I, Richard Plantagenet: Book One: Tante le Desiree

by J. P. Reedman

  “Bastard…Fauconberg’s a bloody bastard all right,” Edward scowled as we hurried towards the capital. A small force had already been dispatched ahead of the main army to put some heart into the Londoners, letting them know their King had not forgotten their plight. “I cannot believe he burned some beerhouses…beerhouses, Richard…ruining all that good drink! And he torched a wooden gate. The builders are furious—it had only recently been raised!”

  “Fauconberg will pay for it, one way or another,” Will Hastings butted in, riding at Ned’s side, ever eager to show how close a friend he was to the King.

  “Anthony has already parlayed with him, according to my messengers,” said Ned. “He’s managed to convince Fauconberg to take to his ships rather than marching upon land.”

  I nodded. It was easy to imagine Anthony Woodville using his poet’s tongue to befuddle the less witty, more war-like Bastard. Anthony befuddled me, or at least tried to, when he wagged that suave tongue.

  Edward glanced at me from the back of his great destrier. I had not spoken overmuch since we left Coventry. I knew I was acting foolish, even childish, and children had no place following a King into battle…but somehow I could not forgive him. Not where Anne Neville was concerned.

  “I will let you take him captive, my loyal brother,” Ned said in a low voice, falling back a few paces to ride alongside me. “All glory will be yours. You, the ‘young Hector’. There are many rewards ahead for you, Richard. Many.”

  “I am grateful, your Grace,” I said. I kept my eyes on the road.

  I heard Ned sigh. “Ah, Richard, will you never trust to the future and just enjoy what you can? All will come aright…in time.”

  I bit my lip and continued to watch the road, running straight ahead of us for untold leagues through the rolling countryside. Overhead clouds gathered; shadows dappled the fields and the scent of moisture hung in the air.

  It began to rain. It struck my cheeks like tears.

  While we hurried down the Roman road, London came under bombardment from the Bastard and his unruly gang of ruffians. Aldgate and Bishopsgate were attacked and set ablaze; houses burned throughout the night, making London resemble a scene from Hell, with crackling flames leaping skyward and a pall of smoke hanging over it.

  But the Bastard had not counted on the heartiness of Londoners. London was like a country of its own, its history long and violent; the cityfolk were made of iron when roused, doughtiness bred into the bone. The Mayor and Aldermen raised parties of volunteers who, wielding any weapon they could find, rushed straight at the pirates and rebels and drove them back, killing hundreds in their assault. The Bastard was not with the main contingent of his rabble, so did not see them routed—he was riding around the base of Tower, where old Henry was kept captive and where Queen Elizabeth was hiding behind the impregnable walls with her daughters and Ned’s heir, the baby Edward.

  While Fauconberg’s men were being trounced by the angry mobs of Londoners, Anthony Woodville decided to do something about the Bastard himself, whose constant presence and uttered threats had driven the normally sedate Queen into a frenzy of fear. Throwing open the Tower gates, he charged like a madman at the Bastard and his troops, a party of armed knights galloping at his back. The charge was unexpected and it worked…Faulconberg’s men were trampled, slain where they stood, or scattered down the burning riverbanks, where hordes of ordinary Londoners attacked them with cudgels, daggers and staves.

  Grudgingly I was impressed by the news of Anthony’s bravado. Some men whispered he was a coward who showed off in the joust but failed upon the battlefield, and it was true he had a ‘sudden’ calling for a holy pilgrimage just before Tewkesbury, which had infuriated Ned for a day or two. Likely, it was his sister, the Queen, who brought out Rivers’ finer qualities as a knight; he seemed devoted to her, his own motto being Nulle La Vault, No One is More Valuable than She, which was believed to refer to Elizabeth rather than Anthony’s distant, near-forgotten wife. Of course, if any harm came to his sister, his own position in court would be shaky indeed. The ‘old blood’ of England did not appreciate the greedy intrusions of the Woodville clan.

