"That's a fool's notion," Warrick said, "and I do not believe that Gloucester is a fool."
"Ye forget yourself, my lord!" Isabella uttered more sharply than she'd intended. "Richard is no longer Duke of Gloucester but King of England and your liege. 'Tis not for ye to doubt the word of honor of one whose motto is Loyaulte Me Lie —Loyalty Binds Me. Even setting aside his love for and loyalty to Edward— and to Edward's children—Richard knows full well that England would not countenance the murder of his nephews. 'Twould sound the death knell for his crown if he were to be implicated in such a plot. Now, speak no more to me of this, Warrick. Richard is the King and your liege," she reiterated.
"He is King of England, aye," Warrick agreed, "but not my
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liege, 'Sabelle, never that. I am sworn to Harry Tewdwr now, as well ye know; and in Wales, we too have a motto: A man who underestimates his enemies is a man on his way to a grave."
The girl gasped at hearing her worst fears confirmed.
"Warrick," she pleaded, "ye must give up this mad plan to put the Lancastrian on the throne. His claim is illegitimate, and the Stanleys are in disgrace besides."
"Are they?" Warrick queried, lifing one eyebrow with amusement. "They do not call Tom Stanley the Fox for naught, sweetheart; and Margaret Beaufort hides a shrewd brain behind that pious face of hers. Methinks ye will be surprised to learn the extent of her intelligence."
"Oh, she is clever; I'll grant ye that, Warrick. Still, methinks she has meddled once too often to be forgiven yet again. The next time, she might just lose that scheming head of hers; and I do not believe, for all her piety, that Margaret is that eager to meet her Maker. Besides, Richard said one could be certain of only one thing about the Stanleys: Only a fool ever trusts them. And ye said yourself, my lord, that Richard is no fool."
Warrick shrugged noncommittally.
"As ye wish, 'Sabelle"—he spoke. "I only hope our love is strong enough to survive whatever the future holds."
"Oh, Warrick"—the girl looked up at him earnestly—"never say 'tis not. I—I could not bear if ye no longer loved me, and I—I would not even have a babe of your making to comfort me for your loss."
"I shall always love ye, cariad," he vowed softly, taking her face between his hands and kissing her tenderly. "Whatever comes, never doubt that. Ye are mine, forever mine; and I promise, someday, ye shall have the child ye so desire, a dozen if ye like." He smiled. "We have the rest of our lives to see to that. 'Twas not your fault the first babe was lost, 'Sabelle; ye must stop blaming yourself for that."
"But ye wed me to get an heir. That was the whole purpose behind Edward's commanding our marriage."
"But I keep ye because I love ye, sweetheart; and if we never have a child, I shall not love ye any less. Now come, or we will be late for Glou—the King's coronation."
Hastily, they joined Giles and made their way to Baynard's Castle, the home of Richard's mother. Proud Cis, as she was known, Duchess of York. Isabella was slightly in awe of Richard's mother, Cecily Plantagenet, n6e Neville, for she had been a flower who'd bloomed at Court long before Isabella's coming.
The courtiers had called Cis the Rose of Raby, and the girl knew the Duchess was somewhat amused by the fact that they had named Isabella the Rose of Rapture.
The girl swept the Duchess a low curtsy, then turned to greet Richard and Anne. How magnificent they both looked. Richard was garbed in a blue doublet slashed with gold and wrought with nets and pineapples. Over this, he wore a long, ermine-furred robe of purple velvet adorned with over three thousand powder-ings of bogy shanks. Anne too was clothed in blue and gold, the train of her gown sweeping out gracefully behind her.
After all were assembled for the procession, Warrick helped Isabella mount the white mare she was to ride, then kissed her and left to take his own place with the other nobles of the realm. Slowly, the parade began to move through the streets of London toward Westminister Abbey where, in the Chapel of St. Edward the Confessor, Richard was to be crowned King.
