As protector, Richard was legally responsible for signing court documents in the king’s name, and after the crowning, Richard was determined to begin the transfer of power to the boy; for now, however, let him enjoy what remained of his boyhood for a few months longer. Edward had a quick mind and would learn fast, and Richard would be glad to relinquish his protectorate and eventually return to the relative peace of Middleham.
“Where is my lord Hastings?” the young king asked Richard one day when Richard had gone to explain a detail of the coronation. “He was my father’s councilor and should be here.”
An awkward silence followed. “I will bring him next time, Edward,” Richard promised. Just as soon as Will proves his allegiance by ridding the court of Jane Shore and her ilk, I’ll take him back into my confidence, he thought. Hastings still had much support on the council, and Richard could ill afford to lose it.
Richard was not to know that, on his part, Will was having misgivings about the protector’s motives based on Richard’s puzzling attitude towards him. Was Richard pushing him out, Will wondered, to take sole control of the king? Or was he seeking the crown for himself?
Richard was not sleeping well and, lying alone in the downy bed, he had too much time to brood. Although he was demonstrating his administration abilities in the council and had won support from many members—at least he thought he had, he was unsure of himself. As a northerner, he was looked upon as an outsider in London, and he was doubtful whom to trust. All smiled and nodded, appearing acquiescent to his demands, but how much was fawning, he could not tell. It seemed to Richard that his northerners were more plain speaking and did not dissemble nor put on airs like the courtiers who had surrounded Edward.
Richard was so different from his affable, backslapping brother that the council, for its part, was wary of him. But he was optimistic that by showing good judgement and listening well, he would win the skeptics to his side. Unbeknownst to Richard, several of the barons had been shocked when, a few years before, a report had filtered to them that he had sided with a man of York—a yeoman—in a judicial dispute with one of the northern lords over land rights. Richard had found the baron guilty and fined him heavily. “If he takes the word of a commoner over a fellow nobleman,” Lord Stanley had remarked to Will, “what does our rank protect?”
One sleepless night, after going over the day’s events for the third time, he turned to where Anne should have been lying. I miss you, my dear wife, he thought, and in that moment he made up his mind to call for Anne. He needed her, and he hoped he could persuade her to leave Ned in safety at Middleham. After all, she deserved to be with him at the coronation.
A gray drizzle greeted the small procession of riders as they entered the city from the north, and Anne was glad she was on horseback as she watched the townsfolk teetering on their pattens picking their way through the mud. The damp did not suit her, and her persistent cough had worsened since leaving Barnet earlier in the day. Of course, Anne had been to London before with her father during her childhood, but it had been many years since she had been persuaded to leave her beloved Yorkshire for this god-forsaken, overcrowded, and stinking city.
Francis Lovell proudly escorted the protector’s wife along Chepeside towards Bishopgate and Richard’s domicile there at Crosby Place. “Gloucester’s lady,” somebody cried out recognizing the white-boar cognizance, and once the word was passed that the Kingmaker’s daughter was in their city again, Londoners flocked into the Chepe to cheer her. Despite his treason, they still had a fondness for the deceased Warwick. It warmed Anne’s heart to hear the shouts of welcome, thinking it was due her as Richard’s wife. She waved and smiled shyly, recognizing the important role she now played, but she hoped Crosby Place was not much farther.
She caught sight of two lovely women standing by the conduit, looking past her to someone in her entourage. One of them in a widow’s wimple looked familiar, and Anne frowned trying to remember where she had seen her before. She turned in her saddle to ascertain who they were focused on and saw it was Richard’s son, John. All at once, she knew. “Kate Haute!” she murmured, dispirited by the widow’s beauty despite the unattractive head covering. She was Richard’s leman and mother of John and Katherine, who was now one of her ladies and the image of her mother. No wonder Richard had tumbled Kate, Anne thought, as she noted the remarkable amber eyes in the heart-shaped face that were fixated with longing on John. A momentary pang of sympathy for the widow engulfed the gentle duchess as she imagined the pain of having to give up Ned.
