Anne of Warwick The Last Plantagenet Queen

by Paula Simonds Zabka

  With the guard and the friar trailing behind, Richard and Clarence descended the steep stairs to the wine cellar. Clarence looked at the wine kegs. “There are 120 gallons, perhaps a little more in a wine cask. I will have some first, if you please. The men who will do the deed won’t need it all.”

  The lid of the cask was opened. George was given a long drink by one of the workmen.

  “George, you must believe I tried to have your life spared. You know I....”

  “....will actually be glad to see me die. One less person to be in your way for the crown.” George handed the cup back to a squire. “Some will spill. Let the wretches who work here scoop it up. They can’t afford Malmsey.” George gazed into the cask and saw his distorted reflection. “When I’m dead, they can have it all.”

  “God have mercy on your soul,” the friar prayed.

  Clarence staggered to his feet and patiently let his arms be bound. “To the devil I return.” He closed his eyes. “Let my tomb be by Isabel’s,” he slurred. His last coherent words.

  Richard leaned against the wall. He saw them lift and lower his brother into the wine. Much slopped over the sides. Quickly the men nailed it shut. The cask shook slightly and then silence filled the room. A total silence, except for George’s comments about power and the crown ringing in Richard’s ears. Troubling words.

  On March. 11, 1478, the body of George Plantagenet, Duke of Clarence, began the journey to Tewkesbury where he would lie beside Isabel in the vault behind the High Altar.

  Richard and Anne started for Middleham.

  “It’s over, my Love. You must put the episode from your mind.” Anne knew Richard had haunted thoughts.

  “Yes, over for Clarence.” Richard stared bleakly at the darkening sky. To be King, the obsession to gain the Kingdom, had killed Clarence, he mused. And the possession of it is destroying another brother.

  III. CHAPTER 12

  Middleham was a haven after Clarence died. They were safe behind those great walls, secure even from the plague, which engulfed England in the winter of 1478. Death rode his pale horse across the land, and red crosses appeared on doors in all the Shires. Yellow-sulfur plague fires burned, thin layers of dirt in mass graves quickly covered the mounds of dead. The King’s second daughter, Princess Mary, a lively fifteen, died and was buried at Windsor. Anne Mowbry, the child bride of the King’s son, Edward, Duke of York, died and was also buried at Windsor. An infant, George, Duke of Bedford, was found dead in his cradle. George was an ill-fated name for an evil time.

  Anne wept when her sister Isabel’s children, Margaret and little Edward, went to Warwick to be cared for. Anne could not persuade the King to place Isabel’s children in her care. Phillippa, Anne’s maidservant, accompanied them. There was comfort in the woman’s strong arms. Her own babes had died of plague. Phillippa’s husband Simon had left for York saying work was better there. It wasn’t long before they heard he had found another woman. Phillippa, grown suddenly middle-aged, hardly spoke of it. She loved little Margaret and Edward. At least life was now somewhat in balance for Phillippa.

  Balance and security, so easily lost. Anne was determined to hold tightly to both this time. Richard rode to Sheriff Hutton and brought back the priest, John Elingwald, to tutor Ned in sums and Latin. Ned learned quickly. He wanted a bigger horse. A good sign, for he was still very frail and sickly.

  Spring of 1479 came gently, followed by a pleasant summer. Richard gave Ned his wish, and one warm summer day, all three rode across the dales. Ned rode his new horse between his parents. The pace was slow. They traveled only a little to the west, yet it seemed they were almost to Aysgarth, and Anne fancied she could hear the tumbling Ure foaming down in a series of rapids from the Pennine Ridge.

  They ate on the warm slopes of the North Riding: partridges, wine, demain bread; recent gifts from the merchants of York. The sun was hot on their faces. A thousand wildflowers bloomed around them; blue daises, speedwells, and the purple thistles of the North. The air was fragrant with wild violets. They watched Ned roll across the grass. Two family dogs yelped for attention. The horses grazed peacefully.

  Anne leaned back, lifting her face to the radiant sky. “This is paradise, Richard. It couldn’t be more perfect for us.”

  “Yes, Sweeting, and you’re as fair as the day. Your hair is filled with sunlight.”