First came the nobles, decked out in their finest splendor. Following them was England's new Chancellor, John Russell, Bishop of Lincoln. Then, a little apart, rode Henry Stafford,^ Duke of Buckingham, recently named Chief Justice and Lord Constable for North and South Wales, an appointment that had greatly disturbed Isabella. He was in a blue velvet robe embroidered with golden cartwheels, and his golden-green eyes glittered as they raked the crowd that thronged the streetsides. After him came Lord Francis Lovell, England's new Lord Chamberlain. Behind him were Queen Anne's attendants: five pages in blue velvet and seven ladies-in-waiting in crimson (Isabella was one of these), all on white horses. Anne herself was borne in an ornate litter. There then followed Richard's attendants: seven knights (of whom Giles was one) dressed in crimson doublets and cloaks of white cloth-of-gold. Lastly, alone, came Richard himself, riding his destrier White Surrey, who had been a gift from his brother Ned.
Once they had reached the Westminster Abbey, all dismounted and followed Richard and Anne inside to the chapel; and the lengthy ceremony began. At last, now naked to the waist, the royal couple knelt upon the altar and were anointed with the sacred chrism. Isabella was glad to hear the murmur of surprise that rippled through the abbey, for she knew, from Anne, that Richard had insisted on this part of the rite so all might see he was not the deformed hunchback rumor whispered. Finally, the King's and Queen's bare torsos were clothed in cloth-of-gold:
and they were crowned by Cardinal Bourchier, Archbishop of Canterbury.
The coronation was ended. It was not until they were outside, descending the steps, that a deeply shocked Isabella realized it was Lady Stanley who carried the Queen's train.
They met just southwest of Birmingham, on the road from London to Shrewsbury—a chance encounter, it seemed: for Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, was bound for Wales, and Lady Stanley was en route from Worcester to Bridgenorth.
"Tis your nephew. His Grace the Duke of Buckingham, my lady," a man-at-arms told the Baroness, who had drawn her mare to a halt at the sight of the approaching party.
"Aye." Margaret nodded, for she too had recognized Harry's baimer fluttering in the wind. "We will wait."
The knight delivered the order to the rest of Lady Stanley's escort, and presently, Buckingham was upon them.
"Good day to ye, my lady aunt," he greeted her and smiled. With a flourish, he swept off his cap and bowed low in his saddle. "What a pleasant surprise. Dare I hope ye be going my way to Wales?"
"Nay, Harry." Margaret smiled back, but the warmth of her curved lips did not quite reach her dark eyes, which were assessing him with cool detachment. "I am but bound for Bridge-north."
Harry Stafford was her nephew; his family had fought for the Lancastrians; and he despised the Woodvilles, who had forced him to marry the Queen's sister Katherine, then relegated him to the position of a nonentity at Court. Because of this last—and because he'd seen a chance at seizing some of the power and glory he had so desperately craved—Harry had come forward, after King Edward IV's death, to support Richard, Duke of Gloucester. Harry had been largely instrumental in putting Richard on the throne and had been well rewarded for his services. But still, it had not been enough. Harry had the same obsessive ambition and weakness of character that had tainted George, Duke of Clarence—and George's fatal charm as well. Second best had never been good enough for George, and it wasn't good enough for Harry. He would have it all—if he could. Margaret, a keen judge of character, had read him like a book, just as she had read Richard.
It was simple to understand why Richard, who had loved
George, despite his failings, so favored Harry. Harry was George made over, and Richard would not see through his cousin any more than he had seen through his brother.
Margaret had counted on this when, some time ago, she'dbought Harry's soul. That he would seek to dupe her and had meant to do so from the start, she'd had no doubt. He had, after all, his own legitimate claim to the throne t
hrough Thomas of Woodstock, while her son's claim descended through the illegitimate line of John of Gaunt through his mistress Katherine Swynford. Nevertheless, Margaret had known she could manage Harry. She had outwitted men far more intelligent than he was. In the end, it would be Harry who was deceived; but by then, he would have served his purpose, and his usefulness to her would be over. If he lost his head to the executioner's ax, so much the better. Alive, he would be a liability she and her son could not afford. But first things first. There were two in Garden Tower to be disposed of. Had Harry done the deed? Had his hunger for the Crown been great enough to outweigh the mortal damnation of his soul? He had stayed behind in London, had let Richard begin the royal progress without him, as they had planned. But had Harry done it? Had he?
Margaret smiled again, and this time, the warmth reached her eyes.
"I do spy an inn yonder, Harry," she said. "Do ye dismount, and join me in a light repast."
"My lady aunt"—Buckingham grinned—^"I would be delighted."
And she knew the deed was done.