When she was lifted down into Richard’s loving arms at Crosby Place, Anne forgot Kate. It was Anne’s first visit to the large, gothic mansion. “It is magnificent,” she enthused, noting the ceiling-high windows of colored glass, gilded carved beams overhead, and the red-and-blue tiled floor in the great hall. A servant removed Anne’s soggy velvet cloak and hood, and she shivered. Richard looked anxiously at her, for she had lost weight and dark smudges ringed her eyes.
“Are you unwell, my dear?” he asked, leading her along a passageway to her chamber, where he had thoughtfully ordered a fire to be lit on this dreary day. “I will order you a hot bath after you have rested. Perhaps I was selfish to ask you to come.” He smiled, and Anne noticed he had lost a tooth. “Aye, it had to be removed last week. I regret I could no longer withstand the pain.”
He took her in his arms and sighed with pleasure. He had been right to send for her; how he had missed her steady, loving presence. All the stresses of the past month were released in that sigh, and Anne looked up, concerned. “I swear you look ten years older, Richard,” she murmured, stroking his back. “Has it been aching more than usual?” Anne was the only person he allowed to mention the evidence of God’s displeasure that protruded below his shoulder; he knew he would never atone for King Henry’s murder, but he could not tell Anne that.
“Aye, I get tired more easily now. Standing as straight as I can and doing my best to conceal the monstrosity puts a strain on my whole body.” He kissed her mouth softly and felt himself aroused, but now was not the time for seduction; now was time for her to recover from her six-day journey. “How is our son?”
“He wanted to come so much, but Mistress Idley will keep him occupied until we return or send for him. He sent a million kisses. I worry he will forget me.”
Richard chuckled. “Have no fear, he won’t. If truth be told, I expect he will miss John more than us. And speaking of John, did I tell you that Francis is ready to take him on as squire now. ’Tis time the lad flew the coop.”
Anne smiled. “You indulge both your boys, Richard, and do not lie, you are besotted with your daughter.”
Richard grinned. “You’ve noticed? I shall try and be impartial from now on. But she is a beauty, is she not?”
Just like her mother, Anne wanted to say. “Pah! Impossible,” she said instead, giving him a gentle swat. “In truth, it is your kindness to the young ones that I find so dear.”
A tap on the door meant an end to their privacy, and giving Richard a peck on the cheek, Anne called, “Come.” One of her tiring women came in with Katherine in tow, and on seeing her father, the auburn-haired fifteen-year-old forgot all decorum and threw herself into his arms.
“Father! I am so happy to see you.” As she pulled back, she studied him. “Are you unwell, my lord? You look tired.”
Richard smiled, adoration in his eyes for his comely daughter, reminding him daily of Kate; she was filling out a little more rapidly than an anxious father would have liked, he admitted. “I am tired, poppet. Tired of waiting for you all to arrive,” he teased, and hoped he did not look as bad as his wife and daughter made him feel by their concern. “I thought you would never come.”
Richard recalled his father’s long-ago remark, “Being born noble means to court an early death,” as he rode through the city on his way to Westminster, and his eyes darted right and left anticipating danger. Despite Anne’s calming presence at Crosby Place, Richard still worried a
bout his personal safety in light of the Woodville ambition. It did not help that one of the prelates who had gone to negotiate with Elizabeth to leave sanctuary had given Richard disturbing information. The queen had commanded her astrologer to chart Richard’s birth stars. Nay, he had not exactly seen it, the bishop had said, but he had heard rumor there was one. (Superstition held that a death date could be predicted from the charting—or in the case of the black arts, a death date could be manipulated.) It was no wonder Richard tossed and turned at night. His back had never pained him as badly, and he would wake up with one arm stiffened. His superstitious mind questioned whether Elizabeth was dabbling in witchcraft—after all, she was descended from the water-witch Melusine—and, together with her astrologer, was perhaps plotting his death. Richard’s superstitions had grown with his fear, which made him testy and unapproachable.
Thus when Buckingham gave Richard the news that Hastings had flouted his orders to dismiss the Shore whore, and worse, he had taken her to mistress himself, Richard flew into a rage.
“Did the lying dotard think I would not discover this? Now I know he is truly depraved and certainly not to be trusted. Can he believe I will entrust him with any position around my nephew? Over my dead body!”
