On Monday and Tuesday, Harry Buckingham made two long speeches, the first to the lords at Westminster, the second to the City dignitaries at the Guildhall, who were assembled for their St John’s Day festivities. No one had realized he was so gifted at speech making. Francis Lovell told me that he had not hoped to hear Richard’s case put so convincingly. Harry had held his audience as a seasoned player might: his voice carried well, his mobile face and dramatic gestures riveted the eye, he used no notes, needed no prompting. So convincing was he that on Wednesday, when most of the lords spiritual and temporal, and the commons, met in the Parliament Chamber at Westminster, a bill petitioning Richard to become King was almost unanimously approved. Edward our son was to be acknowledged heir apparent, and his heirs in turn to succeed for ever. Because he had a son, Richard could offer England a safe royal succession, and because he was a young man, the child would have time to grow and not be thrust upon the throne in a minority.
On Thursday, we gathered in the great central courtyard of Baynard’s Castle, Bishops, Lords, Aldermen, all jammed elbow to elbow. Harry Buckingham read out the petition agreed on by the three estates of the realm the day before. On his lips, the legal language ceased to sound tedious, and became moving. The good government of King Edward IV, he said, had been corrupted by the evil counsel of the Queen and her family, so that ‘no man was sure of his life, land or livelihood, nor of his wife, daughter or servant, every good maiden and woman standing in dread of being ravished or defouled…’ Harry gave this part a burst of righteous relish, though I thought it somewhat unnecessary. Everyone knew what was meant — it was said that no woman anywhere was safe from the attentions of the Marquess of Dorset.
Harry went on to tell how the Queen’s marriage had been unlawful in the sight of God, because the King was already troth-plight, and how he had been lured into sin by the witchcraft of the Queen and her mother. The claim of Clarence’s son was dismissed because of his father’s attainder. Richard was therefore undoubted heir to the throne.
I watched Richard. Knowing how he was torn apart in his mind between what he wished to do, and what was forced upon him by circumstance, I could understand his look, which was more that of a man hearing a death sentence than one being offered a crown. I wished with all my heart that he might have had it in him to look more cheerful. They’ll say later that he dissembled and put up a show of reluctance — some folk always find evil to say of their betters.
At the end of his speech, Harry Buckingham walked forward to the foot of the stairs where Richard stood, and knelt. A silence fell. I held my breath. Then Richard walked slowly down the stairs, coming to a halt in front of Harry, took the parchment petition from him, and stood there, a little uncertain. Harry, still kneeling, took his hand and kissed it — the mightiest subject’s gesture to his King. ‘Will your Highness accept this petition of the Three Estates of the realm?’
Richard said quietly, his voice not carrying well, ‘Would you place this burden on me? Am I worthy?’
‘Will your Grace accept?’ Harry was urgent in his supplication; he hadn’t expected this last minute reluctance.
‘Is this the wish of the people?’ Richard’s voice had sunk almost beyond hearing.
‘Of the lords spiritual and temporal, and of the commons of England. Highness, will you accept the royal dignity and estate?’
Richard bent his head then, twisting the parchment in his hands. We did not hear his answer. Harry did though, for he jumped to his feet, flung his arms wide and gave a triumphant cry: ‘King Richard!’ A crowd of citizens, who’d been primed for it, took up the cheer: ‘King Richard! King Richard!’
*
The day of our coronation was to be Sunday, July the sixth. This is not the best time of the year for the event. I prayed that the weather would not be hot, or drown the spectators with thunderstorms. As there were only nine days between Richard’s assumption of the crown and the coronation, we were caught up in a tempest of preparations. Work had already begun weeks ago, but much of the clothing had to be replaced and altered, especially now that there was not only a King to be provided for, but a Queen and all her household. Peter Curteys, the Master of the Wardrobe, was in demand in a score of places at once; his flat Leicester voice soon began to gabble orders, quantities and measurements like a litany. For such a solemn occasion, the colours my ladies might wear were limited; they all had to be dressed alike, and had very different ideas about what suited them. I had to arbitrate and soothe those who felt their complexions suffered by the final choice. They all wore blue, crimson and white, except for the old Duchess of Norfolk, Richard’s aunt, who is well over seventy and insisted upon a gown of purple and crimson, to mark her status as elder sister of the King’s mother.
