B008257PJY EBOK (3 page)

“When do you plan to go?” Buckingham inquired with a raised eyebrow.

“In about ten days.”

“Dickon, I can’t leave that soon. Can I meet you on the way?”

“What keeps you in foul London, Harry? Nothing unpleasant, I hope.”

“No… but I’ve had scant time to attend to my own affairs in these past weeks.”

“Then so it shall be, Harry!”

Anne watched Buckingham leave, more disturbed than ever. Her instincts told her something was very wrong.

~ * ~

That night in bed Anne tossed and turned fitfully.

“What’s the matter, my sweet?” asked Richard, lifting up on an elbow. He could see her dimly in the moonlight flowing in through the open windows. “What troubles you?”

“Nothing, Richard, nothing—” she said, and the hand that lay along his thigh dug into his flesh.

“Anne, tell me.”

“I mustn’t, Richard. It’s not my place—it would be an intrusion.”

“An intrusion? Nothing you could say would be an intrusion, Anne. You can’t think that!”

When Anne still hesitated, Richard reached for her hand.

With a smile in his voice, He said, “Tell me, my lady. ’Tis a royal command.”

“It’s Edward’s boys, Richard,” Anne replied softly.

Richard’s smile vanished. He dropped her hand, lay back down, and stared at the silk canopy overhead. “They’re well treated, Anne, I assure you. Surely you don’t think otherwise?”

“No, Richard.” Anne sat up in bed. Now she couldn’t rest until she’d spoken her mind. “I know you’d always do your best for your brother’s children but…”

Richard waited.

“The plots by the Lancastrians and the Woodville sympathisers to deliver them from the Tower and use them to foment rebellion against your rule—that’s why you’ve forbidden them visitors and to play in the garden, isn’t it?”

“Aye. ’Tis necessity, not malice, that obliges me, Anne.”

“I know, my love. But they’re children. Little Dickon is only nine—Ned’s age, Richard.”

Richard threw back the covers. “Christ, Anne, well do I know that! Do you not think I’m troubled by what I must do?”

“Richard, I believe I’ve found the solution that will solve your problem and still permit the boys a measure of freedom.”

Richard rose and went to the window, regretting he had opened the door to the subject. Women understood nothing of such matters and Anne’s feelings would be hurt when he refused to heed her suggestion, as he surely must.

It was a beautiful, clear night; the sky sparkled with stars and a cool breeze stirred. Anne appeared beside him and shut the window. He looked at her with surprise. She was the one who insisted on sleeping with the windows open and the bed curtains drawn back. She met his gaze boldly, not shyly from beneath her lashes with her head lowered as she was accustomed to do. He was caught off guard.

“No one must hear this,” she said. Then she unfolded her plan.

The solution was so simple, lying there all along, so clear…Why hadn’t he thought of it himself?

“There’s one more thing, my love,” Anne said.

“Aye?” he said in wonderment.

“Entrust the task to Francis.” She hesitated. “And don’t tell Buckingham.”

“But Buckingham’s my blood, my ally. I owe my throne to Buckingham—”

“Call it a foolish whim, Richard. It would mean much to me.”

In the moonlight, in her white filmy shift with her fair hair streaming down to her waist, she looked more than beautiful: she looked ethereal, and he was struck as never before that she was heaven’s gift to him.

“I can deny you nothing, flower-eyes,” he said, and drew her to him.

~ * ~

Chapter 3

“To ride abroad redressing human wrongs.”

“Rule fairly in your region,” Richard told his lords before setting out on his progress two weeks after his coronation. “Allow no oppression of the people.” He rose from his throne. “I thank you for your loyal support. All who wish to leave are dismissed.”

There was a murmur. His nephew Jack de la Pole, Earl of Lincoln, pushed forward. “But my royal uncle, will you not require an armed escort?”

“There is no need. I rule by the will of the people.”

“But, Sire—” It was Anne’s kinsman, Lord Scrope of Bolton. “To go abroad without men-at-arms is dangerous, even in times of peace.”

“Nevertheless, I am decided. My throne must rest on loyalty, not force.”

Scrope exchanged an anxious glance with the others. “My lord, I choose to stay.”

“So do I,” said Richard’s boyhood friend Rob Percy.

“So do I,” echoed Jack.

Richard descended the dais. “I shall be glad of your company, my good friends.”

