This Son of York

by Anne Easter Smith

  “Aye, and to see Ned,” Anne agreed. She rubbed willow-bark balm on Richard’s back and massaged his tense muscles. If the truth be told, she was frightened, but she would not let Richard see her fear. Katherine had told her of the whisperings among the servants: that the lord protector sought the crown for himself. “Make sure you tell them it is not true, Katherine. Your father just wants to safeguard the king and his realm from those who would do harm to both,” she had admonished the girl and then had tried to allay her own fears.

  “What is next, my love?” Anne asked Richard now.

  “Canterbury will be removing Richard of York tomorrow. I wish you would come with me when I take him to be with his brother. The boy will be afraid, and the way I look now, I don’t blame him. Edward greets me cordially enough—he is a very self-assured and intelligent boy—but not with any affection; he still pines for his Uncle Rivers. Perhaps you can change that, my dear. I would be grateful if you would try.”

  Thus, Anne was by Richard’s side two days later when the two brothers were reunited in the royal apartments at the Tower, and Edward thanked Richard graciously for arranging it.

  “I hope they are looking after you well, my dear Edward,” Anne said, gliding forward and putting her arm around the boy, “and the food is to your liking?”

  “Too much fish!” cried the rambunctious duke of York, riding his wooden hobby horse around the room. “It’s always fish, fish, fish!”

  Anne and Richard glanced at each other and burst out laughing. And Edward joined in. “He must have driven my sisters mad in the abbey,” he whispered to Richard behind his hand. “Maybe I will not be thanking you at this time next week, Uncle.”

  “There, you see,” Anne said as they walked towards their waiting mounts after the visit. “Edward is warming to you. And the way Richard hugged you when you lifted him up to say goodbye is a very good sign.”

  “I hope you are right, Anne, because when I have to tell Edward he cannot be king, I do not want him to look on me as a monster.”

  “Not if you choose your words kindly and truthfully. Imagine you are speaking to Ned.”

  With the younger prince safely under his protection, Richard could procrastinate no longer and called another meeting of the full council to inform them of Stillington’s staggering news. He could almost feel Edward’s looming presence over him as he explained his brother’s misjudgment. For the first time since embarking on the difficult task of overseeing the government, Richard felt disloyal to his brother’s dying command to protect the crown for young Edward. His only consolation was that not telling the truth would betray his fellow Englishmen. He tried not to be judgmental, but he did despair of his brother’s foolishness. “When the prick goes hard, the brain goes soft,” Warwick had told him once when the earl was railing against Edward during those early days at Middleham. Edward’s brain had gone soft during much of his scant forty years, Richard lamented.

  “My lord Bishop, I pray you tell your colleagues exactly what you told me.” Richard left the dais and approached Stillington, who had hoped to avoid directly addressing the council. The cleric’s right hand nervously grasped the large silver cross around his neck as if to ward off any verbal attacks, but Richard believed the gesture served to sanctify Stillington’s oath.

  “So it would appear the children of the late king and his queen are bastards,” the bishop finished. As expressions of disbelief began to supersede the initial openmouthed reaction to the momentous news, he flushed and stepped back.

  Again, suspicious glances were sent Richard’s way, but before any questions were asked of him or Stillington, He returned to sit down on the same throne his father had so unwisely touched in his bid for the crown all those years ago. “I leave it to you, gentlemen, to draw your conclusions.”

  Pandemonium broke out around him as the twenty or so members each jockeyed for his opinion to be heard. Finally, Buckingham marched into the center of the room and cried, “For heaven’s sake, my lords, you are behaving like spoiled children. Let us debate the issue in more discreet tones as befits a royal council.”

  If the moment had not been so tense, Richard might have smiled. His cousin’s bulk and loud voice could certainly claim attention, but then Harry could also woo a treasure from a reluctant merchant with his silver prose. Let Harry lead the debate, he thought, listening intently but saying nothing until Harry said: “It would seem we are all agreed that we do not have a king to crown. I propose we cancel the coronation.”

