The Rose of York: Crown of Destiny (14 page)

Richard had seen little of his cousin in his life, but clearly their paths had crossed enough at critical times in their lives to shape them in the same mould and forge strong bonds of memory and affection. There was something else. Each time he looked at Buckingham, he was reminded of the blood they shared, for Buckingham bore a startling resemblance to George. He had felt so alone since Edward’s death. Now, he thought, gazing at Harry Duke of Buckingham, he was alone no longer.

With a deep bow, Anthony Woodville took his leave. Richard and Buckingham watched as he and his torchbearers disappeared into their lodgings down the darkened street. Richard turned stiffly. Summoning his advisors, he returned to the parlour and resumed his seat at the