Quickly Buckingham pressed his advantage. “Then wait until you hear this. Guess who Catesby spied going in disguise to visit the queen,” he said, mentally rubbing his hands. “None other than Jane Shore.”
Richard stared at him in astonishment, and then he frowned. “What possible reason could Jane have for visiting the queen? It is common knowledge Elizabeth hates the woman.”
Then Harry whispered the words Richard had tried to suppress in consideration for Will’s friendship with Edward. “I think there must be a conspiracy, and Hastings’ mistress is involved.”
Or Hastings himself, Richard thought, as he lost control of his ring and it fell with a clink to the floor.
He confronted Hastings at Crosby Place in mid-June after a supper with Buckingham, Jack Howard, and his son Thomas. Catesby hovered around his master, ready to do Richard’s bidding at the flicker of an eyelid. Jack Howard had long decided Catesby looked like a weasel and hoped he was less devious than his animal counterpart. A brilliant young lawyer and one-time servant of Will Hastings’, Catesby had inveigled himself onto Richard’s council by dropping Will’s name, making Richard believe he had come with the councilor’s blessing. Worrying for Jack, the man had already impressed Richard with his legal mind and become a member of the inner council. Keen to trust anyone with no ties to the old regime, like Buckingham, Richard had gladly accepted him.
Richard soon turned the conversation to the queen in sanctuary. “We must persuade her to release my other nephew or we cannot have a coronation. The people would not sanction it, and Edward is demanding to see his brother.” The others nodded in agreement. “Master Catesby here has kept me informed of any unusual visitors to my sister-in-law. I was not surprised to learn that Margaret Beaufort has been, as has her friend my lord bishop of Ely.”
“Lancastrians both,” Buckingham grumbled.
“Let us not forget the Woodvilles, too, were red-rose wearers until Towton,” Jack Howard offered. “Margaret is godmother to one of Elizabeth’s daughters, I believe, so perhaps she went to pray with the girl.” The group chuckled at the reference to Lady Stanley’s famous piety.
“But Morton is two-faced and often in the Beaufort woman’s company. I would not trust him as far as I could launch his paunchy body across St. Paul’s yard.”
“I would not lose sleep over those visits, my lord duke. They seem innocuous enough,” Hastings remarked, picking up a plum and biting into its juicy flesh.
Catesby glanced at Richard, whose frown silenced him. Richard turned to Hastings and controlling his rising anger, he said: “I thought I could trust you, Lord Hastings, but you have disappointed me in the matter of Mistress Shore. I had asked that you dismiss her.”
It was an odd non sequitor. Hastings was taken aback but, unsuspecting, he swallowed the piece of plum. “I regret I have not had a moment to explain, my lord, but be assured I have procured her a new house with my own funds,” he said, and as if to prove he was not underhanded, he took a chance. “She is now my…well, you know, er…” Dear God, he thought amused as Richard’s face showed no emotion, do I have to spell it out for the man? Still seeing no reaction, he explained: “She is now under my protection and no longer the crown’s concern,” and he waved his hand airly. “Rest assured, this has nothing to do with my loyalty to you or the king, Lord Richard. You can trust me.”
“Trust you, Lord Hastings? I think not,” Richard snapped back. “You must truly believe I am a fool. I also do not trust your whore. You have lied to me about her, have you not?”
“I would trust Jane Shore with my life!” Will cried, bristling at the ugly moniker. “She is a good woman. Why do you bring her into this, my lord. Jane is an innocent.”
Richard gave a derisive snort. “An innocent? Your idea of innocence is obviously quite different from mine, my lord. I give you a goodnight.” He gave Will a long, unwavering look before pushing his chair back, rising, and ending the encounter. He would let Hastings sleep on the matter, he had decided. It was the best he could do for the well-respected chamberlain. Perhaps Hastings would make a clean breast, avert a plot, and Richard could bring the man back onto his side.
Puzzled, Hastings bowed and returned the salutation. Turning, he asked the Howard men: “Shall I see you at meeting in the Tower on the morrow, gentlemen? Splendid. Then may God give you all a good night.” Buckingham held the door for him and soon after, Jack and Thomas bowed their way out, leaving Richard still nettled.
