1 - THWARTED QUEEN

by Cynthia Sally Haggard

  I glared. Had Edward let me ruin my reputation rather than admit he was a bigamist? Had he been laughing behind his hand while I struggled with the Serpent? What about all those freezing winters spent in a residence that did not have glazed windows? Or my years of remorse following my outburst?

  I had gone through all that humiliation so that Edward could keep his secret. He must have kept it well, for the Serpent could not have known.

  The bishop rose and made a deep bow to Richard. “You, my lord,” he said, “are the rightful King of England.”

  Richard’s face went quiet.

  I looked up. Richard was the most sensitive of my children, the one with the finest mind. He could read Latin fluently and was exceedingly familiar with the laws of the land, having acted as Edward’s Justiciar for the past twelve years. He would be a superb king, for he was just and would use his knowledge of the law to protect his people. But he was so modest, so unlike Edward and George.

  “I did not look for this,” said Richard eventually.

  “No you did not,” I replied. “But it is yours by right. You know you can do it, for what is kingship if not administering justice to all people?”

  Chapter 67

  Early June 1483

  Richard immediately went about securing his claim to the throne. He didn’t have much time, for the coronation of Edward’s bastard son had been set for Saint John’s Day, less than one month away.

  On the fifth day of June, my son moved from Baynard’s Castle to his own town house at Crosby Place in Bishopsgate, allowing him secret meetings with those of the king’s council who supported him, while continuing to hold open meetings either at my residence or at Westminster. During the open meetings, my son took control of daily matters of the government, permitting my grandson’s coronation to go ahead.

  But things did not proceed smoothly. For some unaccountable reason, Hastings saw fit to go over to the Woodvilles. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised, for Hastings was an unsavory character who’d led Edward into the depths of debauchery. Naturally, it was Hastings who’d suggested the boating outing that resulted in Edward’s death. Folk said that they even shared mistresses.

  On the ninth of June, Richard discovered Hastings plotting with the Serpent to remove him as Lord Protector. Up until that point, Richard hadn’t disturbed the Serpent’s sanctuary. But it was now imperative that Richard gain custody of Prince Edward’s younger brother, the Duke of York, before the Serpent could do further damage. To do this, Richard hit upon the clever idea of bringing forward the date of the coronation by two days to June 22, giving reason to place the young Duke of York in the Tower with his brother, the new king. If the king’s brother were not allowed to appear at his coronation, even the Serpent would be embarrassed.

  On the tenth of June, Richard wrote to the great northern magnates and the civic council in York, telling them of the Woodville plots and asking for arms and men.

  On the eleventh of June, he ordered the executions of Rivers, Grey, and others of their affinity, ensuring that the Woodvilles did not regain power.

  On the thirteenth of June, he divided the council. The open meeting met in Westminster and was ordered to finalize plans for the coronation. Richard’s secret meeting took place in the Tower. During that, he publicly accused Hastings of treason and had him executed on the spot, without a trial.

  Folk will wonder why he did this. After all, Hastings was a nobleman, and the law said he had to be tried by his peers. But Hastings was a dangerous enemy, the Serpent’s henchman, and spy.

  On the sixteenth of June, Archbishop Bourchier went with many others to the sanctuary to confront the Serpent. They conveyed my son’s request that nine-year-old Richard, Duke of York, be removed to the Tower. The Serpent expressed some reservations about her sons’ safety. However, our kinsman Bourchier was able to calm her fears, and she handed over her youngest son.

  I breathed a sigh of relief upon hearing the news. The Woodvilles were being stripped of their power, and all seemed much easier than I’d dared hope.

  On that day, my son took up residence in the royal lodgings at the Tower. Shortly afterwards, the two boys were moved to the inner apartments. They were never seen again.

  Chapter 68

  June, 1483

  It was now time for Richard to explain things to the good people of London.

