The king’s council should have voted this down, but it was packed with her friends and relations. There was the Archbishop of York and the Bishop of Ely, who had been friends of the king and queen. There was her eldest son, Thomas Grey, first Marquess of Dorset, who had control of the king’s treasure and the royal ordinance. And then there were the aristocrats her sisters had married.
They agreed with the Serpent.
They agreed too when the Serpent requested they proclaim Edward Prince of Wales, King of England.
But when the Serpent requested that the coronation take place as soon as possible, William Hastings, the Lord Chamberlain and Edward’s closest friend, objected.
“Why so hasty?” he demanded. “King Edward has a protector-designate.”
It turned out that Edward had altered his will at the last minute to say that his brother of Gloucester should be protector-designate until Prince Edward reached his majority. The Serpent was not happy.
She turned to the Archbishop of Canterbury, because he would officiate at the coronation. “What say you, my lord?”
Thomas Bourchier smiled slightly. “Perhaps it would be more prudent to wait.”
“We’ve just declared war on France,” remarked Dorset. “I think it would be wise to have a smooth transition. Crowning Prince Edward now would show the French that matters have not changed.”
Smiling, the Serpent consulted her scroll. “What say you, my lords, to Sunday, the fourth day of May?”
They agreed.
The Serpent then requested that twelve-year-old Edward be escorted the hundred miles from Ludlow to London by an army of soldiers.
“An army!” exclaimed Hastings. “Whom in this realm do you fear so much?”
“The king should have a suitable escort,” remarked Dorset, allowing the Serpent to evade the question.
“But not an army!” shouted Hastings. “It will only sow trouble and bloodshed.”
“I want no harm to befall my son,” replied the Serpent.
“If you insist on this foolhardy whim, madam,” replied Hastings, “then I’ll retire to Calais.”
This was no empty threat, for Hastings was the Governor of Calais, and it was from Calais that Warwick had plotted his coup against Edward.
“I suggest, madam,” continued Hastings, “that you limit the prince’s escort to two thousand men.”
The Serpent looked around the table, but the king’s councilors would not meet her gaze. She was forced to abandon her plan.
She summoned her scribe and wrote to her brother Rivers for a second time, urging him to bring the prince quickly to London.
A few days passed, then I received Richard’s reply:
Dearest Mother,
I thank you most heartily for your message. Indeed, no one had thought to apprise me of this situation, saving yourself and Hastings. I agree with your suggestion concerning Prince Edward’s person. If we do not win, we will be in grave jeopardy for the reasons that you well know.
Written this seventeenth day of April 1483
Your loving son,
R. Gloucester
I smiled; Richard’s plans were already well in hand. I fingered my rosary beads. The next few days would determine who would win, and it would be hard to wait. I rang my bell. I would summon my women and design a new altar cloth, which we would sew. And I would ask Master Gerard to ensure that we had a goodly supply of wine, for I found it most comforting in the evenings when the shadows drew in.
I was going to need all the comfort I could find.
Chapter 64
April 20th to May 7th 1483
By the greatest good fortune, the Serpent’s brother Rivers planned to celebrate Saint George’s Day in Ludlow and saw no reason to alter his plans. He ignored his sister’s urgent pleas and did not leave Ludlow until the morning of April 24. This gave Richard a week to muster his forces before marching south.
Richard arrived in York on April 20 and sent out messengers to ascertain where the young king was. His plan was to intercept Rivers before he arrived in London. Fortunately, Rivers took his time. He did not arrive in Northampton with his charge until April 29.
I had a prior undertaking to meet with Rivers in Northampton, wrote Richard to me, but he tried to slip through my fingers. Instead of staying there, he rode on another fourteen miles to Stony Stratford and found lodgings for the prince there. He then rode back to meet Buckingham and myself.
I put the letter down and frowned. Henry Stafford, second Duke of Buckingham? What was Richard doing with him?
Buckingham was my great-nephew but had not been popular at Edward’s court, being jealous, proud, and ruthlessly ambitious. He’d never bothered to conceal his hatred of the queen, who had forced him to marry one of her sisters. He harbored a grudge against the King because of a dispute over some estates. He was, I realized with dismay, not unlike George. If Buckingham had now switched his allegiance to Richard’s cause, it could only be because he hoped that Richard would reward him for his loyalty by returning the disputed Bohun estates. Did Richard know this?
I picked up Richard’s letter:
When Rivers arrived in Northampton with the queen dowager’s second son, Sir Richard Grey, I received them graciously, and asked them to sup with me. I considered it wise not to betray my anger at River’s gross presumption at lodging the king so far away without consulting me first. Over dinner, I gently pumped Rivers for information, and he acquainted me with the dealings of the council in London. Suffice it to say, there appeared to be no place for me in the new king’s government.
You may realize, dear Mother, how alarmed I was. But I concealed my feelings behind smiles and gestures of goodwill. That night, Rivers and Grey slept in the accommodation I had arranged for them in Northampton, while Buckingham and I posted guards around that inn and along the road leading to Stony Stratford.
