1 - THWARTED QUEEN

by Cynthia Sally Haggard

  Suddenly, my mind jolted awake. What was Edward doing at Stafford Castle?

  I turned to him. “Buckingham?”

  Edward looked grim. “I bear bad tidings. He’s dead.”

  Chapter 43

  July to October 1460

  The Battle of Northampton lasted the space of one half of an hour, and at the end of it, Warwick, March, and Salisbury took possession of the king and conducted him to Delapré Abbey. My lady queen fled with her son to Scotland.

  Though I was free from house arrest, my heart bled as I said my farewells to my sister Anne. But she seemed to take the news of Buckingham’s passing with a kind of stoic resignation. Her family flocked to her side. Their silences and stares convinced me to be quick in my leave.

  Now I was free. As free as a lark to soar up into the air and sing merrily. I traveled to Baynard’s Castle, my London residence, taking the children with me.

  On the eight day of September, Richard, together with Edmund, returned from Ireland. He sent a message asking me to meet with him in Hereford. I sighed, for it was not going to be easy to be Richard’s wife again after the freedom of the past few months.

  Leaving the children behind in London, I took a horse litter, choosing this somewhat queenly mode of transportation because I did not feel like riding the hundred or so miles. Taking a litter hung with blue velvet curtains and drawn between two pairs of fine horses was not only a stylish way of greeting my long-absent husband. It also had the effect of prolonging my journey.

  While I journeyed, I had the leisure to ponder. How unfortunate that Richard was not a person to whom folk warmed easily, for he had many good qualities. He cared deeply about the people and had been loyal to King Henry until the King’s misrule had driven him to take up arms. But Richard also had his flaws. He was arrogant, he was proud, and as always, he was too serious for his own good. While I journeyed to Hereford, I wondered how he would be now.

  When finally I saw him, it was as if a stranger were standing there. Richard had grown stout during his sojourn in Ireland. His hair and beard had gone grey, and there were harsh lines around his mouth. But when he caught sight of me, his smile made him look like the young man who’d courted me.

  He eagerly helped me down from the litter, so caught up in greeting me that he didn’t notice the expensive mode of transportation. “Cis! You look as fair as ever. Christ! How I’ve missed you.”

  I smiled as I submitted to his embraces. Then I looked around. “Why are your men in such livery? They are bearing the Royal Arms.” I turned to stare at him. “That’s treasonous, Richard.”

  Richard’s mouth set in a grim line, following the creases of the new lines around his mouth. “I wish to make my pretensions to the throne clear. I will not be gainsaid by anyone, not even you, Cis.”

  And with that, he strode off.

  Richard was not in the most communicative of moods as he and I traveled to London at the head of a large retinue. I tried to persuade him to discuss his plans with me. To no avail. Had Richard even consulted with his allies? The night before our arrival in London, growing anxious, I forced the issue.

  I ordered the cook to prepare Richard’s favorite dishes. I had my women dress me in a gown of lilac brocade, for it was one of Richard’s favorite colors. Then I sent a message inviting him to my tent.

  By the time he arrived, I’d given instructions to put thick carpets on the floors, light candles, and arrange flowers. A group of musicians sat in one corner, playing some of his favorite airs. He smiled as I took him by the hand and bade him sit beside me.

  First I presented him with gifts from the children, including Margaret’s beautifully embroidered shirts. Then I signaled for the servants to bring out the meal. Only when he’d finished eating and was well watered with wine did I broach the topic. Signaling for the servants to leave, I stroked his hand.

  “My lord,” I began in a low tone, leaning forward, “What mean you to do once we arrive in London?”

  “I mean to claim the throne for myself.”

  “That is your right, but do others know of your plans?”

  Richard’s eyes went from being the gentle grey-blue of waves rippling by the shoreline to the flinty grey of a winter sky. “Why should I tell anyone? Think you I should ask permission?”

  I stroked his hand again, for he was so irritable these days. “Of course not,” I said soothingly. “But don’t you think it might be better to make sure they agree with you?”

