Anne of Warwick The Last Plantagenet Queen

by Paula Simonds Zabka

  “God give them good rest.” Anne stared at the velvet canopy overhead. Beyond the bed curtains she could hear the stirring of their attendants. Gossip and lip smacking reports would flow on how long the King and Queen lingered in bed. “And Edward, Prince of Lancaster?”

  “Edward of Lancaster is buried beneath the choir stones. There’s no marker.”

  She nodded. “And his mother, Margaret of Anjou, died less than a year ago. But enough of that.” She sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “Tell me, how seemed the people?”

  Richard pulled himself up beside her and adjusted the coverlet around their bare shoulders. “They accept me. Anne, you’ll see for yourself when we go to York. Sometimes I dare to hope there is love with the accepting, I also found much to do on this Progress, including a muddle of trifling litigation. I fear I kept my secretary, John Kendall, busy with writs. I accepted no monies or benevolences, though many were offered. But Anne, these were little things. People cheered me in every village and town till their voices grew hoarse. Over and over I heard the cries of ‘York’ and ‘God’s blessing on King Richard.’ I didn’t know there could be affection in so many voices, or that children would try to touch me. Many folk acted as though I were some demi-god, and called ‘Your Grace, keep peace in England.’ If I had any doubts as to my course, they’re gone.”

  “Yes, I too have no more doubts. I realized this when I stood by Edward’s tomb. It’s all a blaze of color there. The fan vaulting almost touches heaven. If there were any unease in my heart, I’d have known then. But it was quiet, and Edward seemed near and at peace with himself. The Edward, perhaps, of his brighter days.”

  “Anne, they say that when you’re about to die you see those you’ve loved and who’ve died before. I think of this sometimes. Will Edward come to me in that hour?”

  “I’ve heard the same thing. I hope it’s true.”

  Anne put her arms around Richard. “If so, then when a person dies, it must be a time of reunion and joy.”

  IV. CHAPTER 2

  The days passed quickly. Richard was busy with the Spanish ambassador, who was trying to negotiate a new treaty for his country. This would be a delicate problem, since the two realms were estranged because of King Edward’s slight to the Spanish Queen, Isabel, by favoring Elizabeth Woodville.

  Anne spent a day exploring Warwick, the castle of her early childhood. That evening she was near Ethelflelda’s Mound, a fortification that dated to the dim past, when she saw by a light that the massive main gates had swung open. No doubt another delegation from London. Anne sat down on the grass of the Mound and closed her eyes. She was resigned that Richard would work late this night.

  She was surprised when Jack o’ Parr, looking puzzled, came by and asked her to please attend the King. Richard wasn’t waiting for her in the Great Hall, but in one of the small apartments of the Clock Tower. Robert Brackenbury, Keeper of the Tower, was the only person with him. She saw in their faces that something was wrong, terribly wrong.

  Richard closed the heavy door behind her. “Anne, I wanted you to hear this from Sir Robert. I can’t bear to tell you myself.”

  Brackenbury was the shade of clay, like the gray road dust covering his clothes. His strong hands were limp. “Your Grace, I came because of the boys, the late King’s sons.”

  She looked from one to the other. “They’re to join us here and ride north.”

  “They’ll not be joining you, I’m afraid.”

  Richard had slumped down on a stool, his face in his hands. Brackenbury nodded toward him. “As I just told His Grace, the boys are missing.”

  “Missing? How missing? Where could they hide in the Tower? Or did someone take them?” She thought of her own abduction by Clarence.

  “Oh sweet Christ, Your Grace, I don’t know.” Brackenbury gazed at her in agony from tired eyes. “After you both left London, the Duke of Buckingham told me he’d manage the Tower for a day or two, so as to make use of the Records in his new position as Constable of England. He suggested, almost ordered, I take a short holiday. I took one day. When I returned in the morning, the boys were gone. Buckingham and his men had left an hour earlier.”

  “But he must have known.”

  Brackenbury looked at the floor as he answered. “Perhaps. He may have thought the boys kept to their rooms in the Garden Tower. The older one was not well.” Sir Robert’s words came more and more haltingly. “They were unhappy at being guarded so closely when they played on the Green. They knew it was for their safety, but of late they seldom left their apartments.”

