This Son of York

by Anne Easter Smith

  But Richard’s first nightmare came that very night. In his cups and unable to bring lovemaking to a much needed climax, he fell into a fitful sleep. His flailing awakened Anne as the watch cried out the hour after prime. She lit a candle and shook him. It was a hot August night and her nightshift was damp with perspiration, but Richard’s was drenched. She thought he had a fever.

  “Wake up, my love,” she urged him. “You are dreaming. No doubt you had too much wine.”

  Richard shuddered. “Not wine, Anne, but fear. Fear for my immortal soul.”

  Anne held her breath. What could be troubling him so? She rocked him but wisely kept silent; he would tell her when he was ready. As long as he still loved and needed her, she did not care to know his every secret, she had long ago decided. It was sometimes best for secrets to remain secret. But Richard was clearly in distress, so she gently prodded him to unburden himself.

  “Tell me what ails you, Richard. There is nothing that would shock me anymore,” she said, teasing. “Unless you have found another mistress.” She could have bitten off her tongue as Richard roughly pulled away from her. “Forgive me, that was foolish. But tell me Richard, I insist.”

  Richard began pacing the chamber, hugging his arms to his chest. He wanted to tell her, but his guilt was so profound, he doubted even Anne would understand or forgive the morass he found himself in. Nay, Anne was too kind and gentle to hear a tale of such appalling cruelty. And so he told her a half-truth.

  “Harry and I have quarreled, Anne. More than quarreled; I am not certain we can be reconciled. You only need to know that I was in the right, and Harry would not accept it. He betrayed my trust, and that is all you need to know.”

  “He will recover,” Anne said, brightly. “He likes his position near you too much to stray.”

  Richard returned to his place beside Anne and stroked her sandy-colored hair. “I expect you are right, my dear. Now, let us try and sleep.”

  The farther north the king traveled the more rapturous his reception became. Pageants and plays were presented to him in Leicester and Nottingham before the royal procession crossed into Yorkshire and on to Pontefract. The extensive and many-towered castle, once called the kingdom’s most fearsome fort, was visible for miles, and it was difficult to avoid noticing the spiked heads of Rivers, Grey and Vaughn so recently set above the gate. Richard and Anne spurred quickly across the short drawbridge and rode under the gatehouse to the best of all welcomes.

  “Mother! Father!” Ned’s happy cry reached their ears as he raced across the bailey to greet them. Anne turned shining eyes to Richard and mouthed, “Thank you,” as the castle residents—Yorkshiremen all, who possessively looked on Richard as their own lord—cheered the returning couple. Originally, Ned was to have met them at York, but Richard thought to surprise his road-weary wife, who had had to resort to riding in a litter for many of the miles since Leicester.

  Richard had already dismounted when Ned, with Rufus at his heels, flung himself into his father’s arms. It was hard to say who was more excited to greet him, Ned or the wolfhound. Smothering the boy with kisses, Richard hoisted him in front of Anne, who wrapped her hungry arms around her son. Holding the rein, he lead his little family to the steps of the turreted keep set high on the motte. Richard greeted his subjects as Anne and Ned were helped off the palfrey.

  “I have never been more pleased to see Yorkshire again than I am now,” he told the exuberant crowd. “Although I am your king and have my duty, you here in the north have my heart.”

  Ned was a joy to be with for the weary Richard and Anne. He had grown an inch since Richard had left Middleham, and his parents were pleased with his progress in Latin. They were even more delighted to witness the real affection he and his half-siblings demonstrated upon being reunited. Richard could not have been prouder as he sat and watched his children laugh and chatter together. Katherine, at nearly fifteen, was a lovely young woman and, more disconcerting for a protective father, a honeypot for the young men in his train. Perhaps it was time to think about a husband for her. As she filled out, she looked less the image of Kate and showed some of his own expression, so Anne said. Nevertheless, Katherine was a daily reminder of his first great love, which at once continued to comfort and discomfit him.

  And then there was young John. Confident, friendly and intelligent, he could go far, although he would always be hampered by his bastardy—just like his nephews would have been, Richard thought with chagrin.

