The people that day saw not only the victors but the defeated, the women, all that were left of King Edward’s enemies, not enchained in the manner of the ancients but riding in an ordinary carriage. A few ugly yells were directed at Margaret of Anjou, but she did not seem to hear. Anne Neville, who shared her public humiliation, thought that since her capture she had been like a wooden doll, opening her mouth only to answer questions as if someone pulled strings, and that seldom. Anne herself endured the pitiless curiosity and ready insults of the Londoners by shutting herself behind her face as if it were a protective mask. She saw the carriage they rode in drive over the petals and flowers of the white roses with which King Edward and his brothers had been pelted by the crowd. She hated these people, who only a few months before had shouted for Warwick. Her father had been forgotten, as if his bright star had never blazed. It was bad enough to be treated as the spoils of war, but unlike Queen Margaret she had at least been spared imprisonment in the Tower.
When all the triumphal hullabaloo was over, King Edward called a meeting of his most trusted councillors at the palace of Westminster. Before the others arrived, the King led his brother Richard out into the gardens, so that they were alone together. It was late afternoon, but the sun was still high — the day had been appropriately glorious. The gardens were in good order, as the flowers and the gardeners could afford to ignore the changes of regime at Westminster. The King walked Richard round in a large, aimless circle without speaking, in the manner of one trying to calm a nervous horse. Richard wondered briefly what was coming, and then thought that he had a good idea of it.
The peacocks screeched intolerably at each other, strutting along the top of the low wall by the Thames. King Edward bent down and picked up a stone, slinging it into the midst of them. Peacocks and peahens flapped off to hold their meeting in another part of the gardens, squawking like demons.
‘Infernal creatures! They’ve driven people in this palace mad for years. I’d happily wring their necks,’ King Edward said. Richard thought no reply was necessary.
‘I’ve made my decision,’ King Edward said abruptly. He did not mean on the desirability of banishing peacocks from Westminster. Richard looked at him expectantly and felt uneasy. The subject around which his brother was hedging was unpleasant.
‘It will have to be done. The sooner the better. Tonight. Henry of Lancaster is not yet fifty. Another ten years in the Tower? Another ten years of disturbance and revolt on his behalf? Tudor of Pembroke is still at large, so is Oxford.
‘You must understand, Richard, that I am determined never to suffer humiliation and exile again. Never. I am very determined. I am telling you this before I broach the subject with the others because you are my Constable, and my brother. It will be your duty to see that my orders are carried out. It is not a pretty task, and I would not have laid it upon you if it were not necessary. It’s not a decision I have taken lightly.’
‘Yes,’ Richard said. Edward was going to take him indoors, and give him orders to see that Henry of Lancaster was quickly and quietly sent out of this world. In the Tower, tonight. Richard had thought that this would happen, that he would be made accessory to the murder of this peculiarly helpless victim. But was it any more murder than the sentencing of fifteen others to die on the scaffold after Tewkesbury? They had borne arms treasonably against King Edward and had expected their fate if they lost. Henry was guilty of a treasonable existence — still refusing to deny his own right to be King. Yet whatever his right, and he had none, he had been anointed.
Richard did not open his mouth to argue with his brother, to suggest that the deed might be postponed, that the Tower was an impregnable prison, that now they were so strong nothing could unseat them. He was aware that any such arguments evaded the issue. If Henry of Lancaster lived, King Edward would never be certain of reigning unchallenged. Richard could not argue for this. He had to keep his mouth shut, although he could not keep his hands clean. It was neither the first nor the last time that he had dirtied them in the King’s service. For his brother, he might imperil his immortal soul.
They went indoors. The others had assembled. Hastings, Rivers, Essex, Howard and the rest unanimously accepted King Edward’s decision. They, like his brother, were his obedient servants.