  “Of course they agree with me. That’s why we’re fighting, isn’t it?”

  I sighed and pressed ahead. Richard could be heavy weather, but it was imperative to nudge him in the right direction. If he were going to succeed in his ambitions, he had to get the backing of the magnates, as well as the citizens of London. “Does Salisbury know that you’re marching to London to take the throne of England?”

  The silence stretched on. “No,” said Richard reluctantly, crumbling his bread.

  “I think,” I whispered, “I think you should dictate a letter to him, and to the other magnates, explaining what you intend to do.”

  Richard frowned and stopped crumbling bread. Finally he nodded. “I give you my word.”

  I sagged with relief and gave him my most dazzling smile.

  On the tenth day of October, Richard and I arrived in London. Much to the marvel of the folk of the City of London, our trumpeters bore the sovereign arms of England. We proceeded to Westminster Hall where Parliament was to meet. Dismounting at the door, Richard caused the sword of state to be borne before him. He strode through the throng of magnates and made his way to the throne, whereon he placed his hand. Placing his hand on the throne was the clearest signal Richard could give that he thought he should be king.

  There was dead silence.

  I looked for my relatives, for Salisbury and Warwick, confident that they knew and approved of this gesture. I expected them to come forward and acclaim Richard as their sovereign.

  The silence continued, dismay on even friendly faces.

  They were completely ignorant of his plans.

  Mortified, I would have vanished in a puff of smoke at that instant if I could. Richard had lied to me. I looked at his shadowed face as he stared at the throne. He’d never done that before. What did it mean?

  Richard lifted his head and flushed purple. “I am the heir general of King Richard II, and I tell you, I have waited too long. I shall be crowned King Richard III on All Hallows Day.”

  There was silence. All Hallows Day was less than three weeks away.

  Archbishop Bourchier of Canterbury, the kinsman by marriage Richard had placed in that position so many years ago, came forward: “My lord. Perhaps you should obtain an audience with King Henry to discuss your claim.”

  Richard bristled. “I should obtain an audience with Henry of Lancaster?” he spat. “Say, rather, he should seek an audience with me. He is the usurper, descended from a line of usurpers, who illegally wrested the throne from King Richard II.” Richard’s voice grew louder and louder during this speech until he was bellowing at the magnates in that echoing hall.

  He swept them one final look of disgust, then stormed out.

  Conversation buzzed as soon as he disappeared. With flaming cheeks, I took the opportunity to slip away to Baynard’s Castle. I ordered the main meal to be served and pushed my food around my plate while waiting for Richard to return. Had the many years of frustration not only soured his temper but also turned him into a liar? Eventually, Richard stormed in again, surrounded by men-at-arms. Without greeting me, he went to the sideboard to pour himself some wine.

  Suddenly Warwick appeared. “Why didn’t you consult us?” he roared, too angry to bother with a greeting. “This is madness. Why should our lord king be deposed now? He’s ruled us for thirty-eight years. There’s no precedent for your arrogance.”

  “How can you stand by a king who has promulgated decades of misrule upon this land?” Richard shot back.

  Warwick came
closer. “We took oaths of allegiance. Including you. He is our anointed king before God. Surely you’re not thinking of arrogating the power of God to yourself.”

  Richard clenched his fingers around his wine-cup. “Kings have been deposed before. Henry’s grandfather usurped the throne from King Richard II.”

  “Does your cursed ambition know no bounds?” bellowed Warwick. “King Richard was a tyrant, King Henry is a good man. He’s saintly and pious. He’s been good to the magnates, and you took an oath of allegiance to him.”

  This noisy row drew the whole household. Seventeen-year-old Rutland now appeared. When he saw Warwick castigating his father, he approached his cousin. “Fair sir, be not angry, for you know that we have the true right to the crown and that my lord and father here must have it.”

  Warwick flushed and bit his lip. For Rutland was correct. Richard had the better claim to the throne.

  Eighteen-year-old Edward had been lounging at the table cracking nuts, seemingly uninterested in the row. But now he looked up and remarked, “Brother, ‘tis not wise to vex Warwick.”