  “I second that.” Richard had not meant to speak, but his exhaustion made him careless.

  Seizing the moment, Buckingham went down on one knee to his cousin. “My Liege,” he cried, sweeping off his hat. A shocked silence followed, and Richard saw the accusation clearly in some of the members’ looks: Is he stealing the crown?

  Horrified, Richard leaped up and pulled Buckingham to his feet. “You go too far, my lord Buckingham,” he countered. “We must first try and find more proof of this story. Perhaps my lord bishop misremembered…”

  “…but he swore on your holy book of hours that it was true,” Jack Howard broke in, and Stillington nodded vehemently. “I witnessed it, my lords. I do not believe the bishop is lying.”

  Buckingham murmured. “Leave this to me, Richard.” He turned to the company. “Let us allow the lord protector to go on his way while we have a conference to determine a course of action. Do you agree?”

  “Agreed,” they chorused.

  Grateful, Richard made his way to the door of the Star Chamber, where he turned and bowed. “May God help you make an honest decision, my lords. I am putting my trust in you. Now forgive me, it is my duty to inform the king…I mean Edward…that there will be no coronation.”

  Instead of taking the royal barge straight to the Tower, Richard made a stop to prepare his mind for revealing the brutal truth and unfair consequences of the princes’ father’s indiscretion those many years ago. Whenever Richard felt helpless or needed to clear his head to solve a problem, he found solace in exercise. Over the years that his spine had begun to twist and push, he had dedicated a good portion of his daily training routine to strengthening his arms and shoulders to ensure he was fully capable of swinging his favorite weapon, the war hammer, to maximum effect. Determined to overcome his handicap, he never missed a day of vigorous training.

  Richard had a personal combat instructor, another of the very few who knew of Richard’s physical condition, and Walter Woodman traveled with Richard’s household along with a personal armorer, an Italian master named Signore Vicente. A knight’s harness must fit its wearer’s body exactly or chafing would cause extreme discomfort during combat, and thus Vicente was now intimately familiar with his master’s body as was Richard’s tailor.

  That morning upon leaving the council, Richard went to Baynard’s Castle where the enclosed tiltyard afforded him privacy while he trained with Walter. Duchess Cecily she had again made her favorite London residence available to her youngest son. Take advantage of its proximity to Westminster, the garrison, and its high walls, my son, she had written to him from her Berkhamsted retreat. You may need it. After the unrest over Hastings’ death, Richard had reluctantly moved Anne and their households to the Thames-side fortress. “’Tis for your own safety,” he had told a disgruntled Anne, who had grown to like the modern comforts of Crosby Place. “Just until we untangle the knotty problems threatening our monarchy, I promise. I would caution you to stay within Baynard’s walls until we do.”

  Despite his back pain, which seemed to have diminished after the fateful council meeting in the Tower, Richard spent an hour lifting weights and challenging Walter to quarterstaff combat. It was a hot day, and soon he felt the sweat trickling down his back and through his heavily padded jupon. Walter soon overpowered him, and Richard put up his staff and his hands. “Forgive me, Walt, I cannot concentrate today.” Blaming his performance on his back, he did not tell the goodman that he was anxious about the coming interview and still r
eeling from Hastings’ treason. He walked away to the changing area as Walt watched with consternation; he had never known Richard to lose to him with a quarterstaff. Did the duke ever sleep, he wondered. It would appear not, judging from the dark rings under his eyes.

  Francis and Rob had also been watching and stood ready to help him out of his jupon, douse him with a bucket of water and towel him off. The inward curving from ribs to waist on Richard’s left side, starkly evident when he was naked, followed the rightward curve of his spine. Francis often wondered how Richard managed to best most of them in many of the martial skills required of a knight; he was weakest when not mounted and needing to make upward thrusts with a sword. It puzzled Francis why fatigue set in so much faster with Richard, who appeared fitter than most. Richard would complain that his lungs were constricted, and he would find himself fighting for breath. Much later, doctors would understand why this occurred, but Richard only understood it was just another punishment sent by God that he must overcome.

