“Pish!” Elizabeth said dismissively as she contemplated the new queen. Anne was a good match for the under-sized, misshapen Richard, she thought. Small, attractive, but not beautiful, Anne had always appeared a bit childish to the older woman—wishy-washy even. However, her new power had given Warwick’s daughter confidence; confidence enough to scoff at Elizabeth’s new loss of prestige. Elizabeth shrugged. “Believe what you want.”
“’Tis not a question of believing,” Anne insisted, “it is a question of knowing you plotted with the Beaufort woman and that odious bishop to put Henry of Richmond on the throne. You even agreed to betroth your daughter, Edward’s beloved Bess, to that Lancastrian upstart.”
“Do you blame me? He promises to legitimize my poor children,” Elizabeth shot back. “I do what I can for them. Is that not what we mothers all do? And, may I point out, Henry Tudor is no parvenu; he is the Lancastrian heir to the throne.” She sat back, a smug smile on her face. She doubted Anne knew yet, as they bickered here, that another attempt at invasion was being planned for the spring. Elizabeth would take her daughters home to Grafton Manor, the only residence left to her now, and await the event. With help from the French and those exiles gathered with Henry—including her son, Dorset—she had no doubt Richard would be deposed in short order. She wished she had proof he had killed her boys, but all she knew was they were no longer alive. Her son, Dorset, had heard it from the now-executed Buckingham. Hearsay is all it is now, she lamented.
Anne regarded the still-lovely widow with a mixture of sympathy and disdain. Anne was not a woman to hate easily, and Elizabeth had never done anything to hurt her. But she knew she had the upper hand and was emboldened to state: “Edward would never have condoned such an unholy alliance, and you know it. Where is your loyalty?”
“Pah! You speak of loyalty in the same breath as my philandering, lying husband—oh, no, I am forgetting, he was not my husband, was he?” Elizabeth’s claws were showing, and she needed to control them before Richard changed his mind about allowing her to leave. Because she could, Elizabeth chose to bring tears to her blue eyes. “How would you feel if Richard had lied about loving you all these years? That he had secretly loved someone else so well he had pre-contracted with her?” She was so self-absorbed, she failed to see Anne wince. “And now I am left with nothing to offer my six daughters. Can you not see, Anne? I had to at least help Bess to a future. And what about my boys…my poor bastards…” she broke off, dabbing at her eyes, “I have lost my boys…”
“Aye, you have my heartfelt sympathy for them, Elizabeth,” Anne broke in not unkindly. Best not to travel that path, she thought. “but you must look to your daughters now.” She could not blame Elizabeth for wanting what was best for her children. Would she not do the same for Ned? She softened her tone. “As I said, I am sorry for you, but I am here to tell you that Bess and Cecily are welcome at our court, and Richard has promised me that he will find suitable matches for them—and your other daughters when they are of age, if you will allow him to help you.” She looked across the refectory where the two older girls sat quietly sewing and pitied the boredom they must have endured shut in a cloister for almost a year. “I must commend you, they are exquisite.”
Elizabeth inclined her head at the compliment. She knew this was not a suggestion from Richard but a command. Richard would need to keep Bess close in case Henry Tudor spirited her away, married her, and used her to shore up Yorkist support.
Elizabeth rose. “Pray tell the king I will consider his kind request,” she said. “If that is all, then I shall wish you a good morning.” She made to leave, but seeing Anne’s raised eyebrow, she asked, “I beg your pardon, did you have anything else to say?”
“Only that one does not usually rise before the queen and dismiss her,” Anne said evenly. The quick flush of embarrassment on Elizabeth’s face gave Anne immense satisfaction.