“Good evening, my lord bishop.” Richard heard the muffled greeting through the open door, and he frowned. Who would come here just before curfew? He hoped it wasn’t Morton; he could not abide the man. He sighed, wanting nothing more than to shut out the world and his daily cares and hide himself in Anne’s comforting arms in their soft tester bed. But it was not to be.
“His lordship the bishop of Bath and Wells, my lord,” William Catesby announced, as the elderly prelate shuffled in. After bowing to Richard and Buckingham, Stillington moved to the fire to warm his bony fingers.
Richard raised an eyebrow. “My lord, what may I do for you?” The cleric hesitated, his gaze shifting from Buckingham to the unfamiliar face of William Catesby. “You may speak freely,” Richard assured him. “I have no secrets from my advisors. What brings you here at this hour? Speak, I pray you.”
What the priest did say was to drain the blood from Richard’s face.
“A pre-contract? My brother was previously spoken for before Elizabeth?” he demanded in as loud a whisper as he dared. “By all that is holy, it must be a lie!” He pulled his book of hours from under a pile of signed letters and held it out to the bishop. “Swear you are telling the truth.”
Surprised, Stillington placed his hand on the book and swore. “The lady’s name was Eleanor Butler—Talbot that was—the daughter of the old earl of Shrewsbury. ’Twas some time before the late king wed the queen. The lady took the veil and is long dead, my lord. She cannot make trouble, but I could not in all good conscience keep this secret to myself now that King Edward is dead. It means that the new king…”
“…is a bastard,” Richard breathed, his heart pounding. He did not add: and so cannot wear the crown.
The news was stunning. Richard had so many questions for the old man, which he answered without hesitation, swearing that he was telling the truth. He caught Buckingham’s eye and Harry pursed his lips in a silent whistle. The implications of the revelation were enormous.
“I witnessed the plight-troth when I was an archdeacon,” the bishop told the astonished group, “and as you know a plight-troth made with a witness is tantamount to…”
“…the giving of a ring,” Catesby interrupted. “The king’s marriage to Queen Elizabeth was thus invalid.”
Rich
ard was regretting he had not dismissed Catesby. Could he trust the lawyer yet? He had not thought Stillington had anything of such importance to divulge and had wished merely to test Catesby’s loyalty with whatever insignificant item the bishop disturbed them. Who could have guessed it was this monumental?
As Richard put the pieces of the puzzle together, the truth became horribly clear: Edward had given Stillington a bishopric to buy his silence. But why had Eleanor not come forward and denounced Edward when he and Elizabeth first revealed that they had been secretly wed? Certes, he realized, she would have been laughed out of court. Who would have believed her—a widow woman with no man to fight for her? No wonder the poor lady took the veil! God’s bones, Edward, Richard thought, what an unholy mess you have left me. Yet how typical of his reckless, wayward brother.
“Who else might know of this, my lord bishop?” Richard demanded.
Stillington shrugged, but tiny pink patches appeared on his cheeks that alerted Richard. “You told someone else, did you not?” he pressed. “I can see it on your face. Who, who?”
The protector’s irritability was new to the bishop, and he trod warily. “It was my understanding that the Lord Hastings was in the king’s confidence. And…” he broke off, obviously riddled with guilt and weighing whether to confess to Richard’s scowl. He was regretting he had come for he did not like the look in Gloucester’s dark eyes. “…And, I foolishly made mention of it to Duke George of Clarence, b…but I paid for that folly with a t…term in the Tower,” he mumbled.
Stunned, Richard now realized the condemned George must have threatened Edward. Could that have been why Edward had chosen not to pardon his brother for a third time? He needed to be rid of George. George had already cast aspersions on Edward’s own birth—the rumor of bastardy with which Warwick had tempted George. That conjecture was ludicrous, but this new one may well have been the final straw for Edward. Richard shook himself. What devilish dark thoughts of Ned were these? He ought to dismiss the accusation outright. But the temptation to believe that Hastings might have known of Edward’s bigamy for all these years and had kept silent was too great.
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