  “I met with Buckingham in Gloucester after he left London. He didn’t mention the Princes.” Richard’s face was ashen.

  “Precisely, that’s why I thought he rode to meet you in Gloucester in such haste.” Brackenbury was desperate for absolution.

  Richard looked anguished. “He made no mention of the boys when he arrived.”

  “If you thought the King already knew,” Anne asked of Brackenbury, “why did you come here to Warwick?”

  Brackenbury’s face was wet with sweat. “Because I felt I must tell the King myself, even so, that I failed to keep the boys safe as I’d pledged.”

  “They may still be safe.” Richard stood and paced the small chamber. His words fell with his footsteps. “Buckingham may have hidden them. He was much opposed to their availability to the public. He may think he saves me a task to secure their safety.”

  “Richard, he should not have taken so much responsibility upon himself.” As they had before, Clarence and Buckingham’s motives met in Anne’s mind, as one.

  “And yet he has. We must find the boys.” Richard was aware of the dire implications of the situation.

  Brackenbury nodded miserably. “I’ve searched everywhere, m’Lord. There are workmen repairing the Thames-side wall and Traitor’s Gate, as well as the staircase to the White Tower. Some were cleaning the moat. They all helped us, as did my own men. I told them we looked for missing records. We opened every room. Some had been sealed for years. We even checked,” his voice became unsteady, “for freshly turned earth. The boys are not in the Tower.”

  “Neither dead nor alive.” Anne said what each thought.

  “We couldn’t find them.”

  “I must hear this from Buckingham.” The desperation in Richard’s voice told all. He feared what he would not express. “I’ll send Sir James Tyrell to Brecon today to get Buckingham’s story. Tyrell has been with me for years and is good in delicate matters.”

  She remembered that it was Tyrell who’d conducted her mother from Beaulieu Abbey to the safety of Middleham. She turned to Richard. “Why not summon Buckingham to come to you?”

  Richard shook his head. “No. I’ve given him every honor. He’s my friend. I trust his loyalty. Why would he betray me? He would be deeply offended at such a summons.”

  “Yes,” Anne agreed. Buckingham was flourishing in his role as a Kingmaker and felt beyond reproach. Was it possible he’d simply hidden the boys, she pondered? As a dramatic gesture, it would be entirely like him. In his mind, such news should be a pleasant surprise to Richard. Buckingham would think it more fitting to let someone else tell Richard this marvelous secret.

  Robert Brackenbury knelt, his hands outstretched. It was a silent plea for forgiveness, though Anne wondered if he could forgive himself. Anger and sorrow were sharply etched upon his broad face.

  Richard took the outstretched hand. “Sir Robert, you had no choice, Buckingham had all authority to use the Tower. We will probe to the heart of this matter. Keep your own counsel as you have done. Tell no one; it will be set right.”

  “One day. I was gone less than twenty-four hours. The Princes were well enough when I left,” Brackenbury said brokenly.

  This man, known both for his bravery and blunt honesty, was trembling.

  Richard took his arm and pulled him to his feet. “Robert, do not trouble yourself. Go back to London. Act as before. I’ve faith in Buckingham. I’ll keep yo
u informed.”

  Sir Robert Brackenbury stood tall in the small room. “Your Grace, I thank you for your kindness. I failed you, yet you don’t chastise me.”

  Richard shook his head. “No. You did not fail me. I know you too well.”

  After Brackenbury left, Anne turned to Richard. “You’re sure of Buckingham? Might he not think he served your cause if he murdered the boys to remove a possible obstacle to your reign?”

  “No, he couldn’t possibly do such a thing.” Richard was as one in pain, each word an effort. “He knows I planned to raise them in a Royal household at Sheriff Hutton. He knows I could not harm them.”

  “Then he has hidden them. It would be easy enough. But why did he not tell you?”

  In the quiet room with its thick stone walls, they faced each other. “Anne, you must not think of Buckingham as unfaithful.”

  “You’re right, Richard. He’s your true and loyal friend.” A little of the pain lifted from Richard’s face. She was glad she said it, though in her heart she was troubled.

