“You understand our concern, Richard?” Edward said at a private supper with his brothers in his apartments as soon as Richard arrived. “We must heed Meg’s appeal.”
“But we are at peace with France now,” Richard said, frowning. “If we send troops to Meg, we will be breaking our treaty with Louis.” And you will lose your pension, he wanted to say but didn’t. “How else then can we help?”
Edward’s chair groaned as he shifted his considerable form. Richard had been shocked to see how much weight the king had gained even since the previous summer. Edward’s face was florid, and his once lively blue eyes had all but disappeared between his fleshy cheeks and brows. The ever-present goblet of wine was cupped in his fingers, which now resembled large sausages, and rested comfortably on his shelf of a belly. As ever, Will Hastings was at hand to pour more wine and add commentary when appropriate. Richard had begun to resent the jovial chamberlain, especially when he heard the man had produced yet another mistress for the king.
“Margaret, as dowager duchess, needs to find a strong husband for Mary,” Edward was saying. “As you realize, it is not wise, in view of Louis of France’s ambitions to break up Burgundy, to allow a woman to rule, let alone one as young as Mary.” He looked over at George. “How old is she? Twenty?” George was slumped in his chair, already the worse for drink. He nodded. “Tell Richard Meg’s idea, George,” Edward went on. His silky, easy-going tone did not fool Richard. Something was afoot.
“She wanted me to marry Mary and frighten Louis. But my dear brother has refused,” George responded, wine-fueled anger in his tone. “He doesn’t want me to be happy.”
Richard smirked. The last time Mary had been offered to George, he was insulted.
Elizabeth had been quietly watching the trio from her seat in the shadows, but now she raised her voice and spoke her mind. “Pah! Your happiness be damned. You are not to be trusted, and Edward is too kind to tell you so.”
George feigned ignorance. “What do you mean, I am not to be trusted? I have proved my loyalty over and over,” he expostulated, his hand shaking enough to spill wine.
“Ha!” Elizabeth snorted.
“Enough, Bess,” Edward growled, “and I am not too kind—I have already told George my reasons, and that is why he is sulking.”
George downed his wine, and rose unsteadily to his feet. “Have a care, Elizabeth,” he warned, leaning on the table and glaring at her. “You think you rule the roost here, but I have heard a certain Mistress Shore now holds more sway in my brother’s bed. And she is a lot younger and prettier than you.”
Despite her swollen belly, Elizabeth rose quickly from her seat and flung her cup at the retreating George. “Get out!” she screamed. “Out!”
Will jumped to her defense, surprising Richard for he thought Hastings detested Elizabeth. “The queen is right. You are insolent as well as treacherous, George. I would leave if I were you.”
Elizabeth pushed past him and commanded, “Edward, tell him to get out. Now!”
Edward sighed, dreading having to placate his irritable wife. “I think ’tis best you both leave us,” he said to his brothers, too sluggish to raise his voice. “George, I expect you to apologize to Elizabeth on the morrow, do you understand? You are beginning to irk me. Richard, take your brother to his room. God give you a good night.”
George effected a semblance of a bow and allowed Richard to lead him from the room. “Didn’t I tell you to beware of Elizabeth, Brother? Your turn will come, mark my words.”
Anne had another miscarriage in June, and Richard was plunged into a dark mood that caused servers to tiptoe around the great hall at Middleham during the midday meal and Richard’s retainers to grumble at his testy commands. Only Rufus dared be with him and licked his hand as if to say, I am here, you can count on me.
“It is nothing new. These moods began only after he knew his spine was crooked,” Rob Percy reassured John Kendall a week later, once Richard’s talented secretary had been ushered from the duke’s presence with an ink pot thrown at his head. “He believes his ailment is a sign that God is displeased with him. When something else is visited upon him—like Anne’s several miscarriages—he is certain God has abandoned him, and he goes into a solitary, black place in his mind. The man has such faith in the Almighty—indeed, enough faith for the three of us combined—and I cannot convince him that perhaps it is not he that God is punishing but Anne being punished for the sins of her father. He will not hear of it. As far as he is concerned, Anne is a saint.”