  Many months had passed since Richard had spoken so. He had recurrent, depressive thoughts about his part in Clarence’s execution. Anne hoped he would never go south again. It drained him so, and changed him for the worse. She clasped his hand. “My Love, you are adored as Lord of the North. All that you see about you is because of you. You created this serenity and gave the people hope, security, peace, and promise of a better life.”

  “Anne, it’s you and Ned who give me purpose. When I am with you, my world is bright and filled with joy and meaning.”

  Ned came running over, a bounding of dogs and boy. “I want to ride. By myself. Just me.” He stretched to his full height.

  Richard laughed. “Ned, a horse can play tricks. I’ll ride with you.”

  Anne watched them together. The small boy of six rode on a gentle mare, and Richard on a stallion only he could manage. How much alike they were. She could hear them laughing. She wished again she could give Richard a second child. Only one, all their hopes in one; it was tempting fate. And Ned was frail. She’d tried everything to increase his strength. Father Michael prayed for him daily. She offered her own soul for eternal purgatory if Ned would but be stronger. And still he clung to life by only a slender thread.

  That evening, as they sat in the Presence Chamber fragrant with new rushes, she spoke of another child. Richard was quick to reply. “Have brothers brought happiness in my family? Anne, you have given me all I need.”

  In the summer of 1480, the Scots, at the instigation of King Louis of France, raged along the border. Louis convinced James III, King of Scotland, to break the truce with England, so that Edward’s forces and energies would be diverted while France invaded Burgundy. It was Richard who quelled the unrest. Edward promised to come North with an army. Neither Edward nor an army came. With the loyal men of York, his friend John Howard, and his own military skill, Richard re-established order and secured the northern borders. In the campaign against the Scots, he boldly captured Endinburgh and besieged Berwick Castle, repossessing it for England, a prize which helped improve the beleaguered image and standing of the King. Edward was generous in his reward. Great grants of land were given to Richard and his heirs. And later, through acts of Parliament, more land and authorities to govern the North were added.

  “It is a separate principality, Anne.” Richard said it with pride. “For us and our son. It will keep us secure and independent from the corrupt Woodville Court. The King is relinquishing a central authority he spent a lifetime building, and is entrusting much of it to me. I am grateful for that trust. Rumor has it that Edward grows lax and is losing more control,” Richard continued. “They say that the will to govern slips from him. God help him. Still, no one can touch us now. We can build our own life here in the North, a dream I have longed for.”

  Anne was happy for Richard but had a concern. “What if the King should die and the Woodville Prince....”

  Richard shook his head. “Edward will survive. He is strong, and all the pleasures at Westminster can’t kill him.”

  Knowing the tension of the Court, Anne wondered. Edward’s foreign diplomacy had been in a shambles ever since the “Trader’s Truce”, and Burgundy was falling piece-by-piece to France. Edward refused to give aid to Burgundy for fear of losing his pension from King Louis. Could he cope with all his losses?

  Richard left to attend Parliament in the winter of 1482. A fearful cold raged into Yorkshire. Ice covered all. Only the raw wind could travel, cutting through to the Great Hall itself. Ned and Anne were prisoners of its glittering, sharp grip. Both became troubled with worrisome coughing. Physicians from St. Leonard’s Hospital near Yo
rk talked of an ill-balance of humors, and recommended a brew of powdered gold, mummy’s dust and poppy juice. The cost was exorbitant, but it helped still the coughing.

  In March the following year, Richard finally returned from Parliament. It had been a grim session. The golden bribes from France had stopped. Burgundy was no more. The future loomed uncertain and bleak. Edward had been used and discarded by Louis of France. Richard was saddened as he returned once again to Middleham. Edward, his idol and golden-haired brother, was drowning in the cesspool of the Woodville Court. And it was obvious this time that the King’s health was fading. A star that had blazed in the heavens was dimmed.

  III. CHAPTER 13

  At Westminster, in April of 1483, Elizabeth Woodville assembled with one of her brothers, Lionel, Bishop of Salisbury, and two sons by her first marriage: Thomas Grey, Marquess of Dorset, and Lord Richard Grey. They had managed to reach their late twenties without acquiring more than vicious wit and heavy purses.

