‘You will stay here with us?’ Richard asked.
‘Avec beaucoup de plaisir, Monsieur le Roi.’
‘It would give me great pleasure,’ said Richard, and asked Francis Lovell to show the guest to his lodgings.
Anne said, ‘A Bohemian gentleman? Richard the Second’s Queen Anne was from Bohemia. What’s he like?’
‘Seems pleasant. Thinks England beautiful. Shall you see him?’
‘How could I resist.’ Like Richard, it was the first interest she had shown in anything. Richard had the distraction of work, and he had driven himself hard these last weeks because after twelve or fifteen hours of business he could sleep. Anne, I think, found it harder, because she had nothing to occupy her except the trivial pastimes for which she had no heart. So Von Poppelau had unwittingly come at the perfect time.
And Anne bowled him over. He stared, murmured something about Quelle beauté! then dropped to his knee and kissed her hand. ‘Madame la Reine! Votre serviteur!’ Anne’s Latin was nothing wonderful, but she had spent part of her childhood at Calais when her father was Captain there, and her French was impeccable. Too thin and very pale, she was beautiful in her black gown, and Von Poppelau couldn’t take his eyes off her.
He came to Mass, of course, and here he found another beauty. As we left the chapel he turned to Richard with tears in his eyes. ‘The music! Never have I heard anything so lovely! Your minstrels are famous, and we have nothing so fine in all Europe. I have heard English people singing for pleasure on my travels, the music of the people, you understand, and of course I have taken Mass, but this is something extraordinary!’ He could have said nothing to delight Richard more, for he loved music. The only sign of low cunning I ever saw in him was the way he ‘poached’ minstrels for his troupe, stopping at nothing to hire the best. And, as von Poppelau said, his musicians were famously the best in England, which is to say the best in the known world.
Later that morning, while Richard attended to business, Francis and I were set to entertain the visitor. The moment we were alone he said, ‘Please tell me – the King and Queen, they are in mourning?’
‘For their son, M’sieu.’
‘Their son?’ Poor man, he was stricken. ‘But I had not realised! Perhaps the news has not travelled fast, for no one told me on the way here? They cannot want a guest at such a time? Was it recent?’
‘Less than a month ago.’
He crossed himself, murmuring in his own tongue. ‘A young child? And was he your Dauphin, your Prince of Wales?’
‘Eight, sir, and yes, he was the Prince of Wales.’
‘The King’s heir. What a sorrow.’ Indeed it was, and more than a sorrow. A king without a natural heir is vulnerable. We had tried not to imagine the delight Edward’s death must have given Henry Tudor and his friends. ‘Have they other children?’
‘No. Well, that is, the King has; from before his marriage, you understand.’
‘Ah yes. All kings have bastards, it seems. The young gentleman Sir John Plantagenet and the Ma’mselle Katherine. But I should not stay at such a time? I will go away again?’
‘No, sir,’ said Francis, ‘the King and Queen are enjoying your visit, they would be sad to see you go. It would have been made clear if they did not want you here. So please stay. Now, tell us something of your travels. Do you like England?’
‘Very much.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘The ladies are very beautiful, more beautiful than in Europe, I think. But bold! Free, I mean, and they kiss so readily in greeting.’ He didn’t seem displeased about it. ‘And I confess I do not like the English cooking so much, but that is because it is strange to me. And prices are high, I find. But England is beautiful, and so wealthy! Everyone seems much richer than comparable people would be in Europe. And I admire your King and Queen. She is beautiful and brave, and he has a great heart. I am honoured to meet them.’
Later he showed us the enormous lance he took with him everywhere, and challenged us to lift it. To his clear amusement, none of us could. It was heavier than an English lance, and we couldn’t imagine the horse that could bear the weight of it with an armoured rider. At dinner Richard and Von Poppelau had a lovely time talking of weapons and warfare, comparing English campaigns with European ones. Von Poppelau spoke of the wars against the Turks, telling of the King of Hungary’s victory over the Unbelievers the previous year.