At ten o’clock that night, Richard went by barge upon the ebb tide to the Tower, together with more than a dozen of the lords who had supported the decision made by the King. It was still light enough to see the empty mouths of the bombards and cannon set up on the wharves from Baynards Castle to the Tower, and the barricade of huge wine barrels filled with ballast that were Lord Dudley’s defences against the Fauconbergs. Tomorrow Richard was to go to Sandwich to receive the Nevilles’ surrender.
Lord Dudley, Constable of the Tower, met them at the water gate. He had been with King Edward earlier and knew the reason for their presence. He told them that Margaret of Anjou had been brought to the Tower to be lodged for the night, and that Henry of Lancaster had been told of her arrival. He had asked to see her, and Lord Dudley had seen no reason to refuse his request. Henry had been so distressed by this interview with his wife, that Lord Dudley feared he might be about to fall into imbecility again. Margaret’s temper was well known, and she had probably turned it upon her husband, the cause of all their troubles.
Richard cut him short. ‘My lord, we have the King’s signed warrant here. We must be certain that his orders are carried out.’
Dudley sent for one of the headsmen, and they all walked across to the gateway leading to the Inner Ward, opposite the water gate. At the door of the Wakefield Tower, in which Henry lived, they halted. Lord Dudley went up first, with the headsman and a couple of warders who were on duty. Richard followed them, his heart pumping within him, and feeling sick. It was an effort of will to stop himself turning round and fleeing into the night and not stopping until he was on the road to Sandwich. He forced himself to climb the stairs. At the top he was sweating and shaking as if he were an invalid, and it had only been a short flight. As he reached the door, Lord Dudley came out.
‘It’s done,’ he said curtly.
Richard went in. The room was empty.
‘In the oratory.’
Henry of Lancaster lay awkwardly on his side in front of the little altar, his head resting on a shallow stone step. He looked untidy, and very still.
Richard, his heart pounding, knelt and turned the body over gently, as if he handled a sick man. The skin on the back of Henry’s head had been slightly broken. There was an ooze of blood in the hair.
‘Why here!?’ Richard was furious, and sickened. In front of the altar! Dear Jesus Christ, who has known everything since the world began, this man had been anointed with the holy oils of both England and France, on his head and his useless, unmanly hands, and on the thin, chicken-carcass chest, and the back where even clothed, the shoulder blades protruded like stunted wings. Oh God, and he, Richard, Duke of Gloucester and Constable of England, had given the order to kill him. He had been a king for forty years. Richard could have sobbed out loud. He wanted to kneel at the altar, to make excuses to God for his action. But he could not. They had defiled the place by doing it here.
‘Move him into the other room,’ he said, in a voice which made the headsman jump nervously and Lord Dudley turn pale and shuffle uneasily.
Richard left the Tower as quickly as he could, on the excuse of having to report to the King; Lord Dudley must make the necessary arrangements. The hideous brevity of what had taken place was overwhelming. Richard had to be on the road within a few hours — scarcely time for sleep. He was glad of this, of the chance which would allow him to escape into immediate action.
13
Ivory Pawn
June – July 1471
O Lorde what is
This worldes blisse,
That chaungeth as the mone?
My somer’s day
In lusty May
Is derked before the none.
The Nu
tbrown Maid (15th cent.)
13
Anne Neville, a widow who had been Princess of Wales, was home again in her father’s London house, the Erber. The only difference now was that her father was dead, and her brother-in-law Clarence had moved in as if he owned it already. Her sister Isabel had taken their mother’s place. Anne had a room and a bed that she had used many times before, since childhood, yet the house seemed quite strange, like just one more of the many places she had passed through during the last year, in England or France. Sometimes she was not sure which way to turn when she went out of the door, though the corridors were familiar. She even found some of her own clothes in a chest but they no longer fitted her. She had come to the Erber on entering London the first night, given by the King into the care of her sister.
Isabel came to her room on the second night, with her blonde hair hanging down like a curtain of silkworm floss. The brocaded stuff of her bedgown was so stiff with gold thread, it bent like sheets of lead rather than hung in folds. The lining was fur from neck to hem. Isabel was nearly twenty now and a very grand lady, the first Duchess in the realm. She still had rather thin little wrists, which went red in cold weather.
