We rejoiced with him, we had the bells rung, word sent to the village, Richard’s secretary John Kendal wrote a letter telling the King. But none of us told Richard how ominous it was he had not been allowed to see Anne.
She nearly died in that childbed, Innogen told me later, or as much as I could bear to hear, for men are squeamish about such things. ‘Three times we thought we had lost them both,’ she said. ‘I’ve never seen a woman bleed so much, yet live.’ I flung up a protesting hand. ‘Aye, you men, it’s all pleasure for you.’
‘No! We don’t bear the bodily pain, but we have to wait, and fear. Every time you’re in childbed... And I love Anne so dearly. Will she – ’ I couldn’t say the word.
‘I think she will live. But she will never bear another child. She suffered... damage... during the birth.’ Innogen fell asleep then, and slept the day and night through. Leaving me and Lady Warwick to prepare Richard for the chance that Anne might still die.
But she lived, of course. It was a full three months before she could leave her bed, but she lived and so did her child.
By coincidence she had been up only a day or two when a letter came to say that her sister Isabel was expecting a child in December. By that time we knew that Innogen and I were to have another child, so wantonly had we celebrated our fifth wedding anniversary. By then I had let myself forget the dreadful time Anne had had, I could afford to think only of Innogen’s previous safe deliveries. It was summer, Richard had an heir at last, John and Katherine were puffed with pride in their little brother, Anne was well again, Innogen sailing serenely through her pregnancy. So the year passed, in happiness.
In November a letter came saying that Isabel of Clarence had been safely delivered of another son, to be named Richard for his uncle. I was only mildly interested, for Innogen was near her time. I sent my felicitations and a gift with Richard’s messenger, then forgot the matter.
Our baby arrived in time for Christmas. For some reason we had both expected a son, and had no name for the large, healthy baby girl. I fancied calling her Margaret for Richard’s sister, but Innogen didn’t care for the name. Lying back on her pillows, crooning to the baby, she rejected all my other suggestions. In the end it was Lady Warwick who suggested Philippa, the name of Edward III’s queen and Chaucer’s wife. We liked it, and the baby looked like a Philippa, so it was decided.
The day after the christening I was going about some ordinary business when I ran into Francis, standing irresolute outside Richard’s private rooms. Swiftly he took my arm. ‘I wouldn’t go in, Martin. There’s bad news. Isabel of Clarence is dead. She died just before Christmas.’
The news hit me like a blow. ‘Oh no. Isabel? Oh no, Francis.’ We had known her so well from our boyhood here at Middleham. She was only twenty-five, and I had liked her. Then with a clutch of fear for Innogen I asked, ‘What was it, child-bed fever?’
‘I shouldn’t think so – the baby was born more than two months ago. Martin, the baby is dead too.’ Hearing my new daughter’s lusty screams from above he quickly added, ‘But he was very frail from birth. Don’t worry about your Philippa.’
Silently I told myself our baby was strong, so big at birth that she had turned the kitchen scales at more than eight pounds. Strong and thriving, for although Innogen never had any milk after the first two weeks we had a good wet-nurse, a clean, healthy country woman who Innogen insisted should eat good food and drink nothing stronger than home-brewed ale. The nurse’s own six children had always thrived, and Innogen showed no signs of fever or illness; surely there was nothing to fear.
‘Don’t fear for her,’ Francis absently repeated. ‘Anna’s with Anne and her mother, they are grieving badly, of course.’ I had forgotten that Isabel was Anna Lovell’s cousin. ‘Richard is with them, and – ’
As he spoke the door behind us opened and Richard came out. Grim and tired, he said to me, ‘You’ve heard?’
‘Francis told me. I’m so sorry. Poor little Isabel, may God have mercy on her soul.’
‘Yes, she was a good woman. Poor little Isabel, yes. Silly, often, but sweet, wasn’t she, and kind.’ He glanced down at the crumpled letter in his hand. ‘Martin, Francis, come to my business room. Where’s Rob?’
Following him, and he strode quickly when angry or bothered, I said, ‘Not sure, shall we send for him?’