‘I wish,’ Richard said intensely, ‘that my kingdom lay upon the borders of Turkey – with my own people alone and without the help of other princes I should like to drive away not only the Turks but all my foes.’
‘Indeed – France sees England as an enemy; King Louis left, I think, a legacy of hatred between the two countries.’
‘Since the peace treaty back in ’75, particularly. And yes, the new French Regent, the Lady Anne, does not seem to think we can come to terms. Although I try. And Brittany blows hot and cold. Spain is well-disposed to us, but they would like me to make war on France so they can get on with their campaign against the Moors. And Maximilian would also like me to make war on France so he can get on with his own plans.’
‘But you will not be tempted into foreign wars, I think.’
‘No. I want peace. You may have heard, M’sieu, that there is a half-Welsh gentleman called Henry Tudor who pretends to my throne, and Brittany and France have both tried to use him against me.’
‘I have heard of him. His grandmother Katherine de Valois, wife to your Henry V, was King Louis’s cousin? Sister? But he is of no importance, Monsieur le Roi. You are a famous warrior, Monsieur, and a great king. You will brush this pretender aside and be secure.’
Richard smiled. ‘M’sieu, I trust so indeed, but your words are comforting. Let me thank you. Martin – ’ I went to him, and with a wink he took the gold chain from my shoulders and hung it around Von Poppelau’s neck; in mourning Richard wore no jewellery but the Coronation ring. Von Poppelau was enchanted.
He stayed on another week. He was with us when we moved on to York – and the poor people of Richard’s favourite city were at a loss what to do for their beloved King and Queen. In the end they simply lined the streets, every person clad in mourning, and held a gentle silence as their monarchs passed.
Middleham was the worst, of course. There Von Poppelau left us, and without the distraction of his company Anne and Richard had to face their home without their son. They had to face his funeral. I thought Anne would faint as they rode in and she looked instinctively for Edward running to greet them. Her mother came stiffly down the steps – she had aged dreadfully – and in silence took them in her arms, then went inside with Anne.
~~~
Prince Edward lies buried in the chapel at Sheriff Hutton. The Abbey, or Windsor, would have befitted the Prince of Wales, but his parents could bear no prolongation of their grief for the sake of ritual. I think too that they knew they would come no more to Middleham, whose happiness was as distant now as Camelot. Anne could bear very little then. There was no question of her attending the funeral, and when the cortège wound down the dales from Middleham she was in her room with her mother, her cousin Anna, and Innogen. Twelve years ago, to the day, we had ridden into Middleham, on a spring day like this, our hearts glad to be coming home.
The entire Sheriff Hutton household lined up to greet us. Dismounting, Richard paced through the men of the garrison and over to where his nephew Lincoln headed the line of children. The two men embraced, and I saw tears in Lincoln’s eyes as he spoke quietly to his uncle. Richard moved slowly along the black-clad line, which dipped like a runnel in the wind as they bowed. He spoke to all of them, here and there stopping to hug a child like little Warwick or my children. Side by side Bess and Cecily curtsied gravely, and I kept an eye on Bess, just in case, but either she had got over her silly crush or her beautiful manners hid anything but proper condolence.
Next to their sisters stood the Lords Bastard. I had wondered if the elder boy would attend his cousin’s funeral, and how he would conduct himself. L
ord Richard took his uncle’s hand and said something that made Richard smile faintly and thank him, ruffling his hair. Then he moved on to the Lord Edward.
Neither spoke. The boy did not bow or offer to kiss the King’s hand. Even at twelve he was, though very thin, taller than his uncle, and I wondered if he enjoyed that small physical advantage. For a long moment they stood looking into each other’s eyes, the king who never was and the king not meant to be. It seemed to be sheer curiosity that held them so, an adult exchange of some silent message. Then the boy bowed his head, and whatever he said made Richard reply, ‘Thank you, Edward,’ in the tone you use when someone has surprised you. That was all, and we made our way into the chapel.