The next day, at dawn, Buckingham and I rode to Stony Stratford at full speed with Sir Richard Grey. The king was full pleased to see us, so we dismissed his escort and his attendants and set off for Northampton.
“Madam.”
I looked up as my steward bowed.
“A messenger has arrived from London.”
I put Richard’s letter down. “What is the news?”
“The queen dowager has taken sanctuary in Westminster Abbey with her five daughters, two of her four sons, and her brother, the Bishop of Salisbury,” replied the messenger, kneeling before me.
Had Richard already succeeded in crushing the Woodvilles? But he was not yet in London. Or was this a clever ruse by the Serpent to make her look powerless and thus to gain sympathy? For she was not powerless at all. She was like a spider spinning a web.
I motioned for the messenger to continue.
“Your son, Richard, Duke of Gloucester, has imprisoned Rivers in Sheriff Hutton, Sir Richard Grey in Middleham, and others of their affinity in Pontefract.”
By Our Lady, Richard had moved with lightning speed.
“When my lord duke was informed that the Archbishop of York had given the Great Seal of England to the queen, he removed him from office.”
I smiled grimly and let out a breath. Archbishop Thomas Rotherham was known to be a staunch friend of the queen. Richard had performed magnificently. I picked up his letter again.
“What do the people say?”
The messenger coughed and looked at the ground. “Unfortunately, madam, they murmur that these actions are those of a tyrant.”
I stared at him. Motioning for the messenger to leave, I ignored the prickle of unease that crept up my spine and the painful memories of my lord Richard’s bid for power.
I am proceeding onto London with my nephew. And, madam, I beseech you to throw off your present cares and go to Baynard’s Castle, your residence in London, so that I may take counsel with you to my comfort.
Written at Northampton, the second day of May, with the hand of your most humble son,
R. Gloucester
On the
third of May, Richard of Gloucester set off for London in the company of his cousin Henry of Buckingham and the young King Edward V.
On the fourth of May, they entered London, and Gloucester lodged the prince in the palace of the bishops of London.
On the seventh of May, the Archbishop of Canterbury, on Gloucester’s orders, recovered the Great Seal of England from the queen dowager.
Chapter 65
Baynard’s Castle, London
May 7, 1483
What would happen to Richard when King Edward V gained his majority? My grandson already had twelve years. We didn’t have long to act, for a precedent had been set by Henry of Lancaster, who’d declared his majority at sixteen.
If we did nothing, Edward would reward his numerous Woodville relatives once he came of age.
Thus, it was imperative we invalidated the will of the late king immediately. And so I summoned my dear friend Thomas Bourchier, Archbishop of Canterbury, to a private meeting at Baynard’s Castle.
“My lord,” he said when Richard explained what we intended to do, “everything is in order. The late king’s will has been properly signed and sealed. What objections do you have?”
I took a deep breath. “There are things you know not, my lord Archbishop. Things that cause me great sorrow.”
Richard signaled and a servant brought me wine.
I sipped it slowly before continuing. “Long ago, when I was young, I sinned grievously against my lord husband. I bore a child that was not his.”
There was a long silence as I thought of all that had gone wrong.
The archbishop leaned forward. “Are you speaking, my lady, of the late king?”
I nodded.
“You are quite certain, Lady Cecylee, that this is so?”
“I am willing to swear on holy relics,” I replied.
The archbishop put his hands inside his long, wide sleeves, and considered.
“If it be true that Lord Edward was indeed illegitimate, then he should have been debarred from ascending the throne of England. Thus we have grounds for declaring his will to be illegal.”
He turned to me. “Because you alone, Lady Cecylee, can answer that question, I believe it more politic if you would sign the statement declaring Lord Edward’s will to be invalid.”
Richard summoned a scribe, who drew up the document.
“What do you intend to do about Lord Edward’s sons?” asked the archbishop in a low tone.
“I have not made a decision as yet,” replied Richard. “Their mother is a dangerous schemer. I intend to deal with her, and with them, at a time and place of my own choosing.”
On the tenth of May, Richard was made Lord Protector of England.
Chapter 66
Baynard’s Castle, London
May 26, 1483
Richard sat tense in my big throne-like chair, taut as a harp string, turning his signet ring round and around. Any more of this and he would snap.
“My conscience has tormented me for years,” said our guest, Robert Stillington, Bishop of Bath and Wells. “But I made a promise to my king and liege lord, to your son, madam, that I would breathe no word of this to any living person.”
I pressed a cup of mulled wine into Richard’s hand and indicated a seat for the good bishop. The man was haggard with exhaustion, having traveled all the way from his seat at Wells, a distance of some one hundred miles.
“What has tormented you?” I asked, signaling to the servants to bring more wine.
“Madam. I ought to warn you. What I am about to say may horrify you and your son.” He bowed to Richard.
I sat wearily in my chair, indicating to the servants to leave the flagon of wine and close the door.
“I know the late king’s marriage to Dame Élisabeth Grey caused your family great pain,” continued Bishop Stillington as soon as the door shut. “Perhaps it might have caused even greater pain had you known he was already married.”
Richard recoiled in his chair. My hands shook so, I spilled some drops of wine.
