Anne of Warwick The Last Plantagenet Queen

by Paula Simonds Zabka

  “Mother, would you not have George pay for his actions? Do you not know of his threats?” Edward stared beyond his mother into the flames of the fire. “My two sons would be in constant peril. George’s obsession for a crown knows no bounds.”

  Cicely grimaced, glancing at Anne and Richard who sat with her. “Your sons, Edward are being raised totally by the Woodvilles. You speak of peril to England. Will your boys bring peace to the realm as scions of that base family?”

  Edward rested his chin in his hands. “I’m thinking of appointing a Council to assist in raising my son and heir, the Prince of Wales. Richard would be on it.”

  Cicely snapped each word. “Doesn’t Richard have enough to do holding together the northern ruffians and keeping Northumberland and his pack at bay? Richard will have no voice in such a Council.” She asserted her maternal prerogative. “Edward, you have been pushed to the brink of damnation by the Woodvilles, by the Queen. God, my son, stand firm. Imprisonment yes, but don’t execute your brother.”

  Edward raised weary eyes to Richard. His swollen hands lay listlessly on the table. “And what think you, Gloucester?” Before Richard could answer, a wondering expression crossed the King’s face. He used the less familiar name for Richard again. “Do you know, Gloucester, my astrologer told me a man with the initial G would follow me on the throne?”

  “Sweet Christ, Edward.” Richard leaned forward. “Does George die because of a superstition?”

  The King shrugged as though the link chain upon his shoulders weighed heavily. Anne noticed for the first time the streaks of gray in Edward’s hair. He’s growing old, she thought in amazement. Edward, the vital, proud soldier, fading away. In a few years, he would be too stout even for his great height. Fat had replaced muscle. A remnant of force of will had to make do for enthusiasm. It was a short time ago he had been all grace and charm on a Thames’ dockside. She looked at Richard and saw the strained look of the King echoed in his face.

  She looked from the cool, set face of their mother to the grim sadness of the two brothers. George would have to die. She thought of her anguish in the cook shop, of Isabel’s despair, of Ankarette. Would that Clarence had died long ago.

  Richard placed his hand on the red brocade sleeve of the King. “His actions are indefensible, Edward. He’s certainly guilty. But could we not simply keep him confined to the Tower, or perhaps Pontefract, as a Prisoner of State the rest of his life?”

  “There is much more about George that you all must know.” Edward was upset that he had to justify his Kingly decisions with more revelations about George’s actions. “George has established a close friendship with Bishop Stillington, and between them there is some secret about which I do not yet know, but which has been inferred to me indirectly many times. More disturbing and disgusting is, that since the death of Duke Charles of Burgundy, during one of his rash escapades into France, George has been plotting with our sister Margaret, to wed her daughter Mary.”

  Anne, Richard, and Cicely, collectively, were astonished at such a brazen act so soon after Isabel’s passing.

  Edward continued in a determined tone. “Margaret wanted some assurance against the subsequent encroachments of King Louis on Burgundy, and George wanted to use the marriage as a stepping stone to the throne of England. Not a crown but a coronet for the time being. He was most bitter when I confronted Margaret about the plot, and put an end to it. So you see, the charges are many and grave. His life must be forfeited.”

  Duchess Cicely was still unconvinced. “By executing George you would be doing exactly what the Woodvilles have always wanted, to come between you and your brothers, Edward. You will carry the guilt the rest of your life.”

  Edward was becoming weary trying to defend his perceived need to have Clarence pay for his crimes, as he would demand for any other subject. His duty as King and Protector of the Realm was in conflict with his family ties and allegiance. “Do you not know that I grieve for the decision I must make for the good of the Kingdom, or that I feel guilt that accompanies such decisions? How can I avoid my responsibility?”

  Richard ached for Edward’s dilemma. “Why not let others share your burden? Put George’s crimes before Parliament; let them decide his fate. If they see treason and a threat to the throne, they can pass judgment. It’s also possible that after a time in the Tower, George will confess to his crimes, promise to forego his plotting, and renounce his unfounded claim to the throne in order to have his life spared.”