  “My son,” I said, “You must tell them of my sin. How else can you claim the throne? If you don’t explain that Edward was illegitimate, they will think you are usurping it.”

  “But, Mother, it would ruin your reputation, and for a lady of your years―”

  “It is imperative that you get the Serpent out of the way,” I said, interrupting. “And the only way to do that is to claim the throne of England for yourself. But you must get the backing of the Londoners. You cannot expect them to give you the throne, for they think it belongs to your nephew, whom they call Edward V.”

  There was a long pause. Richard got up and went to the window so that I couldn’t see his face. But I could tell he was struggling mightily, for he twisted his ring and fiddled with his dagger.

  Finally he turned around. “If you’re sure, Mother?”

  I glanced down. This was not going to be easy. Women who erred were not treated kindly, and I was not looking forward to the effect these revelations would have. But I had to crush the Serpent. I lifted my chin. “I am sure.”

  But Richard procrastinated and allowed the coronation arrangements for my grandson to continue. He did not show his hand until Sunday, June 22, the day of the presumed coronation. Naturally, the Londoners were buzzing with anticipation.

  Doctor Ralph Shaw of Cambridge University preached a sermon at Saint Paul’s Cross in which he told everyone that Edward IV was illegitimate. Naturally, I was not present, and so I had to hear about it from members of my household. I thought that telling the truth about my sins would help my son Richard become king. But my informants told me something surprising. When Doctor Shaw made these allegations, the crowd became silent. When their murmurs eventually started up, it became apparent they didn’t believe him.

  Now it was my turn to be surprised. Why wouldn’t folk believe it, especially as it happened to be true? I was not prepared for this. According to my informants—and I had many—people didn’t believe that someone as pious as I could have sinned so greatly.

  It was true that I heard Mass several times a day, and that I was a Benedictine abbess. But I never thought of myself as more saintly than others. If only they knew! I was pious because I had sinned so greatly.

  I was dismayed: Everyone knew the Londoners had to be on your side if you were to govern England effectively. What was going to happen to Richard?

  “They didn’t believe you.” I exclaimed. “Why not?”

  Richard sighed. In the pearly light of an early summer evening, he looked grey and drawn. “I don’t know,” he replied sinking into one of my chairs. “What should I do now?”

  I folded my arms. “Edward was always popular with the Londoners. It was the source of his power.

  “Where does that put me, Mother?”

  “They will know you in good time, my son. Meanwhile, you must develop a new strategy. It seems you are going to have to drop the story of Edward’s illegitimacy, it is doing you more harm than good.”

  “What can I say?”

  “Tell them the story of Lady Eleanor,” I replied. “If they have difficulty in believing a pious old woman could produce an illegitimate son, they will have a much easier time believing that Edward was a bigamist. After all, they knew what he was like with women.”

  “That’s true.” Richard rose stiffly from his chair. “Why did I not think of that before?”

  I put my hand on his shoulder, which felt fragile and bony to my touch. “Because you’re exhausted,” I said. “And you have not been nourishing yourself for these past several weeks.”

  Richard took my advice, and that very same day sent his cousin Henr
y Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, to the Guildhall to address the mayor, aldermen and citizens of London.

  Buckingham spoke eloquently on my son’s behalf, glossing over my foolishness and instead telling the good people about Edward’s bigamous marriage with Lady Eleanor. He ended by appealing to them to offer the crown to my son Richard.

  Again, they were met by that silence. Apparently, people were not happy about the way Hastings had been executed without trial. They were not happy that Richard had not crowned his nephew as promised. They were very unhappy that he had a large army in the north that he could bring down on them at any moment. For they hadn’t forgotten how they’d suffered under the Bitch of Anjou.

  I sighed with impatience, but trusted Richard ‘s sterling qualities would sway them.

  Buckingham remedied the situation by having his men throw their caps into the air and shout, “King Richard!”