Richard’s mother herself did not attend. This was not because of any disapproval of her son’s actions, but because since the execution of George of Clarence, she has attended no court ceremonies, and lives the life of a Benedictine nun at her castle of Berkhampstead. I was frankly relieved at her absence; she would have been sure to take entire charge of all the women’s part of the proceedings, leaving me to feel like a little girl playing Queens. Richard, who in some ways, would have preferred his mother to be present as a sign of her approval, understood my feelings, saying that the Duchess of York ordered him about unmercifully too, and King or not, he was very conscious of being her eleventh and youngest child.
My own poor mother would not attend either. In the dozen years since my father was killed she has lived cut off from all society. I think she has never had a happy life. She wanted to be a support and helpmate to my father, but often managed to offend him by her timidity and complaints. She has more affection for Richard than for me, born of the days when he was fostered in our household, and of her pathetic wish for a son. Sometimes I cannot abide her, and feel guilty because of it, and of my relief at her absence.
I had to make a great effort to welcome Richard’s sister Elizabeth, Duchess of Suffolk. She is much too like King Edward for a woman, very large, handsome and well padded. She turns her eyes on me with a calm, contemplative stare, too reminiscent of a chewing cow, and suggests that I should eat more — following her example, I suppose. She is thirty-nine years old and has produced ten children, most of whom are thriving, and looks as if she has suckled each one herself, like a farmer’s wife. She and her husband come rarely to court, living mostly at their manor of Wingfield in deepest Suffolk. The Duke is supposed to suffer from ill-health, though it hasn’t affected his ability to father children. Her usual statement, ‘Suffolk is not well today’, could generally be taken to mean that he was laid up with the gout and vile tempered into the bargain. He has taken a fancy to me, and at the sight of his very red face I take refuge among my ladies, who giggle behind his back, for his mind runs drearily on oats and barley, and the feuds he has with the Paston family.
The day before the coronation was kept according to custom at the Tower, which I hated, because I kept thinking of the poor deposed King and his brother, prisoners now in the Garden tower. Richard had told the boys himself, which, he said afterwards, was the worst thing he’d ever had to do in his life. Young Edward, as might have been expected, turned on him in venom and fear, calling him usurper and raving of the punishment of God that would come. Yet the bewilderment of the younger child had been worse, when he asked if he were now no different from Arthur — this was his half-brother, King Edward’s bastard by Elizabeth Lucy. There was no time, however, to be sad. In the afternoon we rode in procession from the Tower by way of Cheap and Fleet Street to Westminster. I thought Richard looked very fine; he is always at an advantage on horseback, because people do not notice that he is small, and so different from King Edward. He knows how to ride to get the best out of his horse, to make it arch its neck and tuck in its chin and mouth at the bit, to use just a touch of spurs to make it dance around a little and step up high. He rode White Surrey, the largest and showiest of his horses, who is trained for war and unafrai
d of crowds and noise. He is beautifully milk-white, and looked even better in a saddle, bridle and trappings made of red cloth of gold. Richard himself wore a long gown of purple velvet and ermine over a doublet of marvellously rich blue cloth of gold, patterned with pineapples. He had to show himself bareheaded to the people, which I thought was good, because it made him look younger. He looked more cheerful too, now that most of the waiting was over.
Behind Richard rode Harry Buckingham, looking as triumphant as a necromancer who has conjured up a king out of the air. Both he and his horse were trapped from head to foot in blue and gold. It reminded me of how my father had ridden in splendour so often at King Edward’s side, and I did not find the memory pleasant. Harry loves to act the pageant master, and every day seems bursting with new ideas. Wherever he goes, there is laughter, and animated talk. I laugh with the others, for he is very entertaining, and goes out of his way to be charming to me — a little too far, I have begun to think. He puzzles me, because I cannot see deeper in him than the quick wit and laughter, the constant mimicry, but deep down I feel he does not laugh. His wife is still banished to Brecon.