  “So the King is truly dying?” Elizabeth asked impatiently.

  “Most certainly, mother.” Thomas replied. “He is most frail and feverish. He summoned Richard, Lionel and me to his chamber with the despicable Lord Hastings, and pleaded for us to love each other as friends. He even had us clasp hands with that gutter cat Hastings, and swear to work for the good of his son and heir, Prince Edward.”

  The Queen gasped. “Hastings? That base creature has alienated the King from my affections.” Elizabeth was seething with hatred for the King’s only true friend and companion at the Court.

  Thomas grinned. “The King can’t eat but immediately fills his chamber pot. A bloody flux. So should a glutton die? The stench will kill him yet. He prays and talks of justice.”

  “Damn.” Elizabeth stood with her back to the window. The King in his final moments did not want to see her. She had hoped he’d take days, even months, to die, to give her time to get the Prince to London from Ludlow Castle, rally her family, and secure the Woodville hold on the throne through her son. Then she would finally rule the Kingdom.

  “The King has also gathered his lawyers to his chamber and added a codicil to his will, mother.” Richard Grey took a deep breath and spewed it out. “He’s made Gloucester Lord Protector of the Realm. His son, Edward V, being only twelve, will have no power.”

  Elizabeth’s hands closed about a large pearl suspended on a gold chain between her breasts. “Then we must act now. As soon as the King dies, I will arrange for my brother Anthony to bring the Prince of Wales here in haste from Ludlow Castle. I will provide him with a guard of two thousand men.”

  “It will not be easy to stop Gloucester, Elizabeth.” Lionel, Bishop of Salisbury, stood in the doorway. “We must call a Council immediately, win over a majority of them and outmaneuver the northern clout politically. We will confuse the issue, and in the confusion, crown the boy King before Gloucester can act. His Protectorship will be meaningless once the Prince is crowned.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “Yes, and we must take other steps.”

  Lionel looked at her. He was always impressed by her typical cunning. “What do you suggest?”

  The Queen thought, as she often had before, that men lacked imagination. She turned to her son Thomas, the Marquess. “As Constable of the Tower you control the armaments and the treasury. Take charge of them both. To destroy Gloucester we’ll need weapons and gold.”

  Elizabeth continued, “I will also persuade the King’s Council to equip a fleet under the pretense that we must defend the realm against the French King, who is threatening the coastal cities and shipping. Then I will arrange for my brother Edward to be appointed as Commander of the Fleet. Gloucester will not succeed against such a force.”

  Elizabeth began to smile. “This can all be accomplished before Gloucester assumes his Protectorship. After the Prince is crowned King Edward V, Gloucester’s lands will become forfeit to him. I will rule the Kingdom through my son.” The conspiracy was unfolding.

  A day later on April 9, King Edward IV of England, his final thoughts turned wholly to God, fell into a light sleep. A squire keeping watch heard him whisper as though he stood in judgment, “Oh God, I fear thy justice will take hold on me, and mine....”. An hour later he could not be wakened.

  Throughout the realm, the people who had loved the King and had forgiven him much, mourned with the pain of disbelief. In spite of his fading brightness, they couldn’t believe that he was dead. He’d known their names, smiled so easily, and been the most accessible, most human of monarchs. They cared naught for past blunders or disastrous, foreign policy.

  Sorrow isn’t reasoned, especially in London, where he had come as a victorious boy of eighteen. With the golden glow of his young manhood and new Kingship, even in these last years, he’d mingled with the citizens and traded like any prosperous merchant. The people couldn’t bear to let him go. One jewel in his reign was the first book printed in England and presented to him by the printer, William Caxton, in 1477 on The Dictes and Saying of Philosophers. Edward had cherished the book, velvet bound with gilt roses.

  For eight days, naked save for a cloth covering him from waist to knees, Edward lay upon a board in the Chapel of St. Stephen’s at Westminster Abbey while Masses of Our Lady, the Trinity, and the Requiem, were sung, and a solemn watch kept. There the people of London came to say farewell. They knelt, holding their beads, praying with grieved hearts for a great man lost to them. Weeping, they placed small crucifixes by him, lit candles, and besieged heaven for his deliverance with their prayers. Surely the Blessed Savior would take unto himself a man so loved. And still they cried, for he would never walk among them and smile again.