“M-m-may I c-come, too, L-lord Uncle?” stuttered a small voice at his waist. Richard looked down at his brother’s son, whose mother had been Anne’s sister, Bella. His heart twisted with pity. With his rosy cheeks, bright blue Neville eyes and wealth of wheat-coloured curls, his brother George’s son—yet another Edward—was a beautiful child and exceptionally sweet-tempered. But thanks to the neglect of his guardian, the Woodville queen’s son, the Marquess of Dorset, he was a timid, dull-witted boy, unable to comprehend at eight what most understood at five.

“Of course you may, Edward, if only to meet your cousin, my own little Edward,” said Richard gently. He tousled his fair hair. “From now on, you’ll come with me everywhere I go, won’t he, Gower?” He exchanged a knowing look with little Edward’s new squire, Thomas Gower, who had been squire first to Anne’s uncle, John Neville, and then to John’s young son, George, until their deaths.

“Aye, sire,” answered Gower with soft eyes. Richard managed a smile, and his glance, moving over his company of friends, passed to one who stood apart: Lord Stanley.

Clearly reluctant to be there, alone at the back of the group, Stanley was watching him warily.
You, too, will come with me, my wily fox, thought Richard. Everywhere I go
.

~*~

In the glaring sunshine of the July morning, Richard set out with his entourage, trumpets blowing, dogs barking, baggage carts creaking. He was accompanied by those of his lords who had chosen to stay and a great train of bishops, justices, and officers of his household. The crowds were sparse in the streets and the procession only drew the curious, but those present remarked on the King’s lack of an armed escort.

Everywhere along the way, through the towns and villages, Richard was welcomed with pageants and processions, and offered gifts of money. He could have put these to good use defraying his expenses. Money had been a constant problem from the day the Woodvilles had absconded with half the treasury. But he refused. “I would rather have your hearts than your money,” was his common refrain. Instead, he made them gifts of his own. In Woodstock, it was a grant of royal forest land that Bess had appropriated for her own pleasure and that he knew would greatly ease the people’s burden gathering food for their families; in Gloucester, it was a charter of liberties. And everywhere, it was justice.

Tirelessly, Richard presided at the local courts, heard the complaints of the poor, and punished offenders. In Oxford, his second stop after leaving Windsor, Richard, whose scholastic tastes ran to moral philosophy and Latin theology, lingered two days to engage in lively discourse with the Chancellor and eminent doctors before leaving for Gloucester. But the visit was marred by ill tidings. Another plot had been discovered, hatched around Bess Woodville. Her daughters were to be smuggled abroad to join Tudor so that they might marry princes willing to carry on the fight against Richard.

In their lodgings at Magdalen College, Anne exchanged a weary glance with his close friend Rob Percy as the messenger from Westminster apprised Richard of events. Conspiracies swirled around Bess. She was a born plotter who thrived on discord. To live peaceably went against her nature. Richard’s Chancellor, John Russell, had crushed the plot swiftly, but more were sure to be hatched in spite of the strong guard placed around Bess.

The next morning Richard and Anne set out in a pelting rain to visit Francis at his ancestral home in Oxfordshire. The skies cleared as they rode westward, the sun came out, and the dewy green slopes glittered like emeralds. They passed shiny fruit orchards and old churches; they crossed stone bridges and gurgling waterfalls. Gradually the conspiracy faded from their minds and smiles replaced their strained looks. Dusk was falling when they arrived at Minster Lovell.

“I forget how beautiful it is here, Francis,” breathed Anne. She fingered a white rose in full bloom on a trellis running up the stone of the manor house and bent her head to its perfume.

“Here a troubadour might well think himself in heaven, Francis,” smiled Richard, pausing to admire the magnificent view. To the trilling of larks, swans glided past with their cygnets on the smoothly flowing river that glittered silver in the fading light. Tall cypresses, in relief against the darkening sky, defined the spacious walks leading to a splashing fountain, and butterflies flitted among the profusion of white Persian lilies, purple pansies, and violets, their brilliance heightened by evening.

“I must admit I have been driven to song on occasion,” said Francis Lovell softly, “especially at night. Nothing is more beautiful than the night, when nightingales sing and the moon hangs high and bright, and stars fall in the sky.”

Richard clapped a hand on Francis’ shoulder and gave Anne a smile. “See, what did I tell you, Anne? I was right from the first; he’s a troubadour at heart.”