I rode in a litter carried by two white horses. Everything was white, so I made my ladies paint my face a little, in case I were too pallid. I wore my hair hanging down my back, though I am a married woman. It is the custom for a Queen to go to her coronation with her hair loose as if she were a virgin. My hair is long enough to sit on, so I spread it out over the cushions, wishing it were golden and more suitable to a Queen, instead of plain mouse brown. The sun did not come out to gild it either, and I wondered if I would ever look the part, in spite of all the ermine, jewels and trappings of majesty.
In the morning, at six o’clock, we walked in procession from the White Hall near St Stephen’s chapel to Westminster Hall. Striped cloth had been laid down for us to walk on, and we went without shoes, me in my white-stockinged feet and Richard in his hose of crimson satin. In Westminster Hall, Richard took his seat in the King’s Bench, and we waited for the Abbot, the Cardinal Archbishop of Canterbury and the other lords spiritual, to come and escort us in procession to the Abbey. The royal trumpeters and heralds in their coats of arms went first, then the Abbey Cross was borne in front of the priests in their grey fur capes, the Abbots and Bishops in their mitres, carrying their croziers, and the Bishop of Rochester, bearing a cross before Cardinal Bourchier. The Cardinal had several priests to help carry the hem of his vestments, so that the weight-might be taken off him. I prayed most fervently that he would get through the service without fainting, or worse, dropping down dead. He is over eighty, not in good health, and slowed the procession to an agonized creep.
I tried to get a glimpse of Richard between all the Earls and Barons who walked behind him and in front of me. Harry Buckingham, as Great Chamberlain, was his train-bearer. The Barons of the Cinque Ports carried a canopy of rich red and green silk over his head. There was a canopy held over my head too, hung with gold bells that chimed as we walked. I wore robes of crimson velvet, with a very long train, which was carried by Lady Margaret Beaufort, Lord Stanley’s wife, who is less than five feet tall, and had to be assisted by several henchmen. She was wearing pattens on her feet, hidden by her robes, to make her appear taller, but she still looked tiny beside the Duchess of Suffolk, who walked in solitary state behind her. I was entirely at the mercy of the train bearers; without them, I was certain, I’d be unable to move a step, the weight of my robes was so great. Nearly fifty yards of velvet had been used, loaded with miniver and ermine and gold trimmings. My hair was hanging loose again, and I wore a circlet of gold, crusted with precious stones. I was hot already, uncomfortable, and shamefully hungry. The King and Queen have to go to their coronation fasting, because of their receiving of the Blessed Sacrament at the end of it. I kept telling myself that I must not faint, even if the ceremony, from the time we assembled in Westminster Hall, did last more than eight hours. I had been told that the crown itself was very heavy, though only half the weight of the King’s, but I should not have to wear it long. The Bishops of Exeter and Norwich would be standing on either side of me, and I was to tell them if I felt faint, so they might hold me up.
Inside the Abbey a large wooden platform with steps leading up to it had been erected, and all covered with red cloth. On it were St Edward’s chair for the King after his crowning, and two other great chairs. We were seated in these first. I sat there with my back so rigid it did not touch the chair. Every muscle in me was tense, for the awesomeness of what was to happen had laid hold of me as soon as we entered the Abbey doors. I looked round at the people; I could scarcely believe it possible to cram so many in. I doubted if many of them could move even their arms, they were wedged so close. Faces peered round pillars and down from galleries. Many would be able to see nothing at all, some might well not hear much either. They were all watching us, the King and Queen. 1 was frankly terrified, and prayed that I should remember what to do and say. Holy Mary, Mother of Christ, please help me to be as strong as a man today, and help Richard to endure this too, for it is even harder and more solemn for the King. I added a prayer for the Cardinal, who looked as if he needed it more than either of us. As he began his presentation to the people, walking to the four corners of the dais to ask if it were their will that he should crown the King, he seemed very slow and shaky, his voice old, and not strong. He said, ‘Sirs, here present is Richard, rightful and undoubted inheritor to the crown,’ and the crowd all shouted, ‘Yes, yea, yea, so be it, King Richard, King Richard, King Richard.’