  If Richard felt fêted enough over the past six weeks, he was to be overwhelmed by his homecoming to York. The citizenry was dressed, according to the mayor’s edict, in blue, violet or grey. All the arras and tapestries in the city had been collected and were decorating buildings and stages, where pageants played out, and music floated up from every street corner. Tumblers tumbled, children strewed flowers, and young girls danced through the streets, ribbons and tresses flying behind them. Richard was enchanted as he rode at the head of this most splendid of retinues.

  When the mayor, extolling the new king to the townspeople, presented him with a golden cup filled with marks, Richard came to a sudden decision. He would not wait until returning to London to invest Ned as prince of Wales, he would do it here in York. In an astonishingly short time, a delivery of countless garments for his household, coats of arms, banners, pennons and White Boar badges fashioned for the ceremony arrived from the keeper of the Wardrobe in London.

  And in the magnificent minster on the eighth day of September, the investiture of Edward of Middleham as prince of Wales took place to the great rejoicing of the city. On the same day, he acknowledged his love for his older son, John, by knighting the suitably awed thirteen-year-old. It has been said that the investiture and subsequent banqueting was even more lavish than Richard’s own coronation. And by formally crowning his heir, Richard’s reign appeared to all to be stamped with legitimacy and blessed with longevity.

  Knowing how valuable his former position had been for Edward, Richard formed a new Council of the North, putting his oldest nephew, John de la Pole, the earl of Lincoln, son of his sister the duchess of Suffolk, at its head. He decided Northumberland was best positioned in command of of the important Scottish marches. Richard established this second royal household at Sheriff Hutton and put his other nephew, George’s son, under Lincoln’s guardianship. Although he had stood next in line to the throne after King Edward’s sons, young Warwick was also ineligible to wear the crown due to Clarence’s attainder. But Richard had anticipated the danger of an enemy using the lad as a figurehead for a possible uprising, and he hoped the Yorkshire moors might put the boy out of sight and out of mind.

  Anne asked to return to Middleham with Ned for a period, and although Richard was loath to say farewell, he knew she would regain her strength there and granted her request. Besides, he needed to go south and quell a new rebellion before it spread. How quickly his euphoric but ephemeral reception in the north had evaporated. As well, he was perturbed that Harry had never returned or sent word that his grisly mission was accomplished. It had been reported to Richard that the duke was now spending time on his estates in Wales. “Sulking, I expect,” Anne had said.

  “I am trusting you to look after your lady mother, Ned,” Richard told his son, who was seated beside Anne in the horse litter. “You are near to ten years old and almost a man.”

  Ned held himself erect. “I shall do my duty, as you have taught me, but when shall I see you again, my lord Father?”

  “Perhaps we can share the yuletide season together in London.” Richard smiled at Ned’s excited nodding. “We shall have a Christmas fit for a king.” Both Anne and Ned laughed at the joke.

  “Something to anticipate, is it not, sweeting?” Anne said, leaning back on the cushions as the horses began to move away.

  “Aye,” Richard said, blowing them a kiss. “Only three short months.”

  His last view of them as they disappeared through the castle gateway was of Ned leaning out of the
litter and waving gaily.

  Richard knew he had stayed away from London too long when he heard even more worrying news, this time from the duke of Brittany. It had to do with Margaret Beaufort’s exiled son, Henry Tudor, earl of Richmond, the pretended Lancastrian claimant to the throne. All those years ago, Duke Francis had promised to house Tudor for Edward in exchange for Edward’s support of Brittany against any possible war with its neighbor France. King Louis was now threatening war with Duke Francis unless Tudor was handed over to the French.

  “Brittany is so certain I fear Tudor that he expects me to send 4,000 archers to ward off the French.” Richard told his privy councilors upon arriving at Lincoln. “My brother may have feared a Lancastrian challenge, but Richmond is a Beaufort and, as such, has no right to the throne.”

  Lawyer Catesby felt obliged to remind them all: “By decree of Richard the Second, upon legitimizing John of Gaunt’s Beaufort bastards, they should never be eligible to wear the crown.”