A troubadour who sang of love, and knew none in his own life, Anne thought, her gentle glance touching for an instant on Francis’ club foot. No children, no true wife. No one to embrace him when he came home. Anne released the rose she held. Its petals dropped away, baring its empty yellow heart. With an elusive, undefined regret, she entered Francis’ lovely manor home.

They made themselves comfortable in their chamber, a spacious room adjoining the chapel, lit by traceried windows along one wall and a deep oriel that opened on the view of the river. Richard began sorting through the day’s business with Kendall. Anne settled into a chair with her embroidery, and young Edward came to sit by her skirts to play with his new puppy, Gawain. Servants moved quietly about the room bringing bowls of fruit and nuts and offering sweet wines to the lords who had divided themselves into groups. The hum of their manly conversation was punctuated with bursts of laughter, almost drowning out the soft notes of the lyre plucked by the minstrel in the corner.

“—Brittany won’t give Tudor up,” said the newcomer to the royal circle, Richard Ratcliffe, a Neville kinsman by marriage whom Richard had made an intimate. Not only had Ratcliffe proved his loyalty during the difficult early days in London when the Woodville queen had tried to seize power, but he had turned out to be a man of rare intellect as well as honour. Richard was drawn to him both for advice and friendship.

“Brittany’s had Tudor since the Battle of Tewkesbury and wouldn’t let King Edward have him, so what’s changed?” Ratcliffe continued with a guarded glance at Stanley, conversing with one of his own henchmen across the room. Mindful that Stanley’s wife was Henry Tudor’s mother, he lowered his voice. “Tudor’s a valuable pawn. France wants him, England wants him, and Brittany has him. I wager Brittany will keep him.”

Richard’s twenty-year-old nephew Jack grinned. “How much?” he demanded, startling Ratcliffe, who had no idea what he meant.

“How much will you wager, Dick? I’m good for a gold noble—” He took one from his purse and slapped it on the table. The royal nephew Jack, Earl of Lincoln, had grown from a merry child into an apple-cheeked lad with dark curls too unruly for his own liking, and a quick smile that had endeared him to all the household. A descendant of Geoffrey Chaucer, he was no man of letters; his zest was for the wager.

Ratcliffe laughed. “That’s too rich for my blood, Jack. How about something more modest—a few groats, maybe? I fear the harvest won’t be so good this year. Anyway, Tudor’s not worth a full noble.”

Hoofs sounded on the gravel path below. Jack jumped up to look out the window. “A messenger from Westminster! Good news, or bad; anyone willing to bet?” This elicited only laughter from the others.

Anne put down her embroidery and watched as the messenger entered and delivered the letter to Richard.

“It’s from King Louis…” Richard cut the seal with his dagger, bent his head to read, and looked up with fury. “The devil take him!” he cursed.

“What is it, my lord?” demanded Anne.

“How dare he insult me!”

The messenger paled. He had not been privy to its contents, and he hesitated a moment, debating whether to respond. “Sire,” he finally offered, “‘King Louis is dying. He is sinking fast and may already be dead. He may not have been in his right mind when he wrote the missive.”

“If he’s dead, he’s no loss to anyone but his dogs!”

Under different circumstances, Anne would have smiled. Louis’ affection for his retinue of dogs, who were said to be closer to him than his courtiers, had made him the butt of many a jest. She went to Richard’s side and read over his shoulder. Louis’ letter was offensively brief and veered from custom in addressing Richard merely as “Cousin” instead of “Brother England” or “Most High and Mighty Prince,” the language of kings. Clearly he had never forgiven him for refusing his bribe in Amiens years earlier when Edward had invaded France and, against Richard’s objections, was paid off by Louis to leave without a fight.

Richard crumpled the letter and hurled it against the wall. It landed at Francis’ feet. Francis picked it up and smoothed the parchment. Everyone except Stanley gathered around to read.

“How dare he—the damnable black Spider!” Richard spat, using the French king’s grotesque nickname.

This time there was no doubt in the messenger’s mind that no answer was to be made. Richard strode to the writing desk, seized the pen, dipped it into the ink pot, and scribbled furiously. “If France doesn’t care about Anglo-French relations, neither does England. And if Louis doesn’t stop seizing English ships on the high seas in violation of our truce, I shall send a fleet against the French privateers. Two can play this game.”