But Elizabeth’s bravado only lasted long enough for her to concede that Richard’s offer to protect her daughters was both generous and a relief. The dreary life in sanctuary was grinding her resolve down, and once accepting that there was no chance her boys would suddenly reappear, she gave her girls permission to leave. She grunted her reluctant admiration as she read a transcript of Richard’s oath taken in front of the lords: I, Richard….promise and swear that if the daughters of Elizabeth Grey, late calling herself queen of England… She paused to mutter before moving on, “but I was anointed queen,” …will come to me out of the sanctuary and be guided, ruled and conduct themselves after me, then I shall see that they shall be in surety of their lives, have them honestly and courteously treated…and to have all things requisite and necessary for their exhibitions and findings as my kinswomen…. The next sentence finally broke Elizabeth’s reserve: I shall arrange marriage for them to gentlemen well born, and give every one lands and tenements… Elizabeth sighed. “Where would I now, as disgraced Dame Grey, look to find husbands for my beautiful girls,” she moaned to her last faithful lady. “As innocents, they deserve nothing less than what Richard offers.”
Richard also extended Elizabeth an adequate annual stipend, which would allow her to return to live quietly at her manor of Grafton if—and the written declaration made it clear—Richard never heard any reports of duplicity or disloyalty from her.
Being a schemer, Elizabeth looked for a motive behind Richard’s seeming generosity. The only feasible reason was that he intended to keep a close eye on Bess in case Henry Tudor decided to snatch her and make good on his Christmas promise. But, she sadly admitted to herself, Henry had had ample time and an easier opportunity to carry out an abduction from sanctuary and had made no attempt in that direction.
“It is the best I can do for you, my dears,” she told her five older daughters. She had decided the baby, Brigid, would stay with her.
Thus, with the glimmer of hope that one day Bess would be queen, Dame Elizabeth Grey conceded defeat. She emerged from the abbey a suffocating year after seeking its sanctuary. She would have been mortified to see how quickly her daughters embraced life at Richard’s court.
By mid-April, Richard’s fear of an invasion from across the channel compelled him to move north to Nottingham Castle, an impressive stronghold perched on a promontory, centrally located and giving him a commanding view to the south and west. Underneath, and dug into the bared sandstone hillside, ran a labyrinth of tunnels up into the castle, useful for an escaping royal in times past.
“How I envy you your return to Yorkshire, my love,” Richard said, kneeling to remove Anne’s tiny green slippers. After being readied for bed by their servants, taking off Anne’s shoes and stockings had become a tender task Richard had long ago insisted should be his. The intimate gesture often led to lovemaking that Anne looked forward to whenever they shared a bed.
“I am glad you will soon be with Ned,” Richard continued, stroking her thin calves as she caressed his bent head. “Do you realize it has been six months since I saw him, more’s the pity. ’Tis too long. I pray every day that whatever ailed him this winter will see him healthy now spring is here, and he can soon join us.”
“Mother says he is growing, so I am not concerned. Perhaps the sea air in Scarborough will do him good. I will take him there when it is warmer.” She yawned, pushed her husband away and got into the comfortable downy bed. “I confess I cannot keep my…” She did not finish as they heard unexpected sounds of an arrival in the courtyard.
“Who can that be at this hour?” Richard muttered, going to the window. His nerves always on edge, he assumed the worst: Henry Tudor, earl of Richmond, had landed.
But the news was far worse.
Francis Lovell knocked on the door requesting immediate entry a few minutes later. Anne slipped on her bedrobe while Richard flung open the door. Francis and a muddied messenger in Richard’s own livery stepped into the room and went down on their knees.
“What is it?” Richard demanded, noting Francis’s pallor. “Is it Richmond?”
Anne flew to his side. “What is it, Richard? Is it Ned? Sweet Virgin, is it Ned?”
The floor was moving beneath him, and Richard was no longer able to stand. “Oh God,” he groaned, falling to his knees and reaching for Anne. “My dearest wife, brace yourself.” He pulled her close and held her face between his hands. “Our little Ned is gone. He’s dead!”
Anne screamed, “How? When? Tell me!” A vile taste invaded her mouth, and she puked the bile onto the blue and white tiles, smattering Richard’s nightshirt.