  Edward was relieved at the thought of sharing the decision for the possible execution of a brother. “You are right, Richard. George deserves a fair trial and a chance to explain all before the Parliament. If he can convince them of his innocence and his willingness to obey the laws of the land, then he may yet live.”

  Only Anne noticed Cicely’s tears as she quietly left the room.

  III. CHAPTER 10

  Six months in the Tower had not tempered the attitude of George of Clarence. He had time to make his plans. First he tried bribes, but the guards feared the King’s wrath. He damned their stupidity. He meditated with pleasure on the guilt he was prepared to impose on his brother, the King. Finally, he decided that playing on the King’s conscience was his greatest asset.

  On January 16, 1478, Parliament convened. Clarence hardly saw the Commons, who stared down at him from the galleries of Westminster Hall. Neither did Clarence see Anne Neville who was far back in the crowd. She expected that he would declare his innocence with the same reckless passion with which he pursued all of his illusions.

  Oyez. Oyez. Oyez. The crowd grew quiet. Legal jargon, thick as fog, filled the air. It smelled of London winter soot. Like the vapors of hell, thought George.

  Edward leaned forward. “Honorable members of the Parliament, I, your anointed King, regret that I must charge George Plantagenet, Duke of Clarence, with high treason.”

  Clarence stared into present reality. He wanted to confront Edward now with his secret, yet some glimmer of reason prevailed. “You jest, brother. I fought beside you. Helped to defend the realm from the Lancastrians. Everything you hear is just rumor.”

  Edward sighed. He thought of the bribes, the lies, the plots, and the slanders. “You usurped my justice and took the law into your own hands in taking the life of an innocent subject.”

  “I swear before God that I tried the witch because she poisoned my wife. She was given a fair trial.” Clarence forced himself to be calm and convincing. “My grief overcame me.” He turned to the Commons and smiled, a young man with charm, who’d lost a wife and a son.

  “Has no one felt the same?”

  “You plotted first with Warwick, then with de Vere, even with Burgundy against your King.” Edward observed his brother’s indifference. He related to the Parliament how, after Charles of Burgundy had died during one of his campaigns, he had been informed by the King of France that Clarence had tried to step into a Burgundy Dukedom as a site from which to invade England, a clear act of treason.

  “Would you believe what Louis of France tells you over the word of your own brother? That master of deceit.” Clarence again looked around the hall, playing to the gallery. “We all know Frenchmen are liars.” There were nods and murmurs in the crowd.

  “I’ve heard of that plot from other sources and admitted to, as well, by the Duchess of Burgundy with whom you schemed.”

  Edward sounded weary, wishing this mockery of a trial over.

  Sitting by Buckingham, who had been appointed High Steward for the occasion, Richard watched the pageant and mused on how his two brothers looked so much alike as they faced each other across a heavy oak table. He realized that Clarence was appealing to the emotions of love, hate and pity. On such levels, George thrived. The Commons were restless, uneasy. They didn’t like witnessing two powerful brothers in mortal combat, the House of York baring its soul before England.

  Clarence heard the shuffling in the galleries. By God, he’d get out of this yet. Even the doltish Commons understo
od that it wasn’t easy being a King’s brother. George took a deep breath. He thought he saw Isabel’s face, white and pure, far back in the crowd and a quiet resolve took command. “Brother, as you know, I was declared heir to the throne by Parliament if the Lancastrian Prince Edward had died. Would you gainsay Parliament?”

  “They had to vote so while Warwick ruled. That edict has no authority now. You deceive yourself.” Edward was amazed at George’s calm. The King was impressed by George’s dress as well. He was groomed in maroon velvets for this solemn occasion. A tailor and barber had done their work. George was obviously reminding all that he was a true Noble of the land.

  George continued to play on Edward’s conscience. “I recall you as a belted Earl when I was still a boy. I looked up to you then, as King, and admired how you fought for your crown.”

