment’—guilt drove you into Sanctuary. You disregarded the King’s will and tried to seize power. That is treason by any definition, and well you know it.”
“Are we to be blamed for protecting ourselves?” she wailed.
“By pointing a false finger first? That, Madame, is how you have always justified your crimes against others.”
“And you’ve always been against us… Now, by your hand, my sons are dead! May God punish you in eternity—you murderer of babes!”
“Lady, you condemn yourself. Unlike you, I have not steeped my hands in infants’ blood, as you’ll soon learn from the lips of your son, Richard of York.”
Her mouth fell open. She stared at him with disbelieving eyes. “Dickon?” she murmured feebly, shuffling towards him on unsteady legs. She searched his face. “My Dickon is alive?”
There was something unnatural about hearing his own name drop with reverence from such lips, and Richard retreated a step. At that moment the door was thrust open and a grimy stone mason entered, carrying a pail and tools, his boy helper at his side. The door slammed shut behind them and Bess Woodville swayed where she stood. “Dickon!” she cried, stumbling towards him, opening her arms wide. “Dickon!”
“Mother, mother!” cried little Richard, running into them.
Bess fell to her knees. Her body racked by sobs, she clasped her child to her breast and held him tight. The girls in the corner of the room dropped their hold of one another and stared in frozen, dumbfounded silence.
Had Bess been a stranger, Richard would have been moved to pity by her maternal devotion and tearful joy, but he knew her too well, so his heart remained untouched. Greed had brought her here. Greed for money and shiny things to fill the hollowness of her soul. For all her vicious cunning, all her sly and devious ways, all her clever schemes for power and gain, she was a stupid woman. Only the stupid never learned from their mistakes. He averted his gaze to grant mother and child a measure of privacy, but pity he could not feel. Not for this woman. This Woodville. Carnage she had demanded. Carnage she had wrought.
He lifted his eyes to the twinkling coloured glass in the window high above, and silently, in his heart, whispered a prayer for those she had destroyed: his brother, George; his father’s friend, Desmond; for Warwick who had sheltered him, and John, who
had taught him honour. And for the many others whom he had loved, and many others still whose faces he had never known, who had perished in the battles of her creation.
~ * ~
Chapter 12
“No light! so late! and dark and chill the night!”
At Westminster, Richard gazed out over the Thames, silver in the early morning light. Anne was always right, he thought. As she’d promised, he’d won Bess over, and with terms that were generous but not extravagant. As a result, no one could say he’d lured the greedy queen out of Sanctuary and into a country house by promise of the gold she had worshipped all her life. Then he dispatched her guard to sea to fight the Britons. His action proclaimed that the queen was no longer an enemy, or regarded him as one. Too bad about Dorset, though, he thought toying with his signet ring. Bess had sent her son a secret message in Brittany that all was well and he could return to England, and Dorset had tried to flee Paris in the night. But before he could embark ship, he’d been caught by Henry Tudor’s men and “persuaded” to return. A pity. They could have learned much from him about Tudor’s plans.
“My lord.”
Richard turned. It was Kendall. “Ah, my good man, take a seat, let us see what we can do to help the humble folk…”
A prior who couldn’t afford the eight pounds for a royal licence had it waived; a man who had had himself elected vicar-general by false means in Exeter was replaced by the man he had cheated out of office. A bricklayer in Twicknam who lost everything when his house burned down and could no longer afford to care for the poor he had previously housed, was given money. Richard even took care of Buckingham’s unpaid debts to small creditors, including one for bread and ale delivered by a baker to Brecon. Many other misfortunes were noted and corrected. Richard enjoyed being generous. Despite his depleted purse, he passed out a number of grants. His faithful secretary, Kendall, was a recipient, and there were many others. Even old servants who had long since left his service were not forgotten.
“Finally, my dearest lady, we can set our sights on Middleham,” said Richard to Anne early in the first week of March, “as I promised.” A rare smile spread across his face. “We shall soon see Ned—and take care of problems along the way, of course, we must do that, but we are on our way to Ned!”
Spring was in the air. They felt it in the touch of the sun on their skin, caught it in the scented breeze that brushed their cheeks as they rode across the valleys and the fields. They saw it in the half-melted snow and the blueness of the vast skies overhead where frothy white clouds floated. They heard it in the cries of birds soaring across the hills. Richard and Anne exchanged many a happy glance as they rode together. What a relief it is, their glances said, to be gone from Westminster, to be in the saddle again, heading north, north, north…
For pure pleasure they tarried two days in Cambridge while Richard discoursed on divinity with learned doctors.
“Sometimes I find myself dwelling on what a holy man once told me,” said Richard to a doctor of sacred theology. “There is no purpose to suffering. It merely happens.”
“’Twas said by a man of little faith, Sire,” replied the good man. “There is purpose in suffering even if we cannot divine it. We must simply resign ourselves to things that pass our understanding.”
“But Scripture does say, ‘The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the brave, but time and chance happeneth to them all.’ Is that not what is meant?”