  The other three nodded remembering that Henry of Bolingbroke had ignored the decree, usurped the crown as Henry IV in 1399, claiming right of conquest, and then begat the Lancaster line. It was a sobering reminder for the group.

  “Is anyone else concerned about Henry of Richmond,” Richard asked, feeding the faithful Rufus a tidbit from his discarded plate of roasted rabbit, “or shall I tell Duke Francis to heave the annoyance over the French border?” He motioned to one of his gentlemen to pour him some wine. Without Anne to admonish him, he was drinking more heavily to alleviate the tension of each day.

  “I think we have more to worry about on our own doorstep,” Francis said. “Who do you think is behind this latest incursion? Surely, with Elizabeth guarded at the abbey, her cohort Hastings dead and buried, and no sign of her son Dorset…”

  “The degenerate!” Richard interjected. “I have it on good authority he has been bedding Mistress Shore. That woman has an appetite for trouble. I had all but cornered Dorset after his failed attempt to rescue my nephews, but he has fled London. He can be of no help to Elizabeth now.”

  “The merry mistress conquers anew,” Rob chuckled. “I can’t help but admire her initiative.”

  Richard grimaced. “I fear I shall have to prosecute her again, this time for harboring a fugitive.” He went to the window. “But let us focus on the problem of unrest. Do we believe the trouble has arisen over my kingship or does the discontent stem from Edward’s mismanagement?”

  John Kendall looked up from the sheath of papers he had on the table next to him. “If I may interrupt, Your Grace, but here is a letter from Queen Elizabeth.” He handed it to Richard, who broke the seal and scanned the unruly writing.

  I am writing to beg you to allow my sons to join me here in sanctuary. I have heard rumor that they are dead—murdered in the Tower by your own hand. I do not believe it, and thus, appealing to you as a father and my erstwhile friend, I request you prove me right and bring me my boys. I remain, your brother’s faithful wife and queen, Elizabeth.

  Richard paled. If the rumor of the boys’ death had reached Westminster sanctuary, then it must have spread throughout London—and thus, how far outside? Was this what the rebellion was about? Then it was a lot more serious than mere discontent over taxes.

  He stared out of the window weighing if he should tell these few loyal friends what Buckingham had done. He had confessed harboring the secret to his chaplain, but no one else knew the atrocious truth—except Buckingham, of course. How long before the man’s silver tongue divulged the deed and then blamed Richard? Dear God, I could be brought down by such a lie! He resolved to reveal the secret now. How much better for his friends to hear it from his lips than to discover it for themselves upon their return to London. Besides, he needed help to handle the unrest.

  Rob broke into Richard’s thoughts. “What does the Grey Mare want now, Your Grace?”

  “She wants her sons restored to her,” Richard said quietly, still with his back to them all. “It is the one thing I cannot do for her, God help me.” He turned and dismissed the gentlemen of the chamber so that only Francis, Rob, Will Catesby and Ratcliffe remained, all staring at him curiously.

  “Why is that, Richard?” Rob spoke first.

  Richard rasped in a low whisper, “Because they are dead.” Crumpling the parchment, he threw it on the floor. “They are dead, God forgive me.”

  After the initial shock, the close-knit group of loyalists debated a course of action. It was Catesby’s nimble mind that latched onto the one possible, plausible pathway to dispelling the rumor. “You said Buckingham told the boys’ servant that he was taking them to safety at your behest, am I right? Then who are we to deny that ‘truth?’ You sent Buckingham to remove them in secret somewhere—let us say ‘abroad.’ At that point, Buckingham must see, like the worm he is, he will be off the hook and acquiesce to save his arse. Who will dispute you? You are king, and who will dare demand of the king to show the lads’ faces?”

  Francis let out a low whistle of admiration. “If that story is circulated immediately, no one will believe Harry if he now comes forward to say you had him murder the boys. It will sound ridiculous.”

  “’Tis a plausible story indeed, William,” Rob Percy agreed and grinned at the young lawyer.