  Warwick smiled. Turning away from Richard and Rutland, he made a great show of speaking only to Edward.

  Chapter 44

  Palace of Westminster, London

  October 16, 1460

  Norfolk, premier duke and earl of the realm, eyed Richard grimly. “We have taken our oaths, and we stand by that.”

  Richard signaled to his scribe, who unrolled the parchment and set it on the table. “This shows that I am the rightful claimant to the throne,” he said loudly. “This is my genealogy, showing my descent from King Edward III. I am descended from his second son, Lionel of Antwerp, through my mother, Lady Anne de Mortimer. My cousin Henry of Lancaster is descended from his third son, John of Gaunt.”

  Richard no longer referred to Henry VI as king, he was always Henry of Lancaster. I looked at Richard, trying to follow his mood. We stood in the great hall of Westminster Palace as Richard formally presented his claim to the great magnates of the land. At least he was calmer than he’d been a week ago. This time, he’d asked Salisbury and Warwick for their opinion. They advised him to go to the lords without them, to see more clearly what kind of support he would get.

  What would Richard be like as king? I didn’t like to think about it. He had many enemies and lacked the ability to deal with them. His temper was short and being an unpopular king would shorten it further. He was stubborn and too arrogant to take advice. I’d seen these traits grow worse as he gained power; worst of all, his actions might harm the children. Nonetheless, it remained my duty to act as Richard’s loyal wife.

  “Why didn’t you put forth your claim before?” said John de Vere, Earl of Oxford. “It would have saved us a passel of trouble had you spoken up.”

  Richard flushed. “Though truth for a time may rest and be put to silence,” he replied, “yet it never dies.”

  “Humph,” snorted Oxford.

  “My lords,” said Viscount Henry Bourchier and Richard’s brother-in-law. “Should we not discuss this now? Duke Richard has presented his case, and furnished his genealogy. I suggest we take some time to study it.”

  Voices murmured and robes swished as the lords peered at Richard’s parchment.

  “This claim is a nothing,” sneered Nan’s husband, Exeter. “It derives through a woman. And we know women are good for only one thing.” He laughed.

  My lips thinned as I glared. Being so close to him, and having his vulgar remarks shoved into my face, made me physically sick. How was Nan? I knew only she’d given her lord one daughter some five years before. My anger welled up and veered rapidly from Exeter to Richard, and back again. Like a weathervane in a storm.

  “My lord of York’s claim is derived from his lady mother, Anne de Mortimer,” said Bourchier.

  “But the whole claim is dominated by females,” objected Somerset, fingering the parchment. As the son of Richard’s greatest enemy, Henry Somerset was the last person who wanted to see Richard’s claim prevail. “Look at this.” He pointed with his finger. “Not only is the claim though his mother Anne de Mortimer, but also though his great-grandmother Philippa, daughter of Lionel of Antwerp.”

  “His claim would be far stronger if it were through the male line,” said Northumberland.

  “Like that of our lord king,” chimed in Somerset.

  Richard glared but was prevented from speaking by Bourchier. “Women may inherit, my lords.”

  He looked at Norfolk in appeal. Norfolk’s opinion carried weight.

  “When there is no male heir, then yes, a woman may inherit,” said Norfolk. He’d been studying the parchment intently, and now he took off his eyeglasses and shook his head slowly. “I am sorry to say this, my lords, but indeed I think my lord of York has the better claim.”

  Richard beamed.

  There was a roar of disapproval.

  Richard went white.

  My heart sank. Just as I feared, Richard did not have the support he needed. The better claim to the throne didn’t matter—his enemies would fight him tooth and claw.

  “We cannot change horses in midstream,” said Northumberland.

  “It’s unthinkable to renege on our oaths of allegiance,” said Oxford.

  “York cannot be King,” shouted Somerset.

  “My lords, my lords,” interrupted Bourchier. “Some compromise must be possible.” He looked at Norfolk.

  “We could disinherit Prince Édouard,” said Norfolk slowly, “and make York heir-apparent.”