"Oh, Warrick, hold me. Hold me!" Isabella cried as she stumbled into their chamber at the Tower, hot tears stinging her eyes.
"What is it, sweetheart?" he asked as he leaped to his feet in concern and clutched her trembling body to his chest. "What is it? Has someone accosted ye? Was it—was it that damned Italian—"
"Nay, nay. 'Tis nothing like that and has naught to do with him besides. Ye know he has scarcely so much as bowed to me in passing. 'Tis something much worse that a moonstruck courtier. Oh, Warrick, I cannot believe it. It simply can't be true!"
"What, 'Sabelle?" her husband inquired gentiy, trying to make some sense of her nearly hysterical babble. "What can't be true?"
"What people are saying. Oh, 'tis wicked. Wicked! I heard it in the marketplace.
"Heard what, cariadT Warrick queried again.
"Oh, Warrick. People are saying that—that Richard has—has murdered the Princes!"
"Aye, I know, but I hoped ye wouldst not learn of it."
"Oh, Warrick, 'tis cruel, so cruel of them. How can they slander him so? Have they not cast enough stones at him? Must they besmirch his name and honor with so foul and despicable a crime, 'tis not to be borne? 'Tisn't true, I tell ye! Richard loved those boys. He would have cut off his right arm before he would have allowed any harm to come to them. I know it!"
"Hush, 'Sabelle, hush. You'll make yourself ill."
"I don't care. I don't care," she wept. "That he, who is so kind and good, should have so foul a deed imputed to him..."
"I know 'tis difficult for ye to accept, sweetheart. But the fact remains: The lads have not been seen since Richard departed Lx)ndon nearly three months ago for the royal progress—"
"He took them north with him to Sheriff Hutton. He must have."
Warrick was silent for a moment at this, then he asked softly, carefully, "Even if he did, 'Sabelle—and I do not believe he did so—why have they not been seen?"
"I don't know. I don't know. But I'll tell ye this, Warrick: If aught has truly happened to those boys, 'twas none of Richard's doing. I wouldst stake my life on it! Besides, it doesn't make sense for Richard to have slain the lads and then kept their deaths a secret. He'd have wanted it known, so there'd be no uprising on their behalf. Nay, he did not do it, I tell ye."
"Then whom would ye accuse?"
Isabella inhaled sharply, and her eyes narrowed.
"There was only one man here in London, in Richard's absence, with enough power and ambition to have carried out such a dastardly crime: the Lord Constable, His Grace the Duke of Buckingham, Henry Stafford. Lady Stanley's nephew. Of course, Harry Tewdwr would want the Princes out of his way, wouldn't he, since he means to seize the throne?"
"I would think that an accurate assumption, aye," Warrick replied evenly. "Their existence would certainly pose difficulties to any would-be claimant. However, that still does not explain why Buckingham would have done the deed. What could he possibly hope to gain by it?"
"The Crown, of course, as well ye know. He wants it himself, and he has a legitimate claim to it. Lord Hastings did try to warn Richard as much, but Richard wouldn't listen to him. Buck-
ingham was there when Richard needed him, and naturally, Richard trusted him because of it. But I never thought he was to be trusted, and neither did Anne. She said he reminded her of George, Duke of Clarence, and that Richard always had a blind spot where his traitorous brother was concerned. Aye, if those boys are dead, I'll wager that Buckingham is to blame. Mayhap Harry Tewdwr had naught to do with it at all, though I doubt it. After all, he's promised to wed young Bess Woodville if he wins the throne, hasn't he?
"Mother of God, what an alliance! Another one of Elizabeth Woodville's wicked schemes, I'll warrant, aided and abetted by Lady Stanley. Aye, I'll wager the Baroness is in it up to her pious, clever brain! 'Twas doubtless she who hatched the entire plot. Her son, together with the Woodvilles and Buckingham, would be strong enough to unseat Richard from the throne. Naturally, once Richard was dead, Buckingham would try to seize the Crown for himself, but then. Lady Stanley would have guessed that, wouldn't she? So they'd prepared, she and Harry Tewdwr. And once Buckingham was dead, who would be left? George'§ young son, Edward, Earl of Warrick, a simpleminded boy? No one would want him on the throne, of course. That would leave only Jack de la Pole, Richard's nephew by his sister Elizabeth, a minor nuisance, I would imagine.