‘Anne,’ she said, full of the sisterly concern she had never previously felt moved to show. ‘I saw you at supper — you’re not eating. Are you sure you are quite well? I know you’ve had a miserable time, but… Please tell me, I want to help you. Are you sickening for something?’
‘I don’t think so. Nobody starved me, or had the plague to infect me. I’ll be better later on, Isabel. I feel so tired, that’s all.’
‘I thought maybe in a week or two, we could ride to Bisham, to offer for our father.’
Warwick and his brother had been buried at Bisham Abbey, on the Thames near Marlow. He had wanted to lie at Warwick, in the Beauchamp Chapel.
‘I don’t want to.’ Anne sat down on the edge of her bed.
‘You used to be like this — well, when you were going to have your monthly courses — is that it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t…? There’s no possibility…?’
‘If you mean, am I going to have a baby — the Prince’s baby — I don’t know. I’m not sure yet. Four weeks ago — there was no chance. He was kept away from me. But…’
‘When did…?’
‘The night before he fought.’
‘Oh, Anne.’ Isabel put her gold-crusted, furry arms round her sister, ‘and he was killed. Did you hate him very much? You didn’t love him, did you?’
‘Neither.’
‘My pet, you’ve suffered. But we’ll soon know, in another week or two.’
‘Yes.’
‘I felt bad, too, for a long time after the baby. It’s better now. But I’m frightened of having another.’
Anne felt unable to sympathize. When Isabel had gone, Anne looked in the mirror at herself. Maybe she was thinner in the face than she should be. She would be fifteen in exactly three weeks, but looked as much of a waif now as she had at twelve. She might have a more womanly shape, but she was sure Isabel had been better endowed with curves at the same age. The sea voyage, the weeks of travelling and living in cramped conditions, the irregular and sometimes inadequate meals, the disturbed sleep, had brought her out in spots, dulled her eyes and made her hair lank. All she wanted to do was sleep. Isabel kept asking if she wanted anything. She could think of nothing at all. She said the prayers for the vigil of the Ascension, then got into bed and lay flat out and felt her stomach. It fell in, like a sheet with a puddle in the middle, and her hip bones stuck up sharply. Even if it was there, it would not begin to swell for weeks. She curled on her side, hid her face in her arm, and escaped into sleep.
Isabel reported their conversation to her husband, on Whit Sunday when he got back from Kent where he had gone to attend upon the King at Canterbury and Sandwich to deal with the Fauconberg rebels.
‘Have you spoken to her?’
‘Yes. I’m afraid we may have to wait a little before we can be certain.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘She told me outright.’
‘Hm. Don’t let her out of your sight.’
George stretched his long legs out and raised his arms over his head. ‘Intolerable grovellers in Kent. Fauconberg was left in the lurch. Two good pieces of news — he has a pardon, and the Archbishop of York is to be let out of the Tower.’
‘My uncle freed? So soon?’
‘Edward is in generous mood. More good news — I am still Lieutenant of Ireland, God be praised. Would you like to go to Dublin soon, Isabel?’
‘No. I don’t want to go on the sea again.’
‘Would you refuse to come with me?’
‘No-o. Only a bad wife would do that.’
‘Oxford is going back to France.’
‘Mm. He hates us.’
‘He is not the only one. Pembroke will dig himself into Wales for as long as he can hold out, and then follow Oxford.
‘When we were in Kent, my brother Gloucester asked me how your sister did. Richard is a dark horse, and I can’t be certain, but I think he’s after Anne.’
‘I know nothing of Richard, but I always thought that she hankered after him a little, though she never told me as much. Anne is so secretive sometimes. She is behaving now as if I were a stranger to her.’