I busied myself with my handkerchief, cleaning the spill away. Finally, I said, “Edward committed bigamy?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Who was the lady?” asked Richard.
“Lady Eleanor Butler.”
I put my wine-cup down. “Not Lady Eleanor Talbot, the Earl of Shrewsbury’s daughter?”
“Yes, madam. She was married to Sir Thomas Butler, Lord Sudeley’s heir, some thirty years ago. I do not know exactly when her husband died, save that he’d passed on by March 1461, when first I met the lady.”
I sat back in my seat, turning the cup in my hands. My head filled with an image of Eleanor, a child of such striking beauty back in Rouen. The youngest daughter of my dearest friend Margaret, she had hair the color of silver and deep violet eyes. She had been a quiet child with surprising flashes of naughtiness. Most of all, she’d been the playmate of my beloved Joan.
I blinked away tears as the image changed and six-year-old Eleanor ran through the gardens of Rouen Castle hand in hand with three-year-old Joan.
Someone bent over me. It was Richard.
He chafed my hands. “You look pale, Mother,” he murmured. He turned to the bishop. “My lady mother is distressed. Perhaps you should return.”
At once, Bishop Stillington was on his feet, his face creased with concern. “Madam, I am more sorry that I can say to bring you such news.”
I waved him back to his seat. “What you have told me is very shocking. Edward told me nothing of this―”
I broke off as I remembered something Edward had said. What was it? I grasped at a thread of memory. It had been around the time Warwick and I had been negotiating his marriage with Bona of Savoy. Yes, he’d asked if his bride-to-be had silver hair and violet eyes.
Richard returned to his seat. “Tell us how this happened, when it took place and how you know about it.”
“After the death of her husband, Lady Eleanor went to the King to ask him to return her manors. Her father-in-law, Lord Sudeley, had settled two manors on her at the time of her marriage, but after his son’s death he wanted one of them back. However, his lordship did not complete the required documents to transfer the title. At that point, King Edward seized her lands, because the Butlers were Lancastrians who had fought against him. Lady Eleanor was forced to move in with her father-in-law.
“Shortly afterwards, she made her way to the Palace of Windsor to plead her case before the king. He was enchanted by her beauty. Lady Eleanor, however, rebuffed his advances, saying that she would not lie with him unless he married her.”
“When did the marriage take place?” asked Richard.
“April of 1462.”
I looked at the bishop. When did Easter Sunday fall that year? For it was customary for the Church to ban marriages during the Lenten season.
“How do you know this?” asked Richard.
“I was the officiating priest.”
I grasped the handles of my chair and rose. “How could this have happened without my knowledge?”
The bishop went off into a coughing fit.
Richard filled his wine cup and motioned for him to continue.
“I married them in a private ceremony at a Carmelite house in Oxford. There were no witnesses.”
I sank into my sear. “Are you saying that her lady mother did not know of this?”
The bishop nodded.
Richard leaned forward in his chair. “Why was the marriage kept so secret?”
The bishop bowed his head. “Lady Eleanor was deeply spiritual. She was beautiful both inside and out. She felt she’d sinned by agreeing to a clandestine marriage with Lord Edward. She was greatly distressed to find herself expecting a child shortly after the marriage took place. She went into seclusion at the Augustinian priory of Wigmore, where she gave birth to a son.”
“A son!” exclaimed Richard.
“Yes, my lord. A son named Edward after his father. The child was known as Edward of Wigmore.�
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“Why did no one say anything?” demanded Richard.
“Lady Eleanor made Lord Edward take a vow of silence. She felt she had wronged her family, wronged her mother, wronged you, my lady,” he turned towards me. “She had great respect and love for both her mother and you,” he bowed to me. “She did not want power for herself, and she disliked court life. She doubted her ability to be Lord Edward’s queen. She wanted only safety and security for herself and her son.”
“But if she had come to court as Edward’s acknowledged lady and queen, the whole tone of the court would have been different,” I said. What would have happened? Would Edward have been as greedy and debauched, lazy, and irresponsible? Maybe not. For I always thought that the Serpent’s greed and selfishness brought out the worst in him.
Richard glanced at me, motioning for the bishop to continue.
“Lord Edward tried to change Lady Eleanor’s mind, but he could not wait forever.”
“And then another Lancastrian widow came along,” I put in.
“Indeed,” said the bishop. “When Lady Eleanor heard of Lord Edward’s marriage to Dame Grey, she was heart-sick. But after her hesitations, she did not feel it right to put forward her own claim. She entered the Carmelite priory at Ludlow.”
“Is she alive?” I asked.
“No. She was buried on the thirtieth of June 1468. Truly, I believe, she died of a broken heart.”
“What of her son?” asked Richard.
“The child did not survive her.”
I rose and walked to the window to hide tears. How different everything could have been.
The bishop coughed. “Of course,” he added, “this does have implications.”
I turned.
“Since Lord Edward was previously married, his marriage to Dame Grey was unlawful,” said Bishop Stillington. “And so the children of that union are not legitimate, thus have no claim to the throne of England.”
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