When Richard got up, and in the same way showed himself four times to the people, inclining his head in submission to their will, I held my breath, though they had already answered. I began to cry then, and I cried on and off all through the service, though not in a way that anyone would notice at a distance. My whole heart and body were so seized and overwhelmed by emotion, I choked and my eyes kept blurring, until the tears spilled over and ran down my face as the wax ran down the flaring candles. Richard’s face wavered before my blurred eyes, every line so familiar, yet the face of a stranger. He looked exhausted and battered by kingship already, his face sheet-white and thinned with strain, in contrast with those around him, who were flushed with heat. The choir began the anthem ‘Firmetur manus tua…’ A King needs strength. I’d wanted him to be King, but now I was afraid, the burden was so great. It is both marvellous and terrible to be a King.
Because the King must not come empty-handed into the sight of the Lord God, he next made an offering of gold at the High Altar, then I did the same, after which we both had to lie prostrate before the Altar on golden cushions, while the Cardinal said the orisons over us, and the Bishop of Lincoln delivered a short sermon to the people. Then I sat on a stool on the left side of the Altar, while Richard took the royal oath, making his answers with his hands on the book of the Holy Gospels. His voice was clear and unfaltering, but I did not think it would be heard in every part of the Abbey, except for the end, when he said: ‘All these things and every of them I Richard, King of England, promise and confirm to keep and observe, so help me God, and by these Holy Evangelists by me bodily touched upon this Holy Altar.’ The hymn ‘Veni Creator Spiritus’ was sung most beautifully, as if by a choir of angels, and I could scarcely see anything for tears.
Afterwards we went to the Altar together, where 1 had to kneel praying while the King received his anointing. First Buckingham, the Great Chamberlain, removed his crimson robes. Then he knelt, while the Cardinal untied all the laces of the openings in his shirts, so that he could be anointed in the seven places: on the palms of both hands, on his breast, his back, his shoulders, on the inside of both elbows, and on his head. I blinked hard, to get the tears out of my eyes, because I wanted to see as much as possible. Cardinal Bourchier poured the Holy Oil from the dove ampulla into the spoon, held in his decidedly shaky hands, and made a little cross with the oil in each of the places. Then the crown of Richard’s head was anointed with the Chrism, which
is the most solemn moment of all, the consecration of the King, which sets him apart from other men. Each time the Cardinal touched the King, he blotted the place with a cloth, which would be afterwards burnt, so no others should touch the Holy Oil. He also tied a linen cap over Richard’s head, like the judges wear, so that the Chrism should not be touched for a whole week afterwards, when the Abbot of Westminster would come to wash his hair. When Richard held out his hands for the anointing, I saw that they were shaking far more than the Cardinal’s and that he trembled from head to foot, as if he felt the presence of the Holy Spirit, and waited in dread and awe for the moment of consecration.
After the anointing, the King was clothed in the white silk tabard, the coat with images of gold, the hose, sandals and spurs, the sword, which he buckled on himself, the stole, and the square robe with great eagles of beaten gold. Then St Edward’s crown was blessed, and the Cardinal took it in his hands. I watched, half in awe, half in fascinated horror, for the old man seemed to have difficulty in raising his arms, with the weight of the crown in his hands, but after an initial wavering, in which he nearly cracked Richard over the head, he managed it. Then the ruby ring was blessed and put on the third finger of his right hand — the marriage finger — to show that the King is wedded to his people. Lastly came the gloves of cloth of gold, and the sceptre with the dove was put into his right hand and the rod with the cross into his left.
Then I received my own anointing from the Cardinal. Lady Margaret had to undo the lacing of my gown in front, so that the oil might be touched between my breasts, which with the head, are the only places where the Queen is anointed. A linen cap was put on my head, and I was crowned and invested with a ring, as the King had been. The Queen’s sceptre and rod were put into my hands. As the Bishops led me back to the dais, I had to make a deep obeisance to the King, who was already enthroned there. I wished that I might have knelt to him, as the lords temporal did, their hands laid between his, and sworn to live and die in faith with him.
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