  By the time the walls of London appeared on the distant horizon, the Bastard of Fauconberg had abandoned his assault of the city. Repelled by Lord Rivers, he first fled to Blackheath and then toward the Kentish coast, leaving most of his men to their fate. Upon reaching the port, we expected him to abscond to Calais, but instead, to everyone’s surprise, he sent a message begging Edward for clemency.

  Rather unexpectedly, the King decided to offer him a pardon. “I don’t need anymore dead Nevilles,” he said. “I would sooner have him back on my side than dead.”

  “But Ned…your Grace,” I said tersely. “He’s a pirate. He just tried to burn London. And your Queen.”

  “I will send you to Kent to bring him to grace, Richard.” Ned smiled that big, friendly smile that no one could resist. It was friendly, certes, but you did not argue! “I know my loyal, loving brother will see that the Bastard gets up to no tricks, and will come to London as tame as a little lamb. But first, we must enter the city in great magnificence; I must show myself to my people, let them know that from this time forth there will be no more fighting for the throne of England. The House of Lancaster has fallen; the House of York is ascendant.”

  We rendezvoused with many lords and nobles outside the walls of London; the defenders of the city and of the Tower, including Anthony Woodville, who doffed his helmet and rode about bareheaded, seeking praise as if he had saved the city single-handedly. Well-wishers cheered from walls and rooftops, throwing flowers down to form a bright carpet across the trampled ground. The scent of the blooms mingled with that of the still-smouldering beerhouses, making an unpleasantly heady fragrance of flowers, burnt wood and hops.

  Trumpets and clarions blared, and pennants were unfurled, snapping in the stiff May breeze—the lilies and leopards of England, the Lion of the Earl of March, the Sunne in Splendour with its golden rays. We would enter the city as great victors, with all the pomp and ceremony that we could muster.

  “Richard…” Edward placed a hand upon my shoulder. “I want you to lead the procession to St Paul’s for a mass of thanksgiving. You, my most loyal, most loved brother. Will you?”

  “It would be an honour, your Grace.” I bowed my head, feeling guilty for my petulance since he had refused to let me visit Anne in Coventry. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed George scowling with rage, most discomfited by the esteem in which Edward held me.

  I smiled sweetly at him…but with my mouth only, not my eyes. In my gaze was a sharp warning: George had best treat Anne Neville well while she was his ward or he would answer to me.

  Turning from my errant brother, I signalled for the procession to begin. I was dressed in full armour, but helmetless; the banner of the Boar sailed over me, trampling the sky. Sullen, George rode a few paces behind, puffed up in the saddle like an angry toad, though his mood lightened and he began to exude the Plantagenet charm when he heard people on the roadside calling his name along with the King’s and mine.

  Suffolk and Norfolk followed us, guiding our young cousin Henry Stafford, the Duke of Buckingham. He was of royal lineage like us, a descendant of Thomas of Woodstock and hence of Edward III, but his family had been staunch Lancastrians. When his grandfather was killed defending Harry Six’s tent at Northampton, and his father sickened and died from wounds the next year, young Henry had found himself Edward’s ward.

  A few years my junior, Stafford was still too young to have participated in our recent battles, but being of high lineage, he was entitled to ride in the procession. In physical appearance, he had a certain resemblance to George, handsome, with gilded curling hair and lively eyes that missed nothing. As a child, he had been married off like a prize bull to one of the Woodville sisters, a marriage I heard he loathed. He was staring at me now, as if measuring me up; I supposed the gaucheness of youth was what made him so rude. I ignored him.
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  Behind the young Duke rode the lesser peers, the Earls, the Barons. I spotted Rivers, again; and Hastings, of course, my brother’s dearest friend and partner in vice.

  Lastly in the procession came our greatest prize, our spoil of war—Marguerite of Anjou, former Queen of England. Heavily guarded by foot soldiers, she sat slumped in a carriage that had window-slats wide enough that all onlookers could view her in her broken shame. Her face had grown old overnight, full of grief and despair; once said to be beautiful, she was now a raddled hag, an aged woman with mussed hair and red, pouched eyes. The fire that has sustained her so long, as she fled up and down the length of England with her mad husband, had departed her body, leaving the Queen a burned out shell, weak and empty. She stared dumbly at her clawed hands; chains jangled upon them, binding her wrists together.