I knew Richard’s self-control too well to fear he would break during the funeral. I watched him, though, for one’s body can overcome all the efforts of the mind. Once, during the Mass of the Holy Trinity, he lifted his face to the music as if it were sunshine on a winter’s day. That was the only sign of his desperate need for comfort; in fact, it was he who took John’s hand when the boy wept. Beside me Francis Lovell was weeping too. Childless himself, he had been deeply fond of young Edward. Well, so had I, and lest I seem unfeeling, let me say that a child’s funeral breaks your heart by reminding you of your own children’s mortality. They were with me that day, my children, all but the very little ones, and, looking at them, I knew that desperate pain familiar to every parent: that you are impotent to protect your children.
Something else, too, occupied my mind when I should have been praying. A glance around that chapel showed nearly all the royal family. Which of them would now be Richard’s heir? Lincoln, I supposed, and after him his brothers. For Richard to name his nephew Warwick would be a confession that his reign was bankrupt. I wondered again if the Prince’s death had been mere coincidence. I had asked Innogen again about the way he died, without of course mentioning my fears, and she had been sure it was no more than it seemed, some affection of the internal parts, perhaps some blockage. Yet still I wondered. Such a convenient death for Richard’s enemies. How easy, now, for rumours to go about that he was under the displeasure of heaven; was being punished. Next we would be hearing again that he had murdered his nephews. How easy, when simple folk so quickly believe such stuff, to make him seem an unlucky king. Even damned. Tudor was still said to be planning an invasion. No one would rise for an unknown man, half-Welsh, with his heritage flawed by bastardy; a man who hadn’t even lived in England these past thirteen years. Yet now, when Richard had no son, and it could seem God had turned his face from him...
If only Anne had given him more children. Her sister had borne four, yet Anne had conceived only the once.
As I knelt, and fingered my beads, and mouthed the responses, I was chilled with foreboding. This was the end of our security. And all our enemies would know it.
~~~
The Scots were the first to strike. Of course. Master Tudor seemed to be lying low, but there were plenty of other troubles. Brittany was playing with us, their fleet marauding wherever it could; and the same was true of the French and the Scots. English pirates had done so much damage to foreign shipping that demands for compensation, and threats virtually of war, poured in with every messenger.
Richard dealt with the pirates by making ship owners and their captains post bonds agreeing they would attack no foreign ships, and town magistrates who let unbonded ships out of port were made liable for any damage. He sent embassies to the Pope, to Spain and Portugal, he brought Maximilian to understand that England could not afford to be drawn into in his troubles with France. He buttered up Spain and Brittany and secured a truce with the latter, and in the summer he gathered a great fleet off Scarborough to deal with the Scots. A brilliant soldier on land, he proved as good a naval commander – reduced to helpless spewing by the mere sight of the sea at Scarborough, I left him to it and did my bit by working with the northern commands who were patrolling the borders against the Scots.
We all did well. Richard’s fleet thrashed the Scottish one, while we up on the border made mincemeat of the Scottish army. Honestly, you would think they would have learnt. Well, eventually they did. In July King James sent Lord Lyle to discuss a peace treaty, and in September we welcomed the Scottish embassy to Nottingham. They were in good earnest this time, though I daresay their pleasant smiles and smooth phrases of adulation masked the same loathing for Richard they had felt the past four years when he so regularly thrashed them. They had called him ‘The Reiver’, and no doubt less repeatable things, but now all was sweetness and light, we were all friends. The Scottish King’s secretary, Master Whitelaw, made a Latin oration ringing with praise for the English king, and the peace treaty was signed. One provision of this was that Richard’s niece, Anne de la Pole, the Duke of Suffolk’s daughter, was to marry the Duke of Rothesay, heir to the Scottish throne. There is nothing like a marriage for securing a treaty. It was thirteen years since Richard had first taken command against the Scots, four years since he had begun that dedicated campaign, but at last it was done, and we had peace with our unruly northern neighbour.