John Kendall dabbed at an ink stain on his fustian pourpoint with a wet kerchief and offered his assessment. “The Lady Anne is a sweet soul, but she is frail. Childbearing may not suit her and that is all there is to it. Duke Richard is a good man—is usually a good master,” he said, looking up from his cleaning task and shrugging, “but I am warning you, I would not go in there today.”
“Bad news? I mean besides losing the babe?”
“Aye, he will tell you I have no doubt, but it seems his brother Clarence has properly cooked his goose this time.”
Rob’s eyebrows shot up. “Christ’s nails, what now?”
They had not heard the latch click open on the office door and were startled when Richard’s voice interrupted: “He has accused a servant of poisoning Isabel and her child, which is ridiculous, and has had the woman hanged without trial and without Edward’s knowledge.” Rob let out a low whistle, while the other two men crossed themselves in remembrance of Isabel and her little son.
“Why is that such bad news, my lord?” Rob asked, crushing a lazy flea between his thumb and finger and flicking it to the floor. “Perhaps my lord of Clarence did have intelligence that they were poisoned by the woman—whoever she was.”
“Her name is unimportant, but George’s accusation that she was acting on the Woodville’s instructions is significant.”
Rob’s whistle was more pronounced this time. “I see where you are going with this, Richard. Coupled with George’s anger that Edward refused to allow him to wed Mary of Burgundy, which would have created a possible danger to the English throne…”
“…and then he found out Anthony Woodville was put forward by Elizabeth as a bridegroom instead,” Richard took up the story, “which sent George into a vengeful fury against Elizabeth. Hence the unprovoked and cavalier condemnation and meting out of justice for poor Ankarette Twynyho with no proof.” He looked at his two companions, his face grave. “He acted as though he were king, and that is tantamount to treason.” He let the word hang in the room for a few seconds before adding, “My brother has been arrested and placed in the Tower.”
Rob had no more wind for whistling as he stared open-mouthed at Richard.
“Whatever should I do?” Richard asked looking from one to the other. “George has brought this on himself, and I cannot condone his actions, yet it is hard to think of him languishing in a Tower prison.” He expelled a dispirited sigh. There was a time when he might have written an appeal to Edward, but that was long ago and before George’s many betrayals had hardened Richard’s heart.
Richard made the journey to London in January to attend George’s trial. As well as the Twynyho incident, more treasonable actions would be laid at George’s feet during it: A servant in his household was accused, tried, and executed for purportedly agreeing to use necromancy to bring about Edward’s death; rumors of Edward’s bastardy were circulated by his followers; George had assisted in yet another rising against the king that came to naught; and the final straw for the benevolent Edward was getting word direct from King Louis that George had planned on using his marriage to Mary of Burgundy as a stepping stone to the English throne. Richard was appalled and lost any shred of sympathy he might have once had for his wayward brother.
“How could Parliament not try him, Richard?” Edward said, clearly disturbed. “’Twas they not I who decided on that, but it is I who must condemn him or not. Jesu, what should I do?”
Richard steepled his
fingers, deep in thought. He could not believe it had come to this. George’s life had begun with all the promise of privilege, charm, intelligence, and a happy marriage, but he had squandered a goodly, noble life for vainglorious ambition. His own antagonism towards George notwithstanding, Richard was angry at George for putting Edward in such an atrocious position. Fratricide must surely rank among the very worst of sins, and yet it would seem Edward had no choice but to condemn his brother. As well, he was adding that sin to regicide, Richard realized. Thoughts of Henry returned him yet again to the hideous scene in the Tower. It was true the regicide was on his hands not Edward’s, but he had chosen not to inform the king of the fact. Let him believe he is guilty, Richard thought spitefully, he deserves to carry the weight as well. Once again, he was reminded of his boyhood conversation with King Henry about the responsibilities of kingship. ’Tis a curse and a responsibility that is too heavy for one man. I am no God, although sometimes I must act as though I am.