"Aye, I see it all now. I'll tell ye this, my lord: If the Princes are dead, 'tis Lady Stanley's doing. Buckingham's not smart enough to have carried out such a crime all on his own."
"Nay, I would think not," Warrick conceded. "However, this is all sheer speculation on your part, 'Sabelle. There is no real proof the boys are dead. They may indeed be at Sheriff Hutton as first ye surmised."
But the Princes were never seen again; and in October, Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, allied with John Morton, Bishop of Ely, who had been remanded into Buckingham's care at Brecknock, in Wales; Harry Tewdwr, and the Woodvilles marched against Richard, the King.
Nothing went right with the uprising from the start. At the beginning of the rebellion, a terrible storm blew up that lasted for days, bringing with it sheets of such blinding rain that people were calling it The Great Water. Numerous persons drowned as the rivers of England overflowed their banks, flooding the terrain beyond. Lakes stood where once fields had lain, and the dirt roads were quagmires of mud. Most of the Welshmen who would have joined Buckingham in support of their countryman, the
Lancastrian, Harry Tewdwr, were cut off from the Duke's forces by the Vaughns, who were Yorkists and who had a grudge against Buckingham anyway. No sooner had the Duke left Brecknock than his enemies torched his lands as well.
In Herefordshire, Buckingham's own cousins Humphrey and Thomas Stafford opposed him, and the people whom the Duke had thought would rally to his cause had had enough of civil war. The accursed rain had so swollen the River Severn that Buckingham and his rapidly dwindling forces were unable to cross it and thus were cut off from the Woodvilles, who would not, by now, have helped them anyway. Lord Dorset's part of the uprising, in the south, had already been contained; and Bishop Morton had fled. Harry Tewdwr's ships were driven back twice by the storm; and by the time he reached the Dorset coast, a trap was laid and waiting for him. Fortunately, having lived in exile nearly all his life had sharpened Harry's wits, and, suspicious of the soldiers who lined the shore, claiming to be Buckingham's men, he refused to land. He sailed on up,to Plymouth, in Devon, where, by now. Lord Warrick ap Tremayne, Earl of Hawkhurst, was waiting to inform him that Buckingham was a fool, and the rebellion was a failure.
The rain was still falling heavily as Harry's mercenary soldiers rowed Warrick out to one of the ships, anchored in the Channel, where Harry waited. The day was grey and bleak, and the sharp, tangy scent of autumn mingled with the damp and the sea. Warrick was chilled to the bone as the treacherous waves swept over the small boat. B
y the time he had boarded the larger vessel, he was numb with cold and soaked to the skin. Thank God, there was a fire burning in the brazier in Harry's cabin. Warrick stretched his hands out gratefully to the blaze as several squires toweled dry his drenched body, then gave him some food and brandy. When finally he was warm, he turned and studied Harry assess-ingly in the flickering candlelight.
The two men had been children together in Wales. In the past, before Harry's exile, Warrick and his brothers had often been visitors at Pembroke Castle, and later Harlech Castle, where Harry had lived with first his mother and his uncle Jasper Tewdwr; then, after his family had been named traitors, with his warden. Lord Herbert. Warrick's grandfather. Lord Owein of Pencarreg, was one of Jasper Tewdwr's staunchest friends. Still, Warrick had not seen Harry in several years.
Harry Tewdwr, at twenty-six, was three years younger than Warrick but looked older for the simple reason that his face was
generally an emotionless, wary mask. Of medium height, he was slender in build, almost too thin; and his pale blond hair and icy grey eyes made him seem somewhat washed of color. His features, however, had the classically chiseled elegance of his mother, Lady Stanley; and his voice, when he spoke, was low and pleasantly modulated.
"So, Waerwic," Harry said tiredly once the amenities had been gotten out of the way. "I am not yet then to be King of England."
"Nay, Harry, not this time anyway."
Briefly, the two men were silent, each thinking his own thoughts, remembering the past. They had gone separate ways then—of necessity; they had understood that. Now, the paths of their lives had come together once more. They shared a common goal: to put Harry on England's throne. Warrick was sure now that he'd made the right decision. Harry would marry young Bess Woodville, Edward's daughter, and unite the Houses of Lancaster and York once and for all.
"Tell me what happened, Waerwic"—Harry spoke again at last.
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