  It never failed to astonish both of his most loyal retainers how uncomplaining their lord was about his affliction, although they worried Richard was relying on wine a little too much of late—to dull the back pain, they believed. Always contained in public, even his friends were unaware of the turmoil inside the protector.

  As they waited for Richard on the wharf to ride the tide to the Tower, Rob remarked to Francis on the pitiful condition of Richard’s body. “He has great forbearance, it is true, but I notice how he draws his strength from those he loves best. His mother loves him in her own stiff way, although I doubt she has seen him unclad of late. Kate gave and now Anne gives him constant devotion. I hope he never doubts our devotion, and I believe we have served him with affection.”

  “He knows he has our loyalty, Rob. I would follow such a man anywhere,” Francis declared. “It appalls me to hear people accuse him of seeking the throne from pride or ambition. He already has more power than he has ever asked for, has he not?”

  Francis shrugged. “Unfortunately, there are those who will judge Richard based on their own jealous desires. For some, there is no such thing as too much power.”

  “Talking about me again?” Richard startled them as they stood by the boat, their words drowned by the lapping waves. “Come, friends, let us get this over with.”

  Once Richard began the difficult conversation, he found it easier than the anticipation of it. He sat between his nephews on the large tester bed, and it so reminded him of his quiet bedtime talks with Ned that he found his words coming more easily.

  “I regret to have to bring you news that will affect your lives, my dears, but it is of such importance that you must only hear it from me. A long time ago, before your father met your mother, your father made a promise to wed another woman. The promise is called a pre-contract and is legal and binding in the eyes of the church. Unless the two people ask to be released from it, they are considered married. Your father broke that promise when he married your mother instead.”

  He paused, upset that the younger boy, Richard, was already crying. He was the same age Richard had been when the dreadful news of York’s death had changed his life, so he did not blame the boy for shedding tears; as well their father’s recent death was still an open wound. Richard took out a linen kerchief and gently wiped the boy’s face allowing Edward to gather his thoughts.

  Edward picked at his fingers. “What does this mean exactly?” he demanded. Why was this uncle always against him? Nothing good had happened to Edward ever since Uncle Richard had come into his life at Stony Stratford, and, at twelve, he was learning to be suspicious of people—even his own family.

  Richard took a breath and answered as simply as he could. “It means your parents’ marriage was not legal, because your father was not free to marry. And for you boys, this is the upsetting part. One must be lawfully married in the eyes of the church before having children, or those children are not legitimate—legal. It does not mean your mother and father did not love you or each other, because they did,” he hastily added, “but it means you have no legal rights—including,” and he drew another deep breath before pronouncing, “your not being able to be king, Edward.”

  Richard was expecting Edward’s anger. “How do I know you are not lying, Uncle?” the boy cried, jumping up from the bed and kicking over the pewter jakes. “You lied when you told me my uncle Rivers would be released. He hasn’t, has he? I don’t trust you. And I don’t want to be called ‘bastard.’ I want to be called king.” He rounded on Richard, his fists clenched and looking so like Edward, Richard’s stomach contracted. “Why are you lying to me? You swore to protect me and uphold my kingship not three weeks ago. Do you break your oaths so quickly? I had heard you were my father’s loyal brother, but now I am not so sure.”

  Richard winced, but he let the boy vent. Edward had every right to do so; his father had betrayed him after all. He was quite eloquent for his age, and Richard sadly regretted the lad would not be king. Rivers had schooled him well in rhetoric and logical argument; he would have made his York family proud as king. But it was not to be.

  “How I wish it was not so, Ned. I am so sorry,” Richard told the older boy standing stiffly by the window. He gave the smaller boy a squeeze and kissed the top of his golden head. Poor boys, one day king and heir and now reduced to bastardy.

  “I understand your feelings, Ned, and you have every right to question me. But it is your father who was at fault, not I. It is he to whom you should address your anger.” Richard rose and went to Edward’s side, pretending he had not seen the few tears that had spilled down the lad’s cheeks. “I swear to you, that I am not lying in this. Everything I have done since your father’s death I have done in accordance with my oath to you for the good of England. I cannot break my promise to England that I will defend her crown to my dying breath, and I would break that pledge if I said nothing and allowed you to be crowned. Would you have me break my pledge, Ned?”