  “Because it was mine by inheritance.” Edward studied George, “If you had been the older brother, I would have accepted you as the rightful King.”

  George tried to again find Isabel in the crowd. She wasn’t there. Suddenly, he realized that he could not overcome the King’s arguments and high position. He also realized it would be futile to reveal the secret he held against the King. No one would believe him. The control broke. “Viper! Bastard!” His voice rose. “I place my innocence in God’s hands. I challenge you, Edward, to trial by combat. Let justice be served by Him who judges us all.”

  Edward listened in shock. Trial by battle was an old way, well gone. He had no fear of Clarence. Even now, in his fading condition, he could defeat George. But there was no need. Edward saw the uneasy, anxious faces among the Commons.

  “But for this, I could have forgiven you,” he said slowly. “All the treasonous acts, the murder. But you give me no choice.” He added softly, “You don’t even think you’re guilty, do you, Clarence?”

  Clarence screamed a reply. “Battle, by God and St. George! Give me a sword and let the whole realm, heaven itself, decide who is fit to be King.” Spittle appeared at the corners of George’s mouth. “I’m the rightful King. You know it, Edward. I’ll destroy you. You and your heirs.”

  Edward stood. “No more.” George is not repentant; let Parliament make their decision, he thought. There was no question of George’s guilt. His instability and volatile temper sealed his fate.

  The Commons, under their Speaker, William Alygton, then signified their agreement of guilty of High Treason, as charged, and approved a Bill of Attainder. On February 7, 1478, in his temporary position as High Steward, the Duke of Buckingham passed the sentence of death. Now Richard was given the charge to oversee the execution. Another sharing of the guilt. It would not be pleasant.

  III. CHAPTER 11

  On the appointed day of George’s execution, Anne rode with Richard until they could see the central Keep of the Tower rising above them. A cold mist blew off the winter grayness of the Thames, bringing with it the ever-present effluvia of fish from Billingsgate and the cook shops that skirted among the wharves and warehouses. So dense were the vapors, trapped by the thick overcast sky and prolonged dampness, the air had become foul, stinging eyes and throat. Yet the streets were crowded. Grocers, drapers, fishmongers and mercers bumped and jostled each other among drays and sumpter-horses, and a constant press of carts. Curses cut the dense air.

  On Fish Street, they had to wait over half an hour when traffic congested because of two overturned carts. Richard was in no hurry to oversee Clarence’s final breath. Anne rode close by his side. Even from a distance they could smell the moat, which surrounded the Tower, for the city sewage ditches drained into it. She wondered if the sluice gates to the Thames had been raised on schedule. The odor was evil and sharp.

  Anne coughed. Ever since their winter journey to London, she had been weak and feverish. She wished she were at home where her mother and her servant, Phillippa, could care for her. Phillippa must have had her second child by now. She would light a candle for the new babe, and for her son Ned before leaving London. When Ned had been very ill with scarlet fever during the previous autumn, she had spent many nights and days holding him to life by her own will. He recovered but the frailness remained. Anne crossed herself thinking of her son as they arrived at the Lion Tower Gate.

  “Anne, you need go no further. You best return to Crosby Hall. I must see to this terrible matter alone. Thank you for riding so far with me.” Richard nodded to the Franciscan friar. “He will proceed with me, and the squires will escort you home.” Anne saw the agony in Richard’s eyes. With the insight of years, she knew Richard would try to put George at ease, at least see to it that the rites of dying were administered properly.

  “My prayers go with you, my Love.” Richard pressed her hand as they parted.

  Richard and the friar entered the Tower complex. George was in the Bowyer Tower on the north, away from the sickly miasma of the Thames. The Tower pennants hung limply, its walls were streaked with winter soot. Richard took one glance at the central White Tower and then moved slowly along the greensward, past the Chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula where prisoners and guards came to pray. He passed the Beauchamp Tower, named after one of Anne’s ancestors, which was frequently used as a prison.