‘Later will do.’ Richard dismissed his pages and himself poured wine. ‘Shut the door, no one must hear this.’ He downed his wine in a gulp and spread out the letter on the table. ‘This is from George. It’s barely coherent – no wonder – but I think he has gone mad. He writes that Isabel was poisoned.’
There was a fraught moment of silence. ‘Poisoned!’ Francis and I repeated.
‘Yes.’ Richard ran his hand through his hair. ‘I know, I know, it sounds typical George, doesn’t it, you needn’t say it. And he loved Isabel, so... But he writes that although she had a hard time at the birth and the child was small and not strong, they seemed to be doing well enough; he took her back to Tewkesbury a month after the birth.’ The baby had been born at Warwick. ‘For all I know that was the trouble, that she wasn’t well enough to travel in winter. But George says there was nothing to worry about, then suddenly Isabel took ill, and died. And he says it was poison.’
‘I hope,’ Francis said bluntly, ‘that he has had the sense to write this only to you.’
‘So do I.’ Richard filled his cup again. ‘Because the implications are plain, aren’t they. George has many enemies. And even here among us three we don’t name the ones who hate him most.’
‘No we don’t. But how could... people in London, manage to poison George’s wife at Tewkesbury?’ Though of course servants could be suborned. ‘Does he accuse any person?’
‘No, thank God. But just the same I’ll burn his letter.’ Turning to the fire he did so, poking the flaming paper deep into the coals. ‘A man who has just lost his wife and child is naturally distraught; nothing he says at such a time counts. And I hope I don’t have to spend the next few months repeating that to everyone in England.’ He stood for a moment, thinking. ‘Anne wants to go to Tewkesbury for Isabel’s funeral. I can’t deny her, though I don’t want her travelling right across the country in this weather. I have managed to convince her mother she mustn’t think of going too.’ Never robust, the Countess suffered dreadfully from rheumatics, in winter she was hardly fit to leave the warmth of her bedroom. ‘We must go. I want to, to be with George. I would anyway, but I have to convince him to stop any talk of poisoning. I haven’t told the women of that, and I want to keep it from them. So it is among us three only, and Rob.’ We nodded. The less said, the better. ‘Anne and I will leave tomorrow. Francis, Anna wants to go too, of course, so you’ll accompany us? Martin, you and Rob must look after things here, Council business and so on – though it’s only for a month, I hope.’
‘When is Isabel’s funeral to be?’
‘As far as I could make out George’s writing, there will be the usual three weeks lying in the Tewkesbury chapel, then the funeral on the twenty-fifth. Poor George. He asked me to be that baby’s godfather, you know. Masses here, of course. In fact, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll speak to the chaplain now.’
More slowly finishing our wine, Francis and I looked at each other. ‘Makes you glad to have no brothers, doesn’t it. Would George do as much for Richard?’
‘Who knows. But the thing is,’ I said, remembering things in the past, ‘George does love Richard. In his own peculiar way.’
‘Oh, I daresay, but would you put a groat on George’s discretion? Because I wouldn’t. And if he has some bee in his bonnet and makes trouble with this poisoning story – which frankly I can’t believe in for a moment – what’s the wager he’ll drag Richard into it too?’
‘Then your duty’s plain,’ I said with a flippancy I later bitterly regretted, ‘you must murder George before his big flapping mouth can get anyone into trouble.’
~~~
Richard and
Anne were away a month, and they returned only a day before the royal courier galloped in with a letter. Charles Duke of Burgundy was dead. He had died while besieging the town of Nancy; frozen to death, his body eaten by wolves.
‘And of course,’ Richard said, ‘Louis of France is already moving against Burgundy. He claims that Burgundy now reverts to France, and he is making a military strike against all the territories in that area. And of course he expects England’s help.’
‘So you were right.’
‘Yes, and I wish I weren’t. The King’s called a Great Council meeting. Though what he intends to do is anyone’s guess. Poor Margaret. And what about Duchess Mary?’ For there was the nub: Charles’s only heir was his young daughter Mary by his first marriage. ‘She’ll have to marry,’ Richard said thoughtfully, ‘and damn quickly, and to someone damn’ powerful, if she’s to hold off Louis. Hellfire, we need Burgundy to keep France off us and our trade. Well, I bet that’s the last of Edward’s treaty.’