  Richard smiled for the first time in days, and he slapped Catesby on the back. “I am grateful for your legal mind, Will, and I think your idea may save the realm from further conflict. I will summon Buckingham to return and tell him in person. He must agree for his own good. It must be the same tale: the boys are somewhere secret and safe. I will even write to Brackenbury and thank him for allowing Harry to take the boys from the Tower on my behalf.”

  Then he shook his head sadly. “Foolish Harry truly believed I would be pleased by what he had done and was confounded when I was not.” He nodded at Catesby. “’Tis a masterful solution, and I hope I can persuade Harry to share in it—and return to the fold.” He harrumphed. “That is when he has finished brooding in Brecknock.”

  Richard could never have anticipated what happened next: Henry Stafford, duke of Buckingham, turned his coat.

  Not two days later, Richard received the intelligence that Buckingham was the acknowledged leader of the rebellion that had interrupted Richard’s progress.

  As though he had received the shock physically, Richard doubled over in pain as Jack Howard’s son relayed his father’s urgent message from London. Thomas, now earl of Surrey, quickly handed the king a cup of ale and suggested that Richard sit. “Allow me to tell you what we know, Your Grace,” he said, as the room began to fill up with advisors, stunned by the news. The young man could not guess that Richard already knew the real reason for Buckingham’s defection, and that his letter to Harry had been too late—or ignored.

  Surrey’s father was holding London against Kentish and Sussex rebels, while in the west and Wales, Buckingham was at the head of the rebel force intent on combining forces with the eastern contingent. Jack Howard believed the Woodvilles and their allies were to blame for the rebellion. “Margaret Beaufort has been seen at the abbey visiting the queen, and we intercepted a message on its way to Wales for John Morton, bishop of Ely. The two have been in correspondence it would seem and, with the queen, are plotting to remove you.”

  Thomas paused, watching Richard slide his ring on and off his finger as he processed the information. Suddenly, Richard made a sound that was part laugh, part growl. “And here is irony. I sent Morton to Brecknock so he could whisper treason in Harry’s ear,” he said. “He is the one I should have executed, not Hastings. Let me borrow from my ancestor, the first Plantagenet, who famously said, ‘who will rid me of this meddlesome priest.’ Morton the manipulator; Morton the flatterer; Morton the deceiver; he is the snake who has bitten Buckingham and infused him with poison.” His control slipping and his voice shaking, he muttered, “I pray you excuse me, gentlemen, I need some air. Thomas, continue with your intelligence so Kendall here can chronicle it.”

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nbsp; “Your Grace, would you like me to accompany you?” Francis offered, stepping forward.

  “I thank you, nay,” Richard answered, walking slowly to the door, his head heavy on his crooked shoulders. Harry’s betrayal was too great to comprehend, but he needed to be alone to try.

  He trudged up the spiral stairs to the ramparts with only Rufus for company and faced the glorious west front of Lincoln Cathedral a few hundred feet away high on the hill, its soaring central spire reaching to heaven. Richard hardly noticed its beauty as the cool, damp October air reflected his gloom. Two guards were making their crossover on the northern wall; otherwise, he was alone.

  Angry thoughts of his cousin raged around his brain like untamed animals, but all eventually returned to one place: betrayal. What had pushed Harry to treason? To break his sacred oath to his king? Richard recalled Harry boasting one night of taking a leaf from Warwick’s book: “I am a kingmaker,” he had crowed. Aye, Richard thought, and like Warwick you have betrayed your king.

  He groaned. How had he come from Edward’s death to crisis after crisis in only six months? When he had started out from Middleham that bright April day grieving for his brother and intent on being a strong protector of the young boy king, he had felt confident, sure of his purpose in life, and a happy family man. Fortune’s wheel had spun him around so many times since then, he was dazed. Sometimes it felt things were not happening to him at all, that he was floating aloft watching himself react, no longer in control of anything. Harry had had a hand in turning that wheel, he could see that now, and Richard had gone along with him, reluctantly at times. And now Richard was king with too many deaths on his conscience already. Guilt and despair gripped him with icy fingers, and he steadied himself against the battlement.