  The next day, there was a meeting of the Lords and Commons in Westminster. Again, Buckingham addressed them, dwelling on Edward’s bigamy with Lady Eleanor. And so they declared Edward’s marriage to the Serpent to be invalid, their children illegitimate.

  Richard’s reign had begun, and I could finally retire in peace.

  For my work was done.

  Chapter 69

  July 1483

  My youngest son, King Richard III, dated his reign from June 26, 1483, the day he was installed on the King’s Bench in Westminster Hall. He now had the title Richard, Duke of York, had striven for, the title that had been torn from him by his enemies in 1460. It was my son’s task to ensure that he kept that title.

  Richard was crowned in Westminster Abbey on July 6, 1483, in the presence of his beloved wife Nanette, who was crowned queen, and their only son and heir, Edward of Middleham. I was not present, not because I disapproved of Richard as certain folk claim, but because I was indisposed, the strain of the previous weeks finally coming home to roost.

  However, I rose from my bed to give the new king my solemn blessing before he set out for his coronation.

  Richard was anxious that his subjects should know their new king, so only two weeks after his coronation, he set off on a royal progress to travel around the country. He’d been traveling only three days when he decided to pay me a sudden visit early one morning.

  “My son,” I said, coming forward and searching his face. “What troubles you?”

  Richard had acquired a healthy summer tan, but dark circles around his eyes betokened many restless nights.

  “Come with me,” I added, “and let us pray for guidance.”

  We went to my private chapel. It was a spare, white-washed room with a portrait of Saint Bridget and a statue of Our Lady carrying the Lord Jesus. The king and I spent the next several minutes in prayer.

  Afterwards, I led Richard back to the solar, now warmed by a roaring fire. Richard had been kind enough to restore all of my lands, and so I was able to entertain in rather better style than previously. I signaled to the steward to open my best Bordeaux, which I poured for him myself. Then I settled in a large carved chair with cushions and rug.

  Richard put his wine cup down untouched, covering his face with one hand. I signaled for Mother Avisa to get a tonic for headaches.

  Then:

  “Those accursed Woodvilles,” he finally spat. “Am I never to be free of their plotting?”

  I frowned at the rawness of his outburst. His life had not been easy of late, and he needed rest. Otherwise he would damage his health.

  He looked up. “Two plots have I uncovered: One is to spirit Edward’s daughters out of their sanctuary in Westminster Abbey and send them abroad. The other is to rescue Edward’s sons from the Tower.”

  “No.” I put my wine cup down.

  “Indeed yes, Mother,” he replied.

  I rose stiffly to my feet and went to put a hand on his shoulder. My son ached for comfort, I could feel it. “We must act decisively to stop this nonsense once and for all,” I said. “We cannot lose heart now. You are the legitimate ruler of England. No one can take that away from you.”

  I sat next to him and chafed his hands. “As for Edward’s daughters, all you need do is tighten your cordon around Westminster Abbey. You have enough men for the task. You must insist no one goes in or out of the abbey without your permission.”

  “What should I do about Edward’s sons?”

  I paused, for that was a knotty problem.

  “We should plan for the future,” I replied. “Of all my children, only Edward, Beth, George, and you have male heirs. George’s son, Edward, Earl of Warwick, also has a claim to the throne, but he is only eight years old. He is too young and not strong enough in his wits to be a real threat to you as long as you keep him with a trusted member of the family. Perhaps you should have him stay with Nanette, as she is his nearest female relation. The poor child needs some kindness in his life, and your wife will be kind.

  Richard’s smile wiped away his lines.

  “Beth has many sons, all strong and healthy,” I continued. “And more to the point, they are loyal to you. If anything happened to your boy, perhaps you should consider making her eldest, John de la Pole, Earl of Lincoln, your heir.”

  The color drained from Richard’s face.

  I took his hands. “Richard, I know you find this painful, but we live in dangerous times. Your Edward is only seven years old, and not strong. Beth’s eldest son has twenty-one years, old enough to assume the responsibility of being your heir. He can fight for you.”

