This Son of York

by Anne Easter Smith

How had Lady Fortune smiled on the house of York in such a short time? Richard pondered this question as he waved and smiled to the cheering citizens, as well as how Edward had miraculously come to be king at all.

  Richard had been so happy to see his family again that in the euphoria of reunion he had suppressed his need to know how such a thing as two kings was possible. One day, kneeling beside his mother at prime when Edward was elsewhere, he whispered: “Don’t cry, Mam. I miss Father, too, you know. God is looking after him now—and Edmund—and I pray for them daily.”

  Cecily turned her head and gazed thoughtfully at her son through her tears. “Thank you, Richard, I shall take comfort from that,” she answered, reaching out and squeezing his hand.

  As the small family group returned to the duchess’s solar to break their fast, Richard sneaked his hand in Cecily’s. “Tell me how Ned came to be king, Mother,” he pleaded. “No one else will take the time to explain. Messire de Gruthuyse in Bruges told us Ned had won a victory, but what happened to King Henry? If the king was not killed, then shouldn’t Henry still be king?”

  It was a story Cecily never tired of repeating and one which, no doubt, had become embellished in her proud maternal mind. But before she could begin, suspicious George, who had noticed the tête-à-tête, had poked his head between them, asked: “Are you talking about me?”

  “You are not always the center of our attention, Georgie,” Cecily reminded him with a chuckle, unwittingly filling George with resentment. “Dick…I mean Richard was asking why your brother is now the king. I assumed you both had heard all about it at Duke Philip’s court, but I am certainly happy to regale you further.”

  “I know the story,” George boasted and stalked off, leaving Cecily perplexed.

  She sighed and turned her attention to Richard. They walked to the river’s edge and sat down to enjoy the warm June sunshine and tell her tale. And such a tale she told of thrilling victories for Edward at Mortimer’s Cross on the Welsh Marches and at Towton in Yorkshire, of a bitter defeat for Cousin Warwick at St. Alban’s, and how the queen had failed to take advantage of her victory there to overrun London close by. “Instead, she rampaged north with her troops allowing your brother to follow and rout the royal army at Towton.”

  Richard’s eyes shone. “Aye, my lady, I know about that battle on Palm Sunday. The king and queen ran away to Scotland. Is Henry no longer king because he ran away?”

  “’Tis a mite more complicated than that, my child. Remember the oath Henry swore to your father that he ‘charge all persons here to put it abroad that it shall be considered…’”

  “‘…an act of high treason for any person to conspire against the said duke’s life,’” Richard finished for her with the exact wording.

  Cecily proudly patted his hand. “That is correct, and by provoking your father to fight at Wakefield, his grace the king broke his own oath. It was enough for the Commons to acclaim Edward, as York’s heir, king.”

  Later, Richard’s memory of the conversation faded as he was prepared in the customary way to be made a knight of the Bath in a ceremony the boy would not soon forget. It was the first of many distinctions he was to be given during his brother’s reign.

  Together with Richard and George, twenty-six young noblemen were awarded the signal honor that night. Once again, he suffered a few regrets at being the smallest, but then he noticed the older boys were treating him with deference—a nicer side of being the king’s brother, he decided.

  Appropriately, the ceremony began with bathing as two king’s knights intoned the rules and rites of this chivalric order. A priest entered the princes’ chamber carrying a silver chalice. He blessed the water in it and sprinkled the cold liquid over the boys’ heads and shoulders while giving a blessing for the purification of the two knight candidates. Then in complete contrast to the solemnity of the ceremony, the squires attending their knights began to sing and cavort about the tub—all part of the ritual, Richard realized, although he privately thought this silly. Then the two knights recited the chivalric oath, which the brothers repeated.

  Later, clothed in white, Richard spent the rest of the night holding vigil and lying prostrate in the Tower’s chapel with all the novice knights. The hours of humility in the silence had a profound effect on the boy, and for the first time he felt a spiritual connection with his God.