  As Marguerite’s carriage rolled through the gates into the city, the gathered Londoners shouted curses and imprecations, and began to throw stones, mud, and dung at the carriage. Although they had at various times supported Henry Six, their dislike of Marguerite emerged now that it was evident the Lancastrian cause was dead. She was French too; and understandably, that did not endear her to many.

  We rode lazily through the streets, basking in the praise of our prowess. People were waving banners, throwing flowers. Scantily clad girls were gazing longingly from windows; Edward glanced languorously up at them, flashing that lazy, sensuous smile that charmed both men and women, and they fairly swooned. Our royal brother was not the only one who got attention; the ladies of London even flashed their charms at George, who gazed slyly at them. They even parted their robes and blew kisses at me, though I pretended not to see the exposed pink-and-white flesh on display in the windows above. Head held high, I continued at the head of the triumphant procession of warriors. I did not have Edward’s easy way, and feared I would look a lecher or worse should I show any interest in the women calling out my name.

  Once our party reached the Tower, Marguerite was escorted from her carriage and hustled into the vastness of the grim grey fortress, where her crazed husband was also incarcerated. She would have a long stay indeed, unless some of her kinsfolk in France saw fit to ransom her and provide surety that she would cause no more trouble. As she hobbled away between her gaolers, looking old and bent, I doubted she would ever vex England again.

  Later that day, a banquet of celebration took place. Edward sat next to his Queen, who had emerged with the small Prince of Wales and his nurses, to show the world the future of the House of York. Wine flowed free while sumptuous dishes rolled out before us on silver trays. Tumblers tumbled, stilt-walkers stalked by, musicians played sweets airs, and jongleurs sang ballads of our victory.

  One songster was openly prancing around before the King, hand pressed to his heart while he warbled verses from ‘The Recovery of the Throne’:

  ‘The King comforted the Queen, and other ladies there

  His sweet babe full tenderly he did kiss

  the young prince he beheld and in his arms did bear

  thus his bale turned into bliss

  After sorrow, joy, the course of the world is;

  the sight of his babe released part of his woe;

  thus the will of God in everything is done.”

  Behind the singer, Anthony Lord Rivers had a little audience of his own, including a dark-eyed Welsh woman rumoured to be his mistress, Gwenllian. He was spewing a stream of pious poetry; in the far corner George, having imbibed too much drink, was just spewing. Elizabeth Woodville reclined in her high seat, watching her family mingle with those far above them; her hooded eyes, which minstrels often likened to a dragon’s, were content but watchful, scouring the revellers for any signs of disrespect towards her kin.

  I had no idea what a dragon’s eyes were supposed to look like, never having seen one, but thought they were unlikely to look much like Elizabeth’s, which were slate-green and completely human as far as I could tell…no red sparks or flickering flames, despite her fabled water-demon ancestry. However, I did think she might be rather a dragon in temperament despite her cool exterior! Poor foolish Ned; I loved him, but could never love her, despite accepting she was his choice.

  Music is one of my delights, and the musicians Ned had hired for the occasion were excellent—in faire, pure voices, they sang a song for lost love,

  ‘O Rosa Bella

  O dolce anima mia

  Non mi lassar morire

  In cortesia, in cortesia…’

  but the plaintive words made my heart wax sad and empty, and soon I asked leave to depart for my quarters.

  An early night abed was needed, anyway; on the morrow, I would ride with a company of soldiers to Sandwich to meet the Bastard of Fauconberg. As I departed the hall, I could see Edward huddled with Hastings, Rivers, and others, their faces grown suddenly serious. A shudder passed through me and I wrapped my cloak tightly about his body.

  Bad tidings? As I went out into the courtyard, I heard the sound of a crow cawing. I glanced around but could see no bird; it had grown far too dark.

  I shivered again and the wind rose.

  Superstitious men said a crow by night was an omen of death.

  The sound of a soft but firm knock on the door of my chamber woke me from a light sleep. One of my squires woke at the same time and tried to scramble up, but I motioned him to stay still and throwing a cloak around my shoulders, went to answer the knock myself.