  “That way, York could succeed on the king’s death,” remarked Exeter with a sneer.

  That was not what Richard wanted; ten years older than the king, he was likely to die sooner.

  Chapter 45

  November 1460 to January 1461

  On the eighth day of November, in the year 1460, Richard was proclaimed heir-apparent to the throne and Protector of England by the Act of Accord. All the lords, spiritual and temporal, swore allegiance to him as the king’s heir, and he in turn swore allegiance to Henry of Lancaster and the lords, saying he would abide by all conventions and compacts. Richard of York now ruled England in the name of the king.

  I sat by his side at the Palace of Westminster and endured the uneasy atmosphere of a court torn by factions. Richard seemed to believe his position invincible. But I couldn’t sleep at nights. From the north, news was not good.

  Marguerite reached a settlement with the Queen of Scotland, and was resting at Falkirk when news of the Act of Accord broke. Furious her son had been disinherited, she amassed an army of some twenty thousand men. She acted so swiftly Richard realized what happened only too late. That November, at York, Queen Marguerite challenged Richard to settle the issue of succession by a contest of arms, then marched her army south.

  Richard sent my son Edward to Ludlow to repair the damage done by the raid of 1459. Then with Rutland and Salisbury, he marched out of London on the ninth day of December at the head of an army of around six thousand men to meet the queen, leaving Warwick in charge of London.

  I settled down to celebrate Christmas with my three youngest children, making many visits to Warwick’s residence on the Strand. There we enjoyed the hospitality of his wife Anne and two daughters Bella and Nanette. I allowed myself a much-needed respite, relaxing at Warwick’s well-appointed house, surrounded by the good wishes of the London merchants and the people of London. I was grateful that Bella and Nanette were good companions for my boys. Even eight-year-old Richard managed a shy smile when his four-year-old cousin Nanette greeted him. He sat down and began to teach her chess.

  “She’s too young for that,” exclaimed George, who was now eleven. His mouth crammed full of fruit, George held out a sticky hand.

  “Come, Bella,” he said to his nine-year-old cousin. “Let me show you the steps to the latest dance.”

  I smiled at the handsome pair they made. My children were happy. I should try to be so, for their sake.

  “I miss Father,” wh
ispered fourteen-year-old Margaret, sitting down beside me.

  I covered her cold fingers with my own. “So do I,” I replied, looking at the thick snow falling outside. I shivered at the thought of Richard having to endure that cold. “Let us pray that he finds some peace and joy this Christmastide.”

  “Your lord is gone, madam,” said the messenger, crossing himself.

  “You say he was cut down?” I took a shaky breath.

  “He was pulled off his horse.”

  My hands flew to my mouth to prevent shrieks, for I didn’t want the children to hear.

  Everything went black.

  When I came to, I was bewildered to find myself in my bedchamber in the middle of the day.

  Jenet wiped my face with a lavender-scented handkerchief. “You’ve had a nasty shock, my lady.”

  I gazed up into her brown eyes. “Is it true?”

  Jenet nodded.

  I looked away. Only forty-nine. If only I’d loved him as he deserved. He’d never had an easy life. Orphaned by the time he was four. Then he married me—

  By the time Richard reached Sandal Castle in Yorkshire, the poor weather left few supplies. He spent Christmas there and, shortly afterwards, sent a party of men to forage. They were ambushed by Lancastrian scouts. On hearing of this, my lord of York rode out of Sandal Castle with Salisbury and Rutland in a heroic effort to protect his men. The whole Lancastrian army surrounded him. They pulled him off his horse, and murdered him. Salisbury was killed during the ensuing battle. Rutland was murdered in cold blood after the battle ended. He was only seventeen years old.

  As the truth of what had happened dribbled into my mind, I became ill. I sobbed for days as my heart squeezed out drops of guilt and pity. Only after my tears dried did my anger surface. Why had he impulsively rushed out of the castle? Didn’t he have scouts who could tell him that a whole army was waiting to cut him to pieces? His stupidity cost not only his life, but those of our son Rutland and my beloved brother Salisbury.