1 - THWARTED QUEEN

by Cynthia Sally Haggard

  “They wouldn’t have killed you. They had the souls of angels.”

  “Maybe not, but their mother would have. She had to be crushed.”

  Gerard was silent for a moment, considering. “And would that have been so bad?” he asked eventually. “I mean, folk, they die all the time. What’s so bad about being murdered? I mean, the way you done it, madam, you’ve put your immortal soul in harm’s way. You will burn in hell forever. And I want no truck with that. I’m done. I’m going.”

  And he strode out, leaving me sitting in my chair, with the ghost-like forms of two boys filling my head. As I tried to reach for them, I felt myself turning to ice.

  Chapter 71

  September 1483 to August 1485

  Richard didn’t have an easy time of it as King of England. By late September 1483, rumors stirred abroad that the sons of the late king had met a violent end. In short order this rumor became the talk of the courts of Europe. Many switched allegiance to one Henry Tudor.

  Henry Tudor, Earl of Richmond, was a totally unknown Lancastrian exile who would have remained obscure but for a chance meeting between his mother Lady Margaret Beaufort and Richard’s cousin Henry of Buckingham, himself a male heir to the Plantagenet line and possibly angling for the crown. Shortly after my son’s coronation, Lady Margaret—a formidable, highly intelligent woman—managed to persuade Buckingham to abandon Richard’s cause and join her son’s. I am not sure how she did it, but she probably played on Buckingham’s fears. For the southerners were not happy that Richard’s loyal northerners were taking all the royal offices, or that the so-called Little Princes in the Tower—Edward of Westminster and Richard of Shrewsbury—had disappeared.

  Lady Margaret was a kinswoman of mine, by my mother. Like me, she descended from John of Gaunt and his third wife Catrine de Roet. It was ridiculous for Tudor to put forward a claim to the throne, for there were many descendants of the House of Lancaster abroad who had a much better claim that he. For instance, the King of Portugal and the Queen of Castile were descended from John of Gaunt’s first and second wives.

  It would be as ridiculous as if I’d claimed the throne of England on my own behalf.

  In any case, it was unlawful, for the Beauforts had been debarred from succession by Richard II during the legitimization ceremony in the House of Lords that my mother attended in 1396. However, Lady Margaret Beaufort put ideas into her son’s head, and thus Richard soon found his rightful claim to the throne challenged by this obscure upstart, aided and abetted by the treachery of his cousin Buckingham.

  In early October 1483, Henry Tudor’s fleet set sail from Brittany, intending to invade England, but a storm drove the ships back to port. In mid-October, Henry Tudor tried again, but on All Saints Day, Buckingham was arrested.

  He was executed on All Souls Day.

  On that day, Henry Tudor arrived in Plymouth, but on hearing of the collapse of the rebellion, sailed back to France and established a court in exile. His mother was detained, but only kept under house arrest in the care of her husband.

  Richard returned in triumph to London. But on Christmas Day 1483, Henry Tudor made a solemn vow in Rennes cathedral that when he became King, he would marry the Serpent’s eldest daughter, Lady Bessy. To counter this, in January 1484, Parliament met and passed the Act of Titulus Regius, formally confirming King Richard III’s title to the Crown. It also provided legal aid to poor people for the first time in history.

  In March 1484, Richard finally persuaded the Serpent to let her daughters leave sanctuary, for their presence there was a source of great embarrassment to him. She embarrassed him further by insisting that he swear an oath in public that he would protect them.

  On April 9, 1484, one year after Edward’s death, Prince Edward of Middleham died at the age of eight. The people attributed the loss of Richard’s heir to divine punishment.

  Worse was to follow. On March 16, 1485, Richard’s wife Nanette died at the age of twenty-eight after a lingering illness that caused her to cough up blood. Rumors about his wife’s death reached such a pitch that two weeks later, Richard was obliged to deny publicly that he’d planned to marry his niece, nineteen-year-old Lady Bessy—or indeed, that he’d had an unsavory liaison with her. I promised to see about finding a suitable bride, for Richard was young, nigh unto thirty-three years, the same age my father had been when he’d taken my mother as his second wife. The best way to put an end to such ugly gossip, as well as the Serpent’s plots, was for him to marry abroad.