  A messenger stood outside; he bowed. “My Lord of Gloucester, the King would summon you to his chamber. At once.”

  My eyes narrowed. I had not seen this man before; he was dressed in a cape, with the hood up, face hidden like some rogue. “How do I know you come from the King?”

  He held out his gloved hand; he held a token, one of Edward’s rings…I recognised it at once; a plain golden band, with a tracery of sapphires and pearls. “Come swiftly and come alone, my Lord,” said the messenger. “Your utter discretion is of great importance. The boy…” He nodded toward my squire, a pale blob in the gloom as he sat upon his pallet. “Will he say aught? Can he be trusted?”

  “He has been picked for his loyalty; he knows how to keep his mouth shut,” I answered crossly. “And what would you expect me to do if he had a flapping tongue…kill him?”

  Unanswering, the messenger swung his hooded head toward me, and a cold sensation gripped my innards. This secret meeting with Edward was not going to be about another rebellion or battle, I knew that much.

  I moved back into the room, gestured to my squire. “Quick, dress me!” I said, sharper than was my way, holding out my arms.

  The lad stumbled over, slipping my shirt on, tying my points; I could feel his hands trembling. His face was a pale moon floating in the gloom; his eyes wild and terrified like those of a beast in the slaughter-yard.

  “Did you hear what was said at the door?” I whispered into his ear. “Don’t speak. Just nod if yes.”

  He nodded. “Pretend you didn’t. I promise you, you are under my care and no harm will come to you.” God forgive me if I was filling him with false hope.

  When he was done, I gazed sternly at him. “Bar the door after me,” I told him, still speaking low so the stranger at the door would not hear. “Do not open for any unless you hear my voice—do you understand? Don’t answer…just nod.”

  He nodded again

  I left the chamber and was relieved to hear the wooden bolt slam home behind me.

  My strange guide led me to Edward’s quarters and then departed swiftly and silently into an unlit side corridor. The King was alone, sitting at his desk, dressed informally. His face was calm, but pale; I guessed something of great import had happened or was about to. He did not rise to greet me; there was neither his easy smile nor his usual kiss of greeting.

  “Richard,” he said slowly, “the flower of Lancaster has been cut down on the field of Tewkesbury, as you know. However, there is no sense in cutting down a strangling plant, unless you can excise the root as wel
l. It will just grow back, a noisome and poisonous weed….Do you understand what I am saying?”

  Taking a deep breath, I nodded. I knew…yes, I knew. “I understand my Lord King. I do understand.”

  “And you, though young, are the Lord High Constable of England.”

  I inclined my head and a certain awful fear ran through me. The breath I had just taken hissed out noisily between my clenched teeth.

  Edward heard the noise of my exhalation; saw the sudden pallor of my cheeks. “Fear not, brother, I would not ask you do this thing with your own hand. But, as Constable, I charge you to carry the order to the Wakefield Tower and see that it is done. Rewards for your good service will follow.”

  “I will do as my Lord King asks.” My voice wavered slightly. “My loyalty is always to you.”

  “Then go!” He rose and handed me a document bearing his signature, his seal. “Inside the tower you will meet four men that have been specially chosen….for discretion and loyalty. Take them with you. When all is….over, report back to me.”

  I grasped Edward’s hand and kissed his ring. His hand was cold. So was my mouth. “I will return as soon as I may, your Grace.”

  He took me by the shoulders and gazed into my eyes, searching their depths, looking for what I knew not—faith, loyalty, courage? For him, I had them all. His own hazel eyes beneath his long lashes were almost black in the flickering torchlight. “It is for the House of York.”

  “Yes, the House of York,” I murmured, and then I turned and slipped away into the shadows.

  At the Wakefield Tower, the Tower Constable admitted me without question, as expected. The document I bore was revealed, then burned to ash in a brazier, the wax from the seal running in bloody rivulets onto the floor. Torches in cressets were burning low; an unnatural hush hung over everything. The very walls, cold, blackened by soot, seemed to exude age and death; the weight of their stonework seemed to press inwards, an oppressive barricade.