  IV. CHAPTER 3

  On August 24, Anne and Richard traveled to Pontefract he eight-towered castle, so grim and forbidding against the sky, had been newly scrubbed from top to bottom to receive them. Here a great gathering of knights and gentlemen of the North met Richard to assist in planning his triumphal entry into York.

  Ned joined them from Middleham. In a haze of dust, the Ducal coach jolted into the courtyard while Anne stood with Phillippa at her side, clutching presents brought from London’s shops. Isabel’s little Edward was, as usual, by Phillippa; but Margaret ran back and forth demanding attention. Richard joined them as the coach settled, and a squire opened the door.

  “I thought Ned would be on horseback,” he said so only Anne could hear.

  “So did I.”

  There was no movement within the coach as Richard pushed the squire away and climbed inside. Anne saw their son over her husband’s shoulder. For the smallest second the entire world died. Ned lay still, his face upturned on a pillow of velvet, his small body crumpled. Then he moved an arm, opened his eyes and the appearance of death changed to fragile life. Richard bent over the child.

  “Ned, wake up my son, you’re here.”

  “Father.” He glanced at Richard’s head. “Where is your crown? I’m so sleepy. Is it late?”

  Richard scooped his son up and, with the boy’s head resting on his shoulder, carried him from the confines of the coach.

  Ned blinked in the brightness, rubbing his tired eyes. “It’s daytime. I would prefer to walk, father.” With a twist of his thin body, he slid from his father’s arms though he still held to his hand. Quietly Anne joined them, walking on the other side of Ned.

  “And did you find the journey long?” Anne forced a light tone.

  “No, mother. We stopped in York and I bought a book to read along the way. I just grew tired.”

  “So do I in a coach, Ned. Some grow seasick it rocks so. We’ve presents for you from London, and your cousins are eager to see you.” She looked thoughtfully at his small, pallid face. “All of which can wait.”

  Margaret’s high, piping voice filled the courtyard. “I’ve a mollycoddle for a cousin.”

  “Hush. You speak nonsense.” Phillippa gripped Margaret by her shoulders. “Your cousin will soon be Prince of Wales.”

  By the next day, Ned was able to accept his gifts and to eat eagerly all of the assorted meats and pastries put before him. He played with his cousins amiably. With great relief, Anne went to tell Richard to continue with the plans for a formal entry into York.

  Richard was with James Tyrell. Sir James had returned from South Wales via London. He had no news. Buckingham knew nothing of the Princes. At Sir James’ insistence, each of the Duke’s men who’d been with him in London, had been questioned. It had taken days to round them up from their homes. They were told only there had been a robbery. None reported anything. Bishop Morton, still with Buckingham, knew nothing. In London, Brackenbury kept a close watch on debris washed up by the Thames.

  There was silence after Sir James finished. An uncomfortable silence. Richard struggled against his own deep need for loyalty. “I suppose I must summon Buckingham,” he said slowly.

  Tyrell agreed. “Sire, to be truthful, he was most offhand. He obviously felt no concern himself. I pointed out that the Princes vanished while he had control of the Tower. Of course, at first I tried to be more subtle.”

  “And when you put it to him bluntly?”

  “He remarked that he couldn’t care what happened to the Woodvilles or the Princes.”

  Richard’s face was white. “I’ll draw up a writ for him to appear. A matter of his duties as Constable.”

  Tyrell was thoughtful. “He is, after all, your subject, Sire.”

  “He is, after all, my friend.”

  On August 30, all of the Royal retinue assembled at Tadchester for the entry into York. Anne smiled happily at Ned. Today he rode horseback and sat sturdily in the saddle, like the Prince he was. He looked stronger, revitalized by the glittering rush of events.

  Monday, September 8, the day of Ned’s investiture as Prince of Wales, dawned with crisp, clear brightness. Waiting by the southwest nave door of York Minster, Richard held Ned’s quivering hand. He calmed Ned with a legend about the cathedral. Ned was always eager for a story. He especially liked legends of ancient, mystic kings who had ruled over dragon-infested lands. “York Minster stands where Paulinus, the first Bishop of York, baptized Edwin, King of Northumbria. It was many years ago. England wasn’t united then.”