  But reports from abroad were alarming, for Henry Tudor planned another invasion of England. Richard put aside thoughts of marriage, meticulously planning to fight for his throne. He chose Nottingham as his residence for the summer of 1485 for its central location. If Tudor landed in Wales, as seemed probable—for he was Welsh on his father’s side—it would be easy for Richard to gather his forces to meet him.

  On his way to Nottingham, Richard came to celebrate my birthday at Berkhamsted. For on May 3, the Feast of Saint Philip, I turned three-score and ten years, the biblical end of life. During his visit, he asked my opinion about the special ceremony he would hold before the coming battle commenced. Richard wanted to start afresh with his people, who continued to be wary of him after two years of rule.

  “You must send for holy oil,” I said. “Ask the priests to anoint you before battle. The anointing should take place in public, during a solemn Mass.”

  I paused to let Richard write down what I was saying.

  “And you should also send for the coronation crown of Saint Edward.”

  “But, Mother, that’s unheard of. The coronation crown is sacred. I could not take that with me into battle.”

  “The crown is holy,” I replied. “It will give you additional authority and protection. You must wear it in procession at dawn on the day of battle.”

  Richard bent over his parchment again.

  “The priests should go before you wearing their vestments and holding up their crosses. Then you should ride out in full armor, with Saint Edward’s crown on your head. God will give you his blessing, and then you can overcome the tragedies of the past two years.”

  I paused, smiling at the magnificent image this created. Would this ceremony work? Would Richard truly be able to start anew with his people? Only if his people wanted it. So who would be against it?

  I turned to Richard. “Be wary of my Lord Stanley.”

  Lord Thomas Stanley’s motto was Sans Changer, or Without Change. And it is true he’d been loyal to Richard during Tudor’s abortive plot to take the throne some two years before. But he was married to Tudor’s mother, Lady Margaret, and his ability to avoid all the major battles of the recent war was second to none.

  “If I may say so, my son,” I said, chafing my hands because they had suddenly gone cold, “you have been far too lenient towards Stanley, especially towards his wife, Lady Margaret. She is the real threat, for she is Tudor’s mother.”

  “But a woman cannot do much,” began Richard when he saw my raised eyebrows.

  “You know better than that!” I exclaimed. “A woman may do as much as any man, given the opportunity.” I drew myself up. “Lady Margaret is dangerous. Believe me, Tudor would be nowhere without his mother. She is the brains behind this campaign. She has the means, she knows everyone, she is here. That manor of hers at Collyweston is a beehive of activity. Heaven knows what she’s up to.”

  “She is under house arrest in the custody of Lord Stanley. She can do no harm.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sanguine. Clever women have ways of getting around their menfolk. Believe me, I grew up in a household of clever and resourceful women.”

  Richard laughed.

  I could not helping smiling, even though I regretted the somewhat colorful tales I’d told him of my girlhood. Was there no way of penetrating through that thick carapace of male vanity?

  I drew myself up again. “Be wary. Your father made the mistake of underestimating a woman. When his commanders pleade
d with him to stay inside Sandal Castle, he said he wasn’t going to be so cowardly as to shut his gates to a scolding woman whose only weapons were her tongue and her nails. That mistake cost him his life.”

  “Do not worry, Mother. I am going to crush Tudor. Never believe otherwise!”

  How I wanted to believe him. So I put my sighs away, and smiled as he knelt for my blessing.

  My son Richard was a superb king, fair-minded and just. During his reign, he reformed the justice system by allowing the accused to have bail, protecting them from imprisonment before trial, and protecting their goods from seizure until they’d been convicted. Unfortunately, he made many enemies, for folk did not know him and treated him with great suspicion.

  Many folk, not knowing my story, regarded the Little Princes in the Tower the rightful heirs to the throne. The disappearance of those two boys ruined Richard’s credibility and clawed at him for the rest of his short reign.