Of course he was right, and at an acrimonious meeting the Great Council, having ignored Richard’s advice about France, chewed the bitter cud.
‘Oh, nothing was actually decided, of course,’ Richard said with commendable malice on his return. ‘It’s a case of all help for Burgundy short of actual aid. Edward has suggested to Louis that the truce be extended to last for their lifetimes. Louis must be pissing himself laughing. But now comes the interesting part. My sister Margaret suggested that her stepdaughter Mary should marry George.’
I nearly said ‘George who?’, so wild did the obvious answer seem.
‘George?’
‘George. Of Clarence. My brother.’
‘But – ’ The bleak glint in Richard’s eye warned me not to go on.
However, Anne, who had been quietly sewing while she listened, said, ‘George? Well, I’m sorry, Richard, if it truly was Margaret’s idea, but I have never heard anything so indecent. Isabel died hardly two months ago. And, say what you will, George loved her, he wouldn’t think of re-marrying for a long time!’
‘Well…’
‘You mean –?’
‘Darling, I’m sorry. He was all for it.’ Anne was a placid woman, but under her quietness she had her father’s temper. ‘Of course,’ Richard unwisely hurried on, ‘it cannot be looked at as a personal matter, it would be a political alliance only, so – ’ He ducked as Anne threw her embroidery frame at him. She followed it with as neat a verbal picture of him and his entire family as I could ever wish to hear, then stormed out of the room with a slam that had people in two counties starting nervously.
‘You handled that well,’ said Francis, picking up the embroidery.
‘I forgot she was here,’ Richard sheepishly confessed. ‘I wasn’t going to tell her. I knew she would take it personally.’
‘Who wouldn’t? She’s right, it’s not decent, not so soon. It insults Isabel’s memory. Would you think of remarrying so soon? Richard, you can’t be for the idea?’
There was quite a long pause, in which we avoided one another’s eye, before he answered, ‘No I am not. Not on any grounds. I’m afraid it was Margaret’s fondness for George overcoming her good sense. By the way, George is drinking like a fish... In any case, the King flatly refused to consider it. But what no one quite understands is that the brother or sister or child of the King does not have the luxury of personal choice. George and I married for love, and we were lucky, for the King disapproved in both our cases. I admit he was in a poor position to object, but not one of you, my closest friends, has ever known how hard the King made it for me to marry Anne. If he hadn’t been so angry with George he might have forbidden it, and loyalty and need of me be buggered. Marriage, for people like us, is not a matter of love or choice; you all know that.’ Francis flushed: his had been the usual arranged marriage, he had been Warwick’s ward and married off willy-nilly to Warwick’s niece, and no one could say they more than rubbed along together. And, thinking of all those Woodville marriages back in the 1460s, I recalled that I, the King’s ward and cousin, had only married where I chose because I wasn’t important, and the King owed Innogen and me a favour.
Watching us, Richard went on, ‘But you don’t know how much more it is the case for the King’s own family. If Anne died – ’ he crossed himself, ‘ – and the King commanded me to marry some foreign princess for the sake of political alliance, do you think I would be allowed to refuse? Short of giving up everything here and hiring out my sword as a mercenary in Europe? In which case I would lose my son. That, my disapproving friends, is what it is like when you’re the brother of the King.’
I had rarely heard him speak with such intensity. It was too easy for us to fall into the way of thinking that he of all men had earned the right to do as he chose; but just how far would affection and loyalty go with the King in such a case?
Then, lightening, he said, ‘Well, it doesn’t matter in this instance, because as I said the King forbade George even to think of marrying Duchess Mary – and the lady herself refused. Barely politely. George is the last husband she needs! Though I can’t help wondering if George saw the idea as a way to the power he would need to rebel again.’
‘Richard, surely he wouldn’t? Hasn’t he learnt his lesson?’