  “Did King Edwin come to rule all England?” The boy spread his arms wide.

  “Nay.” Richard bent down and straightened Ned’s shoulders, encased for the ceremony in soft white velvet. “Nor did he have a fine son like I who will be called Prince of Wales after today.”

  And Edwin didn’t have his kingdom for long, Anne thought in silence. The pagan ruler of Mercia had killed King Edwin and overrun Northumbria in that ancient time. She shifted in her dress. It was as splendid as her coronation gown. Today she wore her crown in honor of her son. She wanted to hug him, but she stood still and proper. Richard was now pointing out to Ned the beauty of York Minster.

  Ned stared down the length of the immense nave to the distant choir screen, beyond which loomed the High Altar. His eyes opened wide. “Father, it’s such a long way. I’m afraid.”

  Richard answered quietly. “Ned, you were born of noble blood. Walk proudly. We’ll be beside you.”

  The procession formed; all the nobles who had traveled north, as well as persons of rank from York in their velvets, satins and cloth of gold. This time it was Francis Lovell who organized the ceremony with his calm touch. Anne’s ladies adjusted her gown. Nan Lovell lifted the train, but the Queen watched only her son. Never had he seemed more handsome, yet more vulnerable. At ten years of age, white velvet emphasized his youth and innocence. She blinked back happy tears. In Ned were all their bloodlines and all their hopes. Today he stood staunchly with the strength a Prince would need.

  The organ began the swelling processional march. Francis Lovell whispered words of encouragement. Henry Percy of Northumberland lumbered down the aisle, followed by Lords Stanley, Dudley, Morley and Scrope. Ned waited poised, then with natural dignity began the slow-paced walk to the altar. He didn’t falter as the golden wreath was placed upon his head, and he was presented with a golden wand. At the end of the short ceremony, he crossed himself with unexpected gracefulness and, rising from his knees, turned toward the assembled dignitaries and smiled.

  The organ thundered triumphant chords. Wearing their crowns, the Royal family walked from the Minster to greet the cheering throng outside. In a shower of flower petals, they stood on the porch beneath the arch of the door. Richard picked up Ned and held him on his shoulder, and the crowd clamored affectionate approval in a roar that surged and enveloped them.

  Anne listened and let hope build. She filled herself with the m
oment. The people of York loved them: Richard, Lord of the North, her son heir to the throne and Prince of Wales. In a world so ready to accept, surely all would be well. The peace she’d found returned. Richard was determined to set things right. Seeing him there with their son, his face alight with joy, she believed he, and he alone, could work that miracle. The realm would rejoice in the reign of Richard III.

  IV. CHAPTER 4

  The September sunshine lingered, and they stayed for a few days in the North. Richard set up a household at Sheriff Hutton for Isabel’s children, with room for Edward’s sons when they were found.

  Richard dealt, too, with foreign policy, especially the unpleasant messages from Francis of Brittany across the Channel who asked for aid in a war he claimed was brewing between his Duchy and France. Casually, Francis mentioned that he might have to turn over his long-time guest, Henry Tudor, to the King of France in order to soothe the ire of that powerful neighbor. Richard didn’t rise to the bait. By secret message, he knew Louis XI had died on August 30 of apoplexy. This meant a regency now existed under Anne de Beaujeu, Louis’ eldest daughter. France would have its own problems.

  It was late in September when a letter finally arrived from Buckingham. Written in flowery, polished style, he vowed he would join Richard soon, but rumors of Tudor spies necessitated his remaining in South Wales a few weeks longer. He concluded with the vague statement that he knew nothing of the whereabouts of the “lord bastards” but would be glad to help search. It was signed Your Faithful Servant, Buckingham. Neither letter nor the signature was in the Duke’s scrawl, but in someone else’s precise hand.

  Richard reread the letter, smoothing it out. Finally he said to Anne who was close by, “Henry of Buckingham never wrote this. It has the touch of Bishop Morton.”

  “A Lancastrian.”

  “Yes, Anne. From the beginning.”

  “And Buckingham’s father and grandfather died in the cause of Lancaster,” Anne responded.

  Richard slumped in a chair. “But it makes no sense. What would Buckingham gain to back a Lancastrian?”