~~~
By late November we were back in London, and it was time for Katherine’s wedding. First Lent, then mourning for her brother, had made the marriage impossible earlier, and Katherine herself was prepared to wait until the next year. But Will Herbert was impatient, and through me he sounded Richard out. I think he put the matter to Anne, fearing she would have no heart for a wedding, but the thought cheered her. Of course Katherine should have her wedding, she said, and why not on her fifteenth birthday? So it was settled, and from international politics we were plunged into the feminine to-do of wedding preparations. I doubt we once managed to sit down to dinner without some vital question coming up, usually to do with clothes. Glumly I began to calculate: I had three daughters, and Cecily was thirteen. In a year or two all this fuss would be for her. Well, she wasn’t a king’s daughter, but I would see my girls married magnificently or not at all, even if it meant selling off land. Marrying Innogen so quickly, and in such odd circumstances, I had simply had no idea what a wedding involved. Innogen must have a new gown, of course. So must all my daughters, and what was Cecily, as one of Katherine’s bridesmaids, going to wear? And John must of course have a full new outfit. What would the Queen wear for her stepdaughter’s wedding? Should the other girls be dressed the same as one another? What was suitable for Will’s little daughter Elizabeth? And then there was the matter of wedding gifts. Innogen and I gave a set of bed-hangings and two tapestries. The Duchess of York sent a Book of Hours and a service of silver plate. From Margaret in Burgundy came a timber of sables and lengths of violet velvet in grain. John conferred anxiously with us, and gave Katherine a saddle and a set of gilded red leather harnesses. Richard dowered Katherine generously with lands and tenements worth a thousand marks a year, and an annuity of a further hundred and fifty pounds, but his more personal gift was a matched pair of magnificent bay horses.
Anne moved briskly through all this to-do, organising everything with the expertise of one used to managing a great household. She had everything at her fingertips, down to the vexed question of who was to be wearing what. I think she enjoyed it, for she loved Katherine and it was a distraction from grief. I noticed she had lost flesh lately, but thought little of it.
Katherine was a pretty girl, but on her wedding day the traditional bridal glow made her into a beauty. She wore sapphire-blue velvet with cloth of gold, and gold and sapphires binding her lovely curly hair. Will, looking as thoroughly filleted as any other groom, was also in gold and blue, and the bride’s maidens wore yellow with white York roses. Richard managed his part well, saying, ‘I do,’ clearly when asked the question who gave Katherine away to be wed? Then, it was noted, he and I both burst into tears. Women weep sentimentally at weddings, but we were remembering the youthful year of Katherine’s conception, the Christmas we heard of her birth, the fight we had had soon after I had been to see Innogen. We were cryin
g, in fact, for our youth.
~~~
We kept Christmas magnificently, the Court blazed with all the colour and glory of Edward IV’s days, we had all the usual games, the gifts, the music and the mumming, the pleasant nonsense of the Lord of Misrule. Richard spent lavishly on clothes and jewels, on presents for everyone. It should have been wonderful.
But Anne was ill.
Nineteen
January–June 1485
I first noticed because of Bess’s faux pas at the Twelfth Night banquet. I have mentioned that styles in women’s gowns had changed lately; I remember paying the bills as my wife and daughters had new clothes made. For Christmas everyone naturally wore their best and newest things; there is nothing in that. But because of the new style it caught everyone’s eye that Bess seemed to be wearing the same as the Queen. In actual fact the two gowns were not all that similar – they were the same colour, but Anne’s of course was far the richer, and trimmed with cloth of silver and bands of ermine – but it was enough to set people murmuring. Richard looked furious when he noticed, for it is the custom for the Queen’s ladies to ensure they don’t wear the same as their mistress, and Bess of all people should have remembered that. But Anne said calmly, ‘Oh, good, you’re wearing the cloth I gave you. It’s very becoming, Bess.’
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