  Finally they reached the walls leading to the Tower. They were covered with carved initials. A history of the condemned. Richard became increasingly despondent. He remembered how Henry VI had prayed not for life, but for heaven, before they executed him. And now another execution by order of the Parliament. Richard drew his lips into a tight line and looked at the Bowyer Tower ahead. There was nothing to distinguish it except that there, today, it would be the site of George’s execution.

  With the friar, Richard climbed the elevated entrance from which a narrow stairway spiraled upward. In a well-guarded room on the second level, with only one window slit providing a dim shaft of light through the thickness of the wall, he came upon George. He sat upon a bed, unshaven, filthy. His eyes were red from weeping. Looking up, his lips firm, he glared at Richard. “So the vultures circle. Have you come to pick my bones, brother?”

  Richard sat down beside George. “Our mother sends her love and Anne wants me to remind you that Isabel loved you.”

  George barely glanced at his brother. “I wish I had died with her.”

  Richard wearily wiped cold perspiration from his forehead. “Parliament has petitioned for your immediate execution, George. It must be today. Forgive me.”

  A tremor passed through Clarence. “Forgiving an executioner is the usual formality,” George said, passing a hand over the bristly beginning of a beard, “but I don’t forgive you, brother. Be damned forever.” He then laughed scornfully. “And Edward be damned too. He knows that I am the rightful heir to the throne because his children are bastards. The secret will come out.”

  Richard frowned. “You are careless with your words, George. First you claim the King is a bastard and now his children. Can you not cease such treasonous statements so near to your execution? Let your soul be free of blasphemy and be repentant. The Fransiscan here will hear your confession.”

  “My soul be damned and meet you in hell. Now get on with your so-called duty, brother.” Richard pitied the sad figure before him. For one quick moment he remembered George as a boy, selfish, but witty and handsome as the golden hero of a romance. Now Clarence regarded the floor with dull apathy. His clothes were soiled as though he’d worn them many days. This brother, who cared only for himself, was unrepentant still.

  Clarence gave the friar a brief, detached look. “So it has come to this, Richard. Will you execute me yourself?”

  “Of course not. I will just oversee the matter.” Richard felt uneasy.

  “Perhaps you’re too anxious to seize my estates to worry about taking my life.”

  “George, by all that’s holy, your estates will go to your children. Would you make a will? I can arrange a lawyer.”

  Clarence shrugged. “You’re still so gullible, Richard. Edward and his greedy Queen will do as they want if
I wrote a dozen wills. Don’t you know yet, that the only thing that matters is power. Get power, Richard. Then you’ll not die in the gutter where men will walk on your corpse.”

  “You may be right. But power brings no joy. Our fate is determined from the beginning.” Richard put his hand on Clarence’s shoulder. “Now tell me how you would die.” The question was spoken with a broken voice.

  Clarence began to pace nervously. With increasing terror, his thoughts ranged over beheading, hanging, and the horror of poison. All ignominious, and not for him. He must die as he’d lived; flamboyantly, his own personal signature affixed to the manner of his dying. He thought of drowning. It was said to be an easy death, oblivion came gently like an overpowering sleep. Perhaps it was like the honeyed peace found in wine. To be drowned then, but not in the icy filth of the Thames. He’d perish as no man had before. Let others die in their beds, filled with vile medicine, or babbling prayers, while they waited for their heads to be severed.

  He grinned at Richard though his eyes retained a distant blankness. “I would be drowned in a cask of wine, little brother. See to it.”

  “God in heaven, George, do you mean it?”

  “Yes. Oh yes, Malmsey wine from Morea in Greece. It’s the sweetest of all. I’ll taste it through eternity.”

  Richard nodded. “You’ll have to be taken to the wine keg, George. It’s too large to be brought up here. Confess and be absolved first.”

  “No. I’m not really dying, Richard.” Clarence grinned again. “I play a fine jest on you, brother. You destroy me and I become immortalized. ‘So the Duke of Clarence has died,’ the world will whisper. Other men in their dying will envy me.” Clarence leaned closer to his brother. “I’ll tell you how it was, brother, when we meet in hell.”