Richard tenderly wiped her mouth with the towel Francis had found for him, and when Anne insisted again, he told her: “It seems he took ill of a fever a few days ago and nothing could be done to cool the heat in his blood.” He watched her tears fall, and cradling her to him, he, too, began to heave with sobs. “He is dead, Anne, our precious son is dead.”
Francis touched the messenger on the arm and jerked his head towards the door. The man, open-mouthed at the openly weeping royal couple, gladly got to his feet and preceded Francis out. Francis gently closed the door on the tragic scene, allowing husband and wife the privacy to grieve.
Richard lifted Anne onto the bed, spread the coverlet over her shaking body and drew the heavy curtains around her. Trembling, he knelt at his portable altar and found a prayer for the death of a child in Henry’s holy book. As he stared unseeing at the page, his anger built, until he snapped the book shut and flung it away. “I see You are not keeping Your end of the bargain, are You?” he accused the Almighty, his voice shaking. “Or will You not be satisfied until You have taken everything from me?” Another heart-wrenching sob from Anne gave fuel to his ire. “Never mind me. What about Anne? What has she ever done to displease You?” and he raised his fist and shook it at the painted crucifix on the altar. “She has done nothing, I tell you, nothing at all!”
As Anne drenched her pillow, Richard knelt by the bed and, holding her hand in his, he gave his own pitiable blessing to his beloved son. He left God out of it.
PART SIX
Last of the Plantagenets
O most sweet lord Jesus Christ, true God, who was sent from the bosom of the Almighty Father into the world to forgive sins, to comfort afflicted sinners, comfort the sad, and to console those in grief and distress, deign to release me from the affliction, temptation, grief, sickness, need and danger in which I stand, and give me counsel. And you, Lord, who reconciled the race of man…and who made peace between men and angels, deign to make and keep concord between me and my enemies…
Even so lord Jesus Christ, deign to free me, your servant, King Richard, from every tribulation, sorrow and trouble in which I am placed and from the plots of my enemies, and deign to send Michael the Archangel to my aid against them…
By all these things, I ask, you most sweet lord Jesus Christ, to keep me, your servant, King Richard, and defend me from all evil and from all peril present, past and to come and deliver me from all tribulations…in the name of all your goodness for which I give and return thanks, for all those gifts and goods granted me…
—The Prayer of King Richard, from his Book of Hours
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Late Summer 1484
Despite Richard’s anger at his Maker, he tried once again to appease Him.
After burying Ned in the little chapel at Middleham, Richard and Anne wanted nothing more than to leave. The boy was imprinted on every inch of the great castle, and Anne expected him to come around a corner at any moment. So they traveled east with their court and spent July and August at Anne’s favorite castle on the cliffs of Scarborough.
What can I do to satisfy you, Lord? Richard asked his Maker for the thousandth time, morbid thoughts returning, as they always did, to the scene in King Henry’s Tower chamber. Henry, Henry… Then all at once he knew what he must do to help salve his soul: He must re-inter Henry’s bones in a more appropriate site than insignificant Chertsey Abbey, Edward’s choice of resting place. He would pay for a royal reburial in St. George’s Chapel, Windsor. The gentle Henry had seen many pilgrims come to pray at his grave over the years, and, after miracles were reported, there was even talk of sainthood. Perhaps Richard saw a chance to make amends, as well as placate those pilgrims.
“That chapel was his pride and joy until my brother won the crown and made it his own,” Richard told John Kendall as he dictated the order. “It is only fitting that Henry lie there. He was, after all, an anointed king and should be buried with all the respect due him.”