Richard glanced at the gray-faced Edward, looking years older than thirty-eight, and knew now what the dead king had meant. His stomach churned at the thought of Edward’s terrible burden. Aye, Henry was right, I am glad I am the fourth son; I could never be a king.
Will Hastings approached with a pitcher to refill Edward’s cup, and the familiar ritual suddenly struck a wrong note with Richard. He did not doubt Will’s loyalty, but he abhorred his immorality. It was said that when Edward tired of a mistress, Hastings would then enjoy her. What had his glorious, golden god of a brother degenerated into?
Richard shot out a hand and stopped Will’s pouring. “My brother needs a clear head, my lord. I thank you not to add to his already troubled mind.”
Will was clearly offended, but he stepped back and looked to Edward, who, however, seemed preoccupied. “What must I do?” the king asked with desperation in his voice.
Richard took a deep breath and stated: “He is our brother, but he is a traitor. If I were the judge, I would condemn him.”
Edward slowly nodded. “I have done my best to save him all these years. Our mother has been here begging for his life in the names of our father and dead brother, and Meg’s pathetic letters have been arriving weekly since December.”
“I, too, might have asked mercy for him, Ned, but when I think of all the ways he has threatened the safety of the realm and tried to seize power for himself, I find I have no pity left for him.”
Edward looked intently at his youngest brother, surprised by the cold assurance of his tone. Richard had always been passionate about justice and the law, Edward knew, but now he could see why the Lord of the North commanded such respect. Richard might be smaller in stature, but he now stood shoulder to shoulder with Edward, and the king was glad of such support.
“I will review the trial transcripts once more, and then I will sign the death warrant.”
“Will you not see him first, Ned?” Richard asked. “I am in no mind to go, but ’tis my duty, and Father would have wished it.”
“I went,” Edward said, dully. “It was a waste of time. George was pathetic and I had to leave. May God have mercy on his soul. And on mine.”
And on mine, Richard thought. Please, Lord, on mine.
With rheumy eyes that Richard could not tell were from weeping or from wine, George gazed at his detestable younger brother. “Come to gloat, babykins?” he sneered. “Good little Dickon come to say farewell? Always did want to do the right thing, didn’t you? Always seeking approval, aren’t you?” He lurched at Richard, who neatly stepped aside and watched as George tripped on an uneven flagstone in the Tower room and landed on his knees.
Richard smirked. “Always in your cups, aren’t you?” he mimicked, letting George clumsily right himself. He was shocked how callous he had become and that he cared not now whether his brother lived or died. “Always thought you could charm your way out of trouble, didn’t you? I doubt you can charm you way out of here, my dear George. You have given Edward no choice.” George slumped onto the bed—one too luxurious by far for someone supposedly in prison for treason, Richard thought. “You are right, I have come here out of duty,” he continued. “You lost my respect many years ago when you treated Anne so abominably. I was hoping, perhaps, I might eke an apology out of you on behalf of my wife. Anne does not know how to hate—as I do—and she deserves your respect in this.”
George guffawed. “’Tis you who owe me an apology, Master Crookback, for stealing my wife’s inheritance….” But Richard had unsheathed his dagger and had it at George’s throat before he could finish his sentence.
“Call me ‘crookback’ one more time, and I swear I will spare the executioner his work,” Richard snarled, angling the point of his knife under George’s bearded chin. “Now apologize, you adder-tongued, two-faced coxcomb.”
George spat in Richard’s face. “There’s your apology, my lord. Go and ball yourself.”
“Guard!” Richard shouted, wiping the spittle from his cheek. “May God have mercy on your lily-livered soul, Brother,” he said under his breath, locking eyes with George’s sapphire ones. Richard saw no remorse in George’s, and George found no forgiveness in Richard’s.
The harsh grating of the door hinges broke the momentary silence before Richard turned on his heel, exited the room and never looked back.
“Bye-bye babykins!” followed him down the stairs and out into the snowy half-light.