‘Does George ever learn? I’ve had weeks of him – and London. And telling everyone that it’s his grief over Isabel is wearing damn thin as an excuse, especially after this marriage idea. Perhaps he is mad.’ He hesitated a moment, then went reluctantly on, ‘Though I felt some sympathy for him. The King refused the mere idea of George marrying Mary of Burgundy – then put forward Anthony Woodville as the ideal bridegroom.’
‘Anthony Woodville! To marry Mary of Burgundy?’
No wonder Richard was tired and on edge. Keeping the peace between his brothers, with this sort of provocation ... Surely not even the Queen in all her ambition could have taken the idea seriously? Despite his mother’s St Pol connections, Rivers was a petty English earl without wealth, power or martial prowess; and the King had put the idea to the première heiress of Europe! How far under the Queen’s thumb was he these days?
Well, we learnt the answer to that soon enough.
‘Mary refused, of course,’ Richard said wearily. ‘She was insulted. Word is she’s going to marry the Emperor Maximilian. And of course someone let George get wind of the thing – about Rivers, I mean – and he was flouncing about insulting everyone, refusing to take meals at Court, talking of conspiracies... Oh, and the King has a new mistress. Shore or Shaw. Her name’s Elizabeth but he calls her Jane.’ He stood up so sharply the table rocked, spilling papers everywhere. Normally meticulous, he ignored the mess. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I must go and make peace with my wife.’
Following at a safe distance, I saw him come face to face with the beady little confederacy of Innogen and his two elder children. ‘What have you done to Anne?’ my wife demanded.
‘Nothing. Mind your own business, Innogen.’ Behind him I signalled frantic endorsement of this advice.
His blue eyes full of tears little John said, ‘But Lady Anne is crying! Is someone else dead too?’
‘Darling, no.’ Guilt-stricken, Richard knelt down and wiped the tears away. ‘No, John, it’s just that I had to tell Lady Anne something annoying that happened in London. She’s cross, that’s all. Ladies sometimes cry when they’re angry. Don’t they, Innogen?’
‘Indeed they do, Your Grace. Particularly when men are tactless and unkind.’
As she intended, this tickled Richard’s sense of humour, though it was a close-run thing. ‘Famously brutal as I am to women... Where is she?’
‘In her room.’
‘She locked the door,’ John said. ‘And Lady Anne never cries. You’d better go and kiss her like Papa does to Mama when she’s cross.’
Richard glanced at Innogen and me, but we were both studying the ceiling. ‘I shall take your advice, my dear,’ he said gravely, and went.
~~~
The
re was little else to amuse us the rest of that year, for now George’s troubles really began. I never did quite understand what happened at first – I wonder if even George did – but as far as I know it, this is the story.
Mad, drunken, or even justified, George took it into his head that one Ankarette Twynho, one of Isabel’s serving-women, had poisoned her, working in concert with a fellow called Thursby, whose task it had been to poison the baby. What evidence George had for this fantastic-sounding story I don’t know; probably none. Though it was so fantastic that he must have had some reason for believing it. Had the matter stopped at mere accusations, there would have been little enough harm done, perhaps, but George sent a gang of his men-at-arms to break into Mistress Twynho’s house and haul her off by main force to Warwick to be tried for murder. Warwick was at the centre of George’s influence, the jury were all his men. The trial was hustled through in a day, and Thursby and Mistress Twynho were found guilty and hanged immediately.
The point is obvious, of course. George had subverted the course of justice by pushing through such a quick trial by a stacked jury. And he had taken the King’s justice into his own hands as surely as if he had run the poor Twynho woman through with his sword. He had overthrown the rule of law that Englishmen hold dear.
Bad enough for lovers of justice, but worse – for George – was to follow. A month after the Twynho business, an Oxford clerk called Stacy was accused of sorcery. The alleged offences were grave: Stacy was charged with casting horoscopes to foretell the death of the King and his heir, and of disseminating treason. In his confession Stacy accused two other men. One of these, a fellow clerk, was of no great importance. The other, called Burdett, was a Justice of the Peace and Member of Parliament. He was also a member of George’s household, his friend and associate.
Burdett and Stacy were hanged, the other fellow, small fry, was pardoned. Burdett protested his innocence to his last breath. But then, so had Mistress Twynho.
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