  Edward hung his head. He understood. “Nay, I would not,” he murmured.

  With the worst of the interview over, Richard went on to reassure his nephews that no matter their status, his and Aunt Anne’s affection for them would not change, and that whenever their mother chose to leave sanctuary, they would be able to live all together at Elizabeth’s family home in Grafton. “You will be welcomed at court, but I doubt your mother will want to be there.” He paused, watching them anxiously. It was a lot to absorb, he knew.

  Edward stared out onto the green where, less than a week ago, Will Hastings had lost his head. Dear God, Richard thought horrified, had the boy witnessed the execution? He would have to ask the usher. But he did not have to, Edward’s quick young mind had gone there, too.

  “Why did my father’s best friend lose his head?” Edward asked in a dull monotone. “Was it he who told you of the pre-contract? My Uncle Rivers called him immoral and a bad influence. My Uncle Rivers did not like Hastings. Did you?”

  Richard was flabbergasted by the boy’s adult questions. He struggled to give the lad a good explanation of his decision about Hastings, but first he suggested that little Richard go and ask Lord Lovell for a ride on his horse. The boy did not hesitate and ran off.

  “It was not a question of whether or not I liked Hastings, Ned. It was a question of high treason. He was a faithful friend to your father, ’tis true, but sometimes lying for one’s friends has larger consequences. There was more to the decision than that, however, but I will tell you all when you are older, and we have put this behind us.” Richard would not add to the boy’s burden now by implicating his mother in the plotting.

  “I watched him die, you know,” Edward said, quietly. “He was very brave.”

  Richard groaned inwardly. “If it is any consolation, Ned, I have honored Lord Hastings’ wish to be buried at Windsor near your father.”

  “It is,” the boy replied, sadly. “They were such great friends.” He turned his back on Richard, and, with dignity, he said, “I would
have you leave me now, my lord. I wish to be alone.”

  “You must take the crown, Cousin,” Harry of Buckingham insisted at the next privy council meeting. “It is your right and the kingdom needs a king.”

  How Richard had dreaded this moment. In truth, he had anticipated it, but he still was not prepared to think about wearing the crown. Anything he said now was likely to be whispered outside these walls and misinterpreted. Indeed, anything he did from now on would be recorded for posterity, and the burden was heavy.

  He looked around at the expectant faces of the men he hoped he could trust and wondered if they thought he had planned it all. He decided to bury any speculations without delay. Rising, he announced, “I swear to you that I have never sought nor do I now seek the throne.” He paused, letting the faces register surprise or guilt. He was suddenly aware that he must sound exactly as his father had sounded when York had vehemently denied seeking the throne. Dear God, is this a case of the sins of the father…? Nay,’tis nothing of the sort, merely an extraordinary coincidence, he told himself. Putting those thoughts aside, he continued, “Those of you who know me well—Cousin Buckingham, Lord Howard, Sir Francis—can tell you this is true. Sweet Jesu,” he sighed, “how much simpler for all of us had my brother’s secret died with him.” The lords then heard a sincere desperation in his question: “Gentle lords and friends, is there no other way to solve this?”

  Seeing Richard’s disquiet, Jack Howard stepped forward and laid a fatherly hand on Richard’s arm. “Who else is there, my lord? With the boys declared bastards, and Clarence’s son attainted through his father’s treason, you are next in the York line and the rightful heir.”

  “If you don’t want it, I’ll take it,” Buckingham quipped, but the jest flopped as flat as a cow’s turd, and the faces on the other councilors registered horror at his poor timing. Less shocked, Richard nevertheless glared at him. Sometimes he despaired of Harry’s judgment, and certainly his lack of tact. Had Edward been right not to give their cousin a position on his council? But Richard’s moment of doubt passed, and he let the gaffe go, unaware that later he would live to regret it.