“You are questioning the injustice of life, and for that, we are offered no answer. Scripture merely relates how it seems to us, not necessarily how it is. As Socrates explained, man sees shadows and mistakes them for reality, for man has never seen anything else. Faith, Sire… We shall know the truth someday. But on this earth we must have faith.”
With that, Richard had to be content. Even so, their visit to Cambridge was a delight, a serene interlude. Before leaving, Richard and Anne bestowed generous grants on the university, then, on a dreary, drizzling morning in mid-March, they rode up the hills encircling Nottingham, their retinue clattering behind them. High above towered the massive fortress of Nottingham Castle built on a jutting outcrop of rock that glistened black in the rain. Anne reined in her palfrey.
“What’s the matter, dear lady?” inquired Richard.
“I don’t know, Richard… It must be the weather. Nottingham seems gloomier than ever this day.”
“Aye, ’tis indeed a dismal place despite all the money Edward and I have poured into it. Even my new tower with its spacious royal apartments and oriel window scarcely seems to have brightened it up.”
“’Tis not a place that can be brightened, Richard. It has an air about it.”
Richard gave her a smile. “We’ll not stay long, my love.” He squeezed her hand.
Anne inhaled deeply, braced herself and nudged her palfrey forward.
~ * ~
Affairs kept Richard and Anne in Nottingham longer than Richard had anticipated. It was not all unpleasant, however, for they were able to steal time now and again for hunting and hawking in the woods where Robin Hood had once roamed robbing the rich to give to the poor. Watching Richard canter with White Surrey through the dappled forest, his gerfalcon, Balin, on his wrist, a smile touched Anne’s lips. There was a bit of Robin Hood in Richard, she thought, for he had robbed the nobles of power to better the lot of the poor. May God bless him, she added to herself, spurring her chestnut palfrey after his mighty white charger.
March gave way to April and still they could not leave for Middleham. Easter found them at Nottingham, and it was at Nottingham they observed the thirteenth anniversary of the death of Anne’s father and uncle John at Barnet. But the Feast of St. George that followed that sombre day banished gloom with its joyous celebrations and feasting in the great hall.
Anne’s gaze fell on Bess Woodville’s daughter, Elizabeth, dancing with Jack. “Your niece is a lovely girl,” said Anne to Richard.
Richard made no response. Anne looked at him. “How can you not like her, Richard? She’s nothing like her mother and there is much of Edward in her.”
“Certainly she’s tall like him,” replied Richard.
Anne threw him a wry, indulgent glance. Richard had never cared for tall women. “Aye, Elizabeth is tall, but not ungainly so. She’s at least a finger shorter than you and a full head shorter than Jack. And she has Edward’s eyes. But I wasn’t thinking of her appearance as much as her character. She bears herself with grace and utters not a word of complaint about her hardships.”
“She is politic, then.”
“Not merely that, Richard. She looks on the bright side of things. ’Tis a good gift to have… Edward had it.”
Into Richard’s mind flashed the memory of the sea voyage to Burgundy after John Neville changed sides, forcing Edward to flee for his life. Edward had made a jest of his poverty and merrily offered his furred cape to the captain in payment. He could always laugh in the face of cruel fortune. “That he did.”
“And she’s generous like Edward. Already she’s given away one of her three new dresses to a poor knight’s lady. She said she didn’t need three anyway.”
“Maybe she’s filled with guile and knows that’s the way to win your favours,” Richard replied, raising an eyebrow. Anne reached for his hand. “She’s a Plantagenet, Richard, not a Woodville. You do her wrong.”
Richard turned his eyes back on Elizabeth, remembering the long-gone day when Elizabeth the child had danced with her father at her little brother’s wedding. Everyone had remarked on the charming scene, but all he could think about was his own brother George down the river, in the Tower, waiting to die. Because of Elizabeth’s mother. That witch. That Woodville.
He came out of his thoughts abruptly. Elizabeth was laughing merrily at something Jack said as she did a twirl under his raised hand. For a moment he thought of Edward and his heart twisted. Perhaps Anne was right about the girl, but it made no difference. He would endure her. He would find a gentleman to marry her.
He would endow her, and treat her with respect. Not because he liked or trusted her, but because she was Edward’s daughter and he owed that to his brother. The minstrels broke into a pavane. Tired of discussing Elizabeth, in whom he had no interest, Richard offered his hand to Anne. “Will you dance with me, my lady?”
They took their places on the floor. Richard noted that his head minstrel had thoughtfully slowed the pace for Anne’s sake. It was evident to everyone that Anne had grown more delicate during the past year; so much so that even this small exertion was tiring her. The melody over, she panted, “My lord, it seems I’m getting old and must leave the dancing to others.”
Richard led her back to her chair on the dais and took his seat beside her. “Twenty-seven years can scarcely be said to be old, Flower-eyes.” He smiled, hiding his concern. “Not when you still have some teeth.”
His teasing had the desired effect. Anne’s mouth twitched with a smile. “You shall not be so rude again after the punishment I shall mete out to you,” she scolded.
Richard took her hand and tilted his brows uncertainly, “Dear heart, if it’s what I think it is, I beg your forgiveness most fervently, for I could not bear to be banished from your bed even for a night.”
B008257PJY EBOK Page 9