Although little Ned’s mother and father would never recover from losing him, they attempted to quarantine their grief in the privacy of their curtained tester bed. There, listening to the waves of the North Sea rhythmically rolling over the beach below them, they exchanged remembrances of their beloved child, alternately laughing and crying. Richard spent other nights drinking himself into a stupor, while Anne gave up eating all but what would minimally sustain her, the seamstresses toiling to alter her gowns. She would spend hours sitting on the grassy cliff edge staring out to sea, and when Richard became concerned she might throw herself off, he ordered that she be accompanied at all times by at least two of her ladies and a groom.
A king’s duty, however, could not be put aside, and first he needed to shore up his throne and name a new heir. The latter was an easy decision: he named his older sister Elizabeth of Suffolk’s son, John de la Pole, the young, vigorous and capable earl of Lincoln, and already Lord of the North; he was next in an unquestionable Yorkist line of descendants of English kings.
It was a tribute to Richard’s thoughtfulness at this unhappy time, that he remembered to pay attention to his remaining children—illegitimate though they were. The beautiful Katherine bade a tearful farewell to her father when she was escorted to her new home in South Wales that summer, where she became the bride of William Herbert. “He is one of my loyal supporters, Katherine, and we shall see you often, I am certain,” Richard told her. He took her chin in his fingers. “And I believe you were not displeased with my choice, am I right?” He laughed when he saw her blush. “Aye, poppet, you will soon forget me and embrace a new life.” He had winced when she clung to him and called him “her dearest Father.” They were only sixteen years apart in age and yet he felt many more years older.
Fourteen-year-old John, already captain of Calais, was knighted by his father during a visit to Scarborough with his lord, Lovell, who told Richard that John was quick-witted and an able soldier.
“He needs to curb his lust, however,” Francis had said with a grin, but Richard was not amused. “Give the boy a chance, my lord,” Francis teased. “Remember his mother? You were about the same age when you seduced Kate.”
“Was I?” Richard mused sadly, not rising to the bait. “It all seems so long ago now.” And in truth he did not seem like the same man who had loved so passionately and recklessly in his youth. He had sighed deeply and moved on to other issues. “I am glad you are here, Francis. I may have need of you before long. Those perfidious Scots are rattling their claymores again.”
During those long, hot days of summer Richard tried to fill his days with his royal duties, which included outfitting the fleet for a possible invasion from Scotland. He threw himself into preparations including adding new artillery to his inventory. Also fearing another attempt by Tudor to invade, Richard ordered cannons be mounted on the walls of the Tower of London to fend off a southern attack. Breton pirates were causing trouble in the Channel again, taking advantage of a new regime in England, and Richard
sent a flotilla to worry them off the Breton coast. It seemed as though he was beset on all sides by conflict, not the least of which battled in his own mind. He knew he did not have Edward’s way with people, but the more he tried to please his subjects, the more they viewed him with suspicion. Even his personal intervention in a woman of York’s law suit against an unscrupulous relative could not erase the words “usurper” and “murderer” from tainting the twelve months of his reign and burrowing into his unhappy heart.
“What is it this time, my dear?” Anne asked wearily one evening. She wanted to support her husband, but her own need for strength always threatened to overwhelm her frail spirit. Anne’s apathy in the world around her had forced Richard to keep politics from her door. Should he bother her with the latest from Brittany? At first it had been good news; Richard’s action along the coast had resulted in a diplomatic victory as Duke Francis, fearing for his duchy’s security, agreed to hand over Henry Tudor and his fellow Lancastrian exiles. But then…
“I have received bad news, I am afraid, but you do not need to concern yourself, sweetheart.”
She smiled then, warming to the endearment. “I do need to hear. I pray you, tell me.”
He poured himself another goblet of wine, causing her to frown, but she had lost her energy to chastise him. “Very well. We had almost bagged Henry, but Duke Francis’s bootless minions were too slow to catch him before he crossed the border into France.” He crashed down his fist on the table, making Anne jump. “We have lost him, God damn their eyes and lazy arses! A few minutes would have changed everything.”
Richard could have uttered no truer words, for the capture of the Lancastrian claimant to the throne would have changed the course of English history.
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