‘My brother will soon be nineteen; he wants to marry. Well, he’ll have to look elsewhere. We have plenty of reasons to keep him away from Anne.’
Several of these reasons, George of Clarence did not intend to discuss with his wife. The death of his father-in-law Warwick had put into his hands possibilities of wealth and power which previously he could riot have dreamed of. The Neville lands alone were a juicy windfall, but only to whet his appetite for the great Beauchamp and Despenser inheritance. This was the inherited property of Warwick’s Countess, who was at present still cowering in fright in the sanctuary at Beaulieu Abbey. George fervently hoped that she would stay there, even end her days there, fugitive from King Edward, whom she had no real reason to fear. It would make his plan to divest his mother-in-law of her lands, in favour of Isabel, so much easier.
George poured himself more Rhenish. He would have another morning with his secretary, William Molyneux, calculating the income which Warwick’s lands had produced. It was an enjoyable occupation. Beyond this, he could look forward to retaining friendship with his cousin, the Archbishop of York, even to seeing him restored somewhat to favour. If any Neville were to come out of this trouble unscathed, it would be Warwick’s youngest brother. The problem of his sister-in-law Anne would resolve itself in the due course of nature, at least to a stage at which some action would be possible.
By St Barnabas’ Day, her birthday, Anne began to feel alarm seep into her apathy. The battle at Tewkesbury had been fought on Saturday, May 4th; it was now June 11th. Five and a half weeks had passed. After her wedding, the waiting had been bad enough, but now she found herself lost in a nightmare from which there might be no awakening. What would King Edward do when he found out that the line of Lancaster had not ended with the deaths of King Henry and the Prince? If there was a baby, and it was a boy, then it would be doomed before it had time to live. What would Clarence do? He was certain to be the first to know, and Isabel had been fishing for information to give to him.
Anne had decided long before that her brother-in-law was untrustworthy; now he had become menacing. His interest in her own condition, and the fact that she had been taken to his house, could only mean that his reconciliation with his brother the King was hiding a desire to go on plotting. For this reason, he wanted to have custody of any child that Anne might bear, for he could have no better weapon in his hands to use against his brother. Anne tried desperately to think what she could do. There was nothing. She could not appeal to King Edward, for he would probably imprison her in the Tower; for the same reason she could not approach the Duchess of York, who would act in her son’s interests. To appeal t
o Gloucester, who had seemed to want to help her, would only lead to the same end. Richard would not save the Archangel Gabriel from drowning if it were against the King’s interests. Her own mother was helpless in sanctuary and would be just as helpless out of it. Her uncle the Archbishop of York would be too grateful to King Edward for his freedom to do anything to thwart him. All her father’s friends who had survived were in the same position. The Lancastrians, who would have been only too eager to help, were scattered and, in any case, their help would consist of spiriting her away to France, only to abandon her when the child was delivered. Besides, she was not quite certain that there was a child. Isabel said that you had to miss twice before you could be sure.
George of Clarence quickly found that the net he had cast so carefully to catch a fortune was fouled up by his brother Richard. This had already become evident by the beginning of July, when they had both taken an oath of loyalty to the King’s little son, at his investiture with the title of Prince of Wales.
Richard had been given Warwick’s home territory in Yorkshire, the lordship of Middleham. He had surrendered his Welsh offices and was preparing to go north to take up his duties as Warden of the West Marches, and to deal with the threat of a Scots raid. It was clear that Richard wanted to step into Warwick’s shoes in the north. In addition, Richard had received Warwick’s office of Great Chamberlain of England, and he was already Constable and Admiral. George, who should have thought himself lucky still to be Lieutenant of Ireland, was jealous. He had wanted the Great Chamberlainship for himself, and resented not only the loss of the income from the office, but the fact that his brother the King had loaded Richard with responsibilities unusually heavy for one so young. George could not stomach the truth, that Edward thought Richard more able than himself. If he had known of the request which Richard had made to the King before leaving for the north, his resentment and anger would have known no bounds.
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