  The Queen was noticeably absent. “England’s heart is breaking,” John Howard told his wife.

  Finally, Edward’s body was placed on a bier, covered with a black cloth embossed with a white cross, and borne to the altar of the church, where more services were offered. Then the body was placed in a chariot draped in black velvet and drawn by six coursers, trapped in black, to Windsor Castle. John Howard rode ahead carrying the Sun in Splendor banner, the only brightness in the somber procession. At Windsor, the King’s body was entombed in marble beneath the exquisite fan vaulting of St. George’s Chapel, the place Edward had loved.

  Above the marble vault were placed Edward’s gilt coat of mail, shrouded in crimson velvet, and his banner, hanging motionless in the quiet of the chapel, marking the tomb of Edward the Fourth.

  III. CHAPTER 14

  The third week in April, a lone messenger wearing the livery of Lord Chamberlain, Will Hastings, arrived at Middleham. His hands were frostbitten, his face ashen. He held out a scroll. Richard broke the seal. Silence filled the Great Hall while he read:

  “The King has left all to your protection-goods, heirs, the Realm. Secure the person of our sovereign Lord Edward the Fifth and get you to London.”

  The messenger stammered more. “His Grace died the first week of April. A little fever they say. All London’s in mourning. Every bell tolls. Over one hundred. St. Paul’s can be heard for miles around.”

  Richard stood motionless. The bedrock on which he’d based his life had turned to quicksand. The man to whom loyalty bound him was no more. A sun forever set. His mouth hardened, new indentations marked his cheeks, his eyes brightened with moisture, and a tension tightened the fibers of his body.

  Anne asked the obvious. “Why didn’t the Queen or Rotherham, Keeper of the Privy Seal, send the message?”

  Hastings’ man shook his head. “I don’t know, my Lady. The Queen wasn’t present when he died. His last act was to add a codicil to his will bequeathing his heir, Prince Edward, and the Realm, to the Protectorship of the Duke of Gloucester.”

  Richard looked once more in disbelief at the paper in his hand. “What ceremonies are being prepared?”

  The messenger sensed the grief in Richard’s tone. “They plan a great ceremony in the Abbey, and then a funeral cortege to Windsor where the King will be entomb
ed in St. George’s Chapel. Surely, now all is done.”

  “Edward would be pleased, Richard. The Chapel was one of his favorite places,” Anne assured him.

  The messenger agreed. “Your Grace, it must be as your Lady says. Everyone loved the King. But none really knows what is happening at Westminster. My Master bids you to hasten.”

  Anne took Richard by his arm. “They all adored him, my Love.”

  “Aye.” The messenger shuffled and glanced uneasily at Richard.

  Anne sent the courier to the kitchen for food. Richard must be able to grieve in private. She mourned his sorrow. “I’ll have the chapel bells rung and set a time for a Requiem Mass.” Foolish little words to fill a great void.

  “Edward is no more,” Richard said stiffly. “They finally killed him.”

  Anne sat beside her husband on a bench in the shadows of the hall and pondered. Had not Edward begun to die when her father, Warwick, betrayed him--and Clarence? Even more, the trivial malevolence of the Court had eaten away his generous heart. The treaty with France furthered the undoing. Yet he remained strong through many adversities. It had taken twelve years of the killing of the man before he died of a little fever.

  “Christ! If only I could have been with him in his final hours,” Richard lamented.

  “In a way you were.” Anne tried to comfort him. “His last thoughts were of you and the security of the realm.”

  She read the curt message again. Hastings had written as one who sensed danger. Yet the entire kingdom would expect Richard to be appointed Lord Protector. The young King was only twelve. But the Woodvilles? Suddenly her stomach churned and dread raced through her at the thought of the Woodvilles’ taking control. The Woodvilles, she repeated to herself. Now anything was possible. The power to control the kingship was within their grasp. They had been waiting for this opportunity these past years. The King must have known that they must not become the rulers of the realm, the authority behind the boy on the throne. So one last time he had summoned his loyal and trusting brother.