  Richard made a face as I pressed a wine glass into his hands. He took a sip and put it down. “What about Edward’s sons?”

  “Folk do not want to believe they’re bastards,” I replied. “The Serpent and her horde of Woodville relatives will never stop plotting. Edward’s sons are Woodvilles at heart, their mother saw to that. Edward was too weak-willed to stop her. As Woodvilles, they pose a danger to your throne. You’ve already discovered one plot. There will be others.”

  Richard nodded, and we gazed at the fire together.

  “How I blame myself,” I said, “for my own lack of responsibility. If Edward had not been born, none of this would have happened.”

  “Edward seemed like a hero to me when I was a boy,” murmured Richard.

  I winced. “The plain truth is that he and I were too much alike. I was irresponsible in the getting of him, and he was irresponsible in his marriages, particularly in bringing that awful Woodville woman into the family. His fault compounded my own. The worm in the apple was his wife, his second wife.”

  Richard was silent.

  I leaned forward. “For the good of our family and for the good of England, we must set right these wrongs.” I took both his hands in mine and gazed into his eyes. “We must destroy the Woodvilles once and for all.”

  Richard stared at me. “Do you really believe that?” he whispered. “Rid ourselves of those two boys in the Tower?”

  I paused for a long moment. I could hardly believe what I was suggesting, but what could I do? The Serpent was dangerous.

  “It grieves me much that you have to bear the weight of my sins and of Edward’s folly,” I murmured. ”That you are the person burdened with putting everything right.”

  Richard sat for many moments. Finally, he rose and kissed me on the cheek.

  “I thank you,” he whispered softly. “You have given me the strength I need. It shall be done.”

  Chapter 70

  Berkhamsted Castle, Hertfordshire

  September 1483

  Madam,

  I beseech you most humbly for your daily blessing and prayers for matters have been accomplished which you know of. I make a solemn oath that I will found a chantry at York, where one hundred priests will say masses for my soul.

  Written at York, the eighth day of September, in the first year of our reign, by the hand of your most humble son,

  Ricardus Rex

  I wobbled and sank into my seat, motioning Gerard to rise. He was now in his early
forties, remaining at my side since the day I’d arrived at Berkhamsted some fourteen years before.

  “How did it happen?”

  Gerard hesitated.

  “I must pray for my sins, of which there are many. But I cannot take responsibility for something if you keep me in the dark.”

  “Tyrell saw to it.” Sir James Tyrell worked as a secretary in Richard’s household.

  “And?”

  “Smothered,” he said hoarsely.

  My stomach churned. I sat up in my seat.

  “They were smothered in their beds in the dead of night,” continued Gerard.

  “When?”

  “The night of September third to fourth. Tyrell had to leave London at first light on the fourth to make it back to York on September the eighth for the investiture of Lord Richard’s son, Edward. He left York on the night of August thirtieth to London to collect robes and wall-hangings for the investiture.”

  Richard’s son and only child, seven-year-old Edward of Middleham, had been made Prince of Wales in a special ceremony held in York on September 8, 1483. It took about four days of fast riding to travel between London and York, a distance of some two hundred miles.

  “Did they suffer?”

  “I don’t know.” He avoided my eyes.

  I rose. “Where are they buried?”

  “Under the stairs in the White Tower. In a chest.”

  I rubbed my hands together to warm them. “Master Gerard, this has been most painful―”

  “I’ll not work for you no more,” he growled.

  “Gerard!”

  “That was evil,” he spat. “Pure evil.”

  “Gerard,” I said, putting my hand on his arm, “You don’t understand.”

  “I understand full well!” he exclaimed, glaring. “You murdered those two boys, innocent lambs they be. Why couldn’t you let them live?”

  “Because,” said I, sinking wearily into my chair, “if they’d lived, we would have been killed.”