  On August 1, 1485, Henry Tudor sailed from Harfleur, Normandy. On August 7 he landed at Milford Haven, Wales. On August 22, 1485, he confronted King Richard.

  King Richard had the upper hand, his forces ranged on top of a hill while Tudor’s had to slog through the low-lying marshes. But Richard, a true gentle knight, plunged away from safety to take on his opponent, just as his father did at Sandal Castle in 1460.

  And like his father, he was viciously cut down and murdered at the Battle of Redmore Plain, commonly known as Bosworth Field, by that upstart Tudor and his followers.

  Tudor did not have a good claim to the throne, and knew it. He also knew there were plenty of others who had a better claim. The rightful King of England was Edward, Earl of Warwick, poor George’s only son, ten years old. Next in succession was his sister Margaret, who had twelve years. Tudor immediately clapped Edward, Earl of Warwick in the Tower, where he still languishes after ten years. Then he married poor Margaret to a knight well below her. A Sir Richard Pole.

  My son Richard had no surviving children. Richard’s designated heir, John de la Pole, Earl of Lincoln, was cut down by Tudor at the Battle of Stoke in June 1487. Other contenders were my bastard son’s five daughters: Bessy, Cecily, Anne, Catherine and Bridget. They were luckier than the others.

  Tudor sought to heal old wounds by marrying the eldest daughter, Lady Bessy. If only he knew how little that helped his cause, for he would have been better off with George’s daughter Margaret. But by that time, no one wanted to believe the tale of my affair of the heart. They assumed that Edward must have been legitimate, because my lord of York never said anything to make them think otherwise.

  What a hard world we live in. I little thought how my one night of transgression would cause so much grief. The dynasty now on the throne—the House of Tudor—is not legitimate. But what can I do? England has suffered much from my folly. Tudor seems keen not to speak of old mistakes, he governs on the principle of “least said, soonest mended.” He and Bessy, my grand-daughter, now have children of their own.

  Richard’s sudden death in battle made me rethink everything. Should I have glorified his father in the way I did? Perhaps if I hadn’t, he wouldn’t have been tempted to make that suicidal charge against Tudor. Should I have done more to come out of retirement to keep Richard’s enemies at bay? He was so vulnerable, for people did not know him. He was forced to commit a terrible crime before he could establish himself on the throne. Should I, then, have discouraged Richard from being king at all, when it was obvious the folk of London did not see him that way, preferring the Serpent’s sons instead? Richard and his family could have lived in exile abroad. But would we have made it into exile safely?

  Perhaps the biggest mistake I made was in letting my feelings for the Serpent get carried away. She was so easy to hate.

  The hatred I fostered left poor Richard with some very bad choices when his half-brother Edward suddenly died. This is why I pray and do penance every day. I pray for the souls of the dead, for my sons and daughters, for my mother and sisters, and yes, even for the Serpent, for that poor lady passed away some three years ago, in poverty, at Bermondsey Abbey. She was so poor that her remaining son Dorset had to pay out of his own pocket for her modest funeral. Shockingly so for a former queen.

  Tudor took her lands from her, claiming he was short of land. He forced her to enter a religious order, for she had nowhere else to go. Her only wish was to be placed at Bermondsey, where she could see the Tower, the place where her sons had disappeared.

  An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, two sons for a son.

  How sad it all is.

  EPILOGUE

  She contynueth in prayer until the first peale of evensonge;

  then she drinketh wyne or ale at her pleasure...

  In the tyme of supper she recyteth the lecture that was had at dynner to those that be in her presence.

  After supper she disposeth herself to be famyliare with her gentlewomen,

  to the secac’on of honest myrthe;

  and one howre before her goeing to bed, she taketh a cuppe of wyne,

  and after that, goeth to her pryvie closette, and taketh her leave of God for all nighte,

  making ende of her prayers for that daye; and by eight of the clocke is in bedde.

  I truste to our lordes mercy that this noble Princesse thus devideth the howers to his highe pleasure.