Although not far from it, Richard was not present at George’s execution. Unbeknownst to Richard, the two men Edward had hired had been instructed to administer poison to the hapless Clarence in answer to a desperate request by Duchess Cecily that her son not die publicly nor by the traditional beheading. “I am afraid he will not behave correctly and be scorned,” she had confided to Edward. “I could not bear that. He has had nightmares about a clumsy executioner. Let him drink himself into a stupor and then poison will allow him a death sleep. Do this for me, Son, I beg you.”
Cecily would have been devastated had she been able to read Richard’s mind when he learned of the plan. All the wrongs George had done the young Dickon had been festering and now blossomed into one wicked thought: He does not deserve to die kindly. He deserves to be suffocated, just like he attempted to do to me. He deserves to suffer.
“They are late!” Richard was pacing the audience chamber in Westminster a mile upstream of the Tower wondering what could have gone wrong. George’s guards had been told to ply George with his favorite malmsey until he would be oblivious to the poison. It sounded like a simple plan, but Richard had been skeptical. “What if the guards bungle the task? Can we trust them not to have been charmed by George?” Edward had dismissed his brother’s doubts.
Now Edward sat silently on his canopied throne awaiting the return of the assassins, fingering a silver adornment on his pourpoint. His calm unnerved Richard, who had joined Queen Elizabeth and Will Hastings in keeping the king company.
After what seemed like an age, the two men were finally ushered in and knelt, keeping their eyes on the ground and kneading their coarse felt hats. They were clearly on edge, but then who would not be, Richard mused, having executed a fellow human being. How well I know the feeling. But when the bigger man began to stammer, it was not from any empathy for the dead man but from fear of repercussions for an assignment gone awry. Richard’s heart sank.
“Is he dead?” Edward asked, rising and approaching the men. “Speak! Is the deed done?”
“He is dead, Your Grace,” the man answered, nodding. “B…but n…not in the man…manner in which was ordered.” He cringed, expecting a blow, but Edward quietly told him to tell the truth. “The d…duke dr…drowned, my lord. We had to hold his head in a butt of wine.”
“You drowned a royal duke?” Richard blurted in horror. Sweet Jesu, I should have insisted on a proper execution. What a shambles!
“Hush, Richard,” Edward admonished him. “Give the man a chance to speak.” Clearly rattled, he encouraged the guard. “Go on, sir, tell me wh
at happened. Leave nothing out.”
Responding to Edward’s tone, the man took a breath and continued. “He knew summat was up because the good Father came in with us. He would not drink the poisoned wine and threw the cup at us. He began a-blubbering and went on his knees begging Father Lessey to save him. The duke was making so much noise, we had to drag him to the barrel and….” he raised his hands and shrugged. When everyone gasped in shock, the man became defensive. “Well, we couldn’t think of nothing else, with the priest there an’ all. We did carry out your orders, Your Grace. You’d said ‘no blood, let him drown in his beloved wine.’ It seemed the only way.”
Sweet Jesu! I wished him an unkind death, Richard thought mortified. Am I to feel yet more guilt, Lord? Should he have begged Edward to forgive his brother? He had considered it, but had done nothing. Aye, the Almighty had seen right into his heart then—even to the blackest part—and Richard knew he would pay.
Will Hastings stepped forward holding a bag of coins, and with a dagger at the lead assassin’s throat, he threatened. “Go! Both of you, and say nothing of this or I will kill you myself. Understand? I know where to find you.” Nodding vigorously, the men fell over themselves to exit.
“Did you order this as they accused, Edward?” Richard demanded.
Elizabeth sprang to Edwards’ defense. “’Twas meant in jest, Richard. But in the end it was what he deserved. Even you believe that.”
Do I? Dear God, do I? Aye, I do, Richard had to admit to himself.
Richard did not grieve for George, but once he was safely in Anne’s comforting arms, they both mourned the two orphans George and her sister had left behind. Little Ned, sensing his parents’ melancholy, climbed between them as they lay on cushions by the fire and gave them both kisses.
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