  None had eaten since the previous day, and it was with a growling stomach that he rose and then entered the White Tower where Edward himself, his lords and councilors about him, was waiting to belt on Richard’s first sword. Two gentlemen strapped on Richard’s spurs, which made a satisfying clinking as the lad walked towards the king, who stood ready on a dais to dub him knight.

  Edward’s voice rang out clearly across the hall: “Richard Plantagenet, be thou a good knight and true,” and as Richard bowed his head, his brother fastened the sword belt and scabbard around his waist. “I have no doubt that you will be true, Dickon,” Edward murmured, covering Richard’s hand with his own upon the sword hilt, “and I will put my trust in you.”

  Later that afternoon, clad in blue and white, the newly created knights followed behind Edward in the procession back to Westminster for the coronation. A cacophony of pealing bells and loud acclamations greeted the cavalcade from the Londoners, who gawped at the giant young god astride his white destrier on his way to be crowned king of England. Richard’s heart could not contain an ounce more pleasure or pride in his family and country. He shouted: “God Save King Edward” as loudly as his compatriots. He could only imagine Ned’s exhilaration at the prospect of being anointed and crowned before God. Surely he, Richard, would never surpass such a pinnacle of earthly man’s success. For a second, he fancied the people were cheering for him and that it was he and not Edward who was riding to be crowned. Addlepate, the boy thought, how could that ever be?

  No thoughts of “runt” crossed Richard’s mind that day; he was a royal prince—a Plantagenet prince—and for once he felt every inch of it.

  For the banquet following the long coronation ceremony in Westminster’s Gothic abbey, the court moved into nearby Westminster Hall. The high, graceful hammer-beam roof was festooned with flags and banners dating back a hundred years. Colorful angels with golden wings were carved into each arched beam-end as if flying above mortals’ heads. Thousands of candles illuminated the rich tapestries, and the scarlets, greens, blues and purples of the gorgeous gowns of the courtiers and their ladies crowding the spacious hall. Prominent everywhere, the white hart, heraldic symbol of the second King Richard, told of that monarch’s hand in the renovations of this magnificent hall at the end of the previous century. A man of exquisite taste, it appeared alas he could not govern his kingdom; he was deposed by his cousin of Bolingbroke and died—they say of starvation—in captivity. Young Richard had been told by his father of this distant cousin’s fate, and how the usurping Lancastrian Bolingbroke, crowned Henry IV, was somewhat to blame for the ensuing clash between York and Lancaster that finally had ended at Towton. Usurper was such an ugly word, Richard had always thought. Praise God, the strife was now over, and his brother wore the crown.

  “A groat for your thoughts, Richard,” George said. “Are you as excited as I am? Ned is king! King Edward! That makes me heir to the throne. I can hardly believe it.” Grinning smugly, he added: “And now that I am duke of Clarence, you will have to call me ‘Your Grace.’”

  Richard’s fists clenched in the folds of his azure short robe. He wanted to be happy for George, and he would have been had it not been for George’s crowing from the moment he learned that he was now Edward’s heir and had been raised to a dukedom. Richard watched as one by one people came forward to congratulate him, and George basked in the recognition. Indeed, Richard knew he, too, would have enjoyed the accolades had he been accorded a title, but he remained just Richard Plantagenet, and it just did not seem fair.

  “I did not get a title either,” Meg consoled him, leaning across George, “and I’m old
er than George.” That made Richard feel better, until the next time George gloated. Yet Richard dared not ask Edward why he heaped honors on George and all his friends without giving one to him or Meg. Even plain Will Hastings, Edward’s closest advisor, was now a lord. Nay, it did not seem fair at all.

  Richard was standing near an ante-chamber and, wanting to escape from George, he slipped in and stood beside one of his fellow knights of the Bath. The boy put his finger to his lips and jerked his head towards the musicians’ alcove. All of a sudden Richard was aware of a high, sweet voice fluttering on the edge of confidence rising above the gentle notes of a harp. He squeezed between two adults, whose attention was focused not on a boy soprano, which would have been usual, but on a chestnut-haired girl seated all by herself on a stool, the musicians having gone in search of refreshments. Had he been a little older, he might have noticed her beauty, but at eight he was more impressed with her daring.

  Despite the din behind him in the great hall, all noise disappeared for Richard but the girl’s plaintive song, and he was captivated by the sound. He had not shown talent for any instrument, despite the efforts of an accomplished music tutor, but he loved music. All too soon, the notes died away, and several spectators applauded. Seemingly unaware she had had an audience, the girl looked up and straight into Richard’s smiling face. He would much later wonder if it had been his smile or her family’s compliments that had made her blush so prettily.

  “She’s good, do you not agree,” Richard’s friend whispered. “I would not dare to sing in front of anyone.”

  Richard nodded. “Nor I. I wonder who she is.” He was quite sure he had seen her before, but he had no chance to ponder the mystery as a fanfare behind him announced the coronation banquet, and the privileged guests hurried to find their places.

  “The Lord Richard is it not?” a friendly voice stayed him as they moved into the hall. “Sir John Howard, at your service.” Richard returned the bow, pleased to have been acknowledged by this well known loyal Yorkist and Edward’s councilor. “Did you hear my young friend sing? A voice like an angel, did you not think? The lass is only ten, but by the Rood, with her looks, she will turn heads and make a husband happy…”

  “Or be someone’s leman,” Will Hastings interrupted, chuckling. “She’d be wasted as a wife.”

  Richard was not sure what “leman” meant, but his beautiful mother was a dazzling duchess and had made his father happy, so why was a wife a waste? He had the sense to reserve that question for later, and besides he was hungry. He saw Edward beckoning to him from his throne upon the dais. Splendid in his ermine-trimmed royal purple, with the lions of England and his Sunne in Splendor badge decorating the baldachin held high above him by four knights of the Garter, Edward appeared the perfect model of kingship.

  “I know you are disappointed not to be granted a title, Dickon,” Edward said kindly, when Richard went down on one knee to his adored brother. Richard’s guilty expression made Edward smile. “Never fear, your turn will come, I promise.”

  Richard daily imagined waking to find his new status as a royal prince was naught but a dream. He had yet to find a confidante he could trust. Everyone always seemed too busy for him.

  Exciting though it was to be the brother of the king, he sometimes yearned for the less public life as a mere duke’s son. Boating on the Thames or fishing from its banks was fun, but now he was forever stared at by the curious villagers, and learning the names of Edward’s many councilors was as hard as any history lesson. But as he watched his charismatic brother win commoners and nobles effortlessly to his side, he felt increasing pride. Certainly it did not hurt that, at six feet and three inches, Edward stood half a head taller than most men and dominated a room with his golden good looks and charisma. But, truth be told, kindhearted young Richard did not give himself enough credit for attracting his own inner circle of pages, who liked him for his quiet humility and sense of fair play, whether practicing at tilting or archery, or by speaking up for them to their lords.

  “He has Ned’s common touch,” Cecily remarked to Beatrice one day, as they watched the boys throw balls for Traveller, “although let us hope he does not forget he is first and foremost a royal prince. A pity he does not have a few more of Ned’s inches.”

  “He is young yet, Your Grace. Wait and see; he will grow.”

  “The poor boy always seems to be in George’s shadow,” Cecily mused, as George snatched Richard’s ball and threw it twice as far as his brother could.

  It was during those idyllic summer days that Richard was enthusiastically initiated into the hunt, thrilling to his first sight of a wild boar bravely staving off attacks by the baying, snarling hounds. The animal, though dying of several well aimed arrows, was possessed with a will to charge his antagonist in one last desperate attempt to avoid death. True to its reputation, the beast’s razor sharp tusks impaled one of the dogs and sent it flying into the air close to where Richard watched wide-eyed. The boar was finally defeated by a sword thrust through its heart. Despite his churning stomach, the boy experienced a rush of excitement, and he was forever captivated by the noble sport.

  “How did you enjoy your first hunt, Lord Richard?” Will Hastings, Edward’s newly appointed lord chamberlain, had sidled his horse next to the boy, noticing how well Richard sat his horse.

  Richard nodded his head vigorously. “Very much, my lord.”

  As they watched the death throes of the boar and how the pewterers skillfully held the dogs at bay, Hastings remarked: “I have a great deal of respect for any creature who turns and fights when all seems lost. ’Tis why I follow your brother, the king.”

  Richard gazed curiously at Will, who towered above him on the handsome chestnut mare. He had heard people talking about Will Hastings and his bad influence on Edward, but the older man sounded sensible and sincere.

  “My brother is the best soldier in the world,” Richard stated. “When I am skilled, I shall follow him, too.”

  “Then he is a lucky man, young lord,” Will said, grinning. “You will have to grow a little, ’tis true, but you appear a sturdy lad, and you already understand loyalty.”

  Richard thanked the chamberlain graciously, and as Will moved away, the boy wondered what the job of king’s lord chamberlain entailed.

  “Lord of the royal bedchamber,” one of the pages enlightened him one day. “You know that men like to have women in their beds?” Richard was reminded of the conversation he had had while fishing with Ned that day at Southwark, and thus his blush told the page that Richard did indeed know. “The chamberlain finds ladies for the king, so I have been told.”

  Richard was shocked. “Will Hastings is the king’s councilor. He helps Ned make important decisions. My sister told me.”

  His friend shrugged. “Decisions about women are important. I’m just telling you what I know.”

  “But what if a woman doesn’t want to go?”

  “All the girls want to be in your brother’s bed, Lord Richard,” Will’s brazen young pageboy told him. “And my master likes to bed them afterwards.”

  This astonishing conversation would forever color Richard’s judgment of his brother’s best friend, even when he learned the real duties of a chamberlain. Much later, he would have to acknowledge Will as the most loyal of Edward’s councilors, but for the time being he had his doubts.

  It took Edward only four months to fulfill his promise of a title to Richard.

  One blustery day in October, not long after Richard’s ninth birthday, he received a letter with the royal seal of England and written in the king’s own hand. That Edward would write to him personally, was almost more thrilling to the boy than the message it contained. But not quite.

  “Meggie! George!” he cried, waving the letter at his siblings playing chess by the window in their solar at Greenwich Palace. “I am to be given the dukedom of Gloucester. I am to be a duke!”

  Meg rose from her window seat and ran to hug him. “Good for you, Richard,” sh
e enthused. How could she not rejoice at Richard’s good fortune, even though she, the oldest of the three, had been overlooked again. She hated being a woman—at fifteen she considered herself one—and too tall besides. Her only chance for a title was marrying one, as she knew only too well.

  “George,” she called now, “come and congratulate Richard. The two of you are equals now, so perhaps you will stop your squabbling.”

  George gave his brother a reluctant grin and shook his hand. “Gloucester? Where’s that?” he joked.

  Richard cocked a snoot. “At least it’s in England,” he retorted. “Everyone knows the Clare lands are in boggy, soggy Ireland.”

  “Oh no,” Meg groaned as she watched the two boys wrestle each other to the ground. “When am I ever going to be rid of them,” she muttered, picking up her book and leaving the room.

  She did not have to wait long.

  The royal trio was rowed up the Thames in the king’s own barge, canopied in white and gold cloth, the royal arms decorating the streaming pennants on each corner. The oarsmen wore dark blue livery and pulled as one up the wide river, negotiating the dangerous surge on the rising tide underneath London Bridge and guiding their important passengers safely to the Westminster Palace pier.

  Margaret lifted the hem of her red damask gown and took the boat master’s hand to climb up the few steps from inside the barge and onto the wharf. Richard and George needed no help to nimbly transition to dry land.

  Richard smoothed his rich, brocaded short cote, and fingered the sable hem. Other than at the coronation, he could not remember wearing anything as fine before. He was beginning to develop a taste for luxury even at nine years old, and it was one thing he and George could agree on: there was much pleasure in a fine wardrobe. Edward had sent Richard a handsome dagger to wear on this occasion, several semi-precious stones decorating its hilt, and Richard felt for it now.