  FROM ORDERS AND RULES OF THE PRINCESS CECILL

  QUOTED BY JOHN WOLSTENHOLME COBB (1883)

  HISTORY & ANTIQUITIES OF BERKHAMSTED

  Berkhamsted Castle, Hertfordshire

  Feast of Saint Joseph

  March 19, 1495

  It is the Feast of Saint Joseph in March 1495, and I will have eighty years in two months. My mind drifts back fifty years, to another Saint Joseph’s Eve, when Richard and I waited by the banks of the Seine for Marguerite d’Anjou to take her place as our new queen. Nan was with us then, young, trusting, and happy.

  I am full weary of this world, glad to be leaving it. But before I go, I have an important task I must perform. I have written to my daughter Margaret, Duchess of Burgundy, to request a new Book of Hours. Tudor’s spies will intercept that document. Let them smile at the fancies of an old woman. Let them think I need another magnificent prayer book. Let them admit a party of nuns led by an abbess, so that my memoirs can be taken back to Burgundy before that so-called King of England can pounce and destroy the truth about who is the rightful heir to the throne.

  I shiver with fear. The fire had gone down in my room, so I rang my bell. A nun appeared I did not know. This was not unusual; the sisters often take in new women as candidates to the religious life. I indicated the nearly dead fire, and she fed the flames. But I was struck by how clumsy and slow her movements were, as if she were not used to lighting a fire.

  “Is that all, madam?”

  “Yes, I thank you. You may go now.” I went back to my writing.

  After several minutes, I raised my head. She was standing beside me, reading what I had just written:

  This is for my great-grandchild Henry Pole, grandson to my darling son George, and the rightful heir to the throne of England. This is the story of why you and your future sons and heirs should be sitting on the throne of England, and not that upstart Tudor, who styles himself “Henry VII, King of England.”

  As soon as our eyes met, the nun made a perfunctory curtsey and disappeared, letting the door bang behind her.

  Who was she?

  I hid my memoirs in my fur wrap.

  Half an hour later, the door to my chamber banged open, letting in a burst of cold air. I jerked my head up and my eyes met those of the new nun.

  “What are you doing here?” I demanded.

  “I brought these for you, madam,” she replied, putting a goblet of red wine, one of my magnificent gold cups, and a platter of cheese wafers on the table.

  I eyed these refreshments warily while she poked at the fire.

  After banging around with tongs and poker, she sat down, drew out a ball of
yarn and some needles, and started to knit.

  I glared at her. “I don’t remember asking you to stay, or even inviting you in.”

  “But your ladyship requires my company.”

  “I do?”

  “Of course you do,” she said smoothly. “A lady of your position and years needs someone to sit with her.”

  “I manage very well by myself. And now I wish you to take that tray of food with you and go.”

  She continued to knit.

  I glared at her.

  She ignored me.

  I rang my silver hand-bell.

  She got up, rolled up her yarn and knitting needles into her bag, picked up the tray of food. As she passed my chair she put my silver bell on the tray, then paused in the doorway. “I don’t think you’ll need that,” she remarked, before leaving.

  I felt the leather cover of my memoirs and smiled.

  I fell into a light slumber. A blast of cold air made me sit up with a start. The door opened to Sister Ghislaine, cautiously poking her head around the door. “My lady?”

  I moved slowly, for I was chilled to the bone and my muscles were cramping.

  “I am cold and famished,” I said. “This fire needs to be attended to, and I haven’t not had anything or seen anyone for hours.”

  Sister Ghislaine’s eyes widened in shock. “My lady. How dreadful.”

  As she poked the fire, bringing it to life again, I fumbled with my fur wrap. Thank heavens, my book was still there. “Where is everyone?” I asked.

  “Everyone is here. Nothing out of the ordinary has happened. We didn’t disturb you because Sister Dangereuse―”

  “Dangereuse.” I interrupted. “You mean the new nun?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “What a strange name,” I murmured. “Did you know Queen Alainor of Aquitaine had a grandmother named Dangereuse?” I snapped back into the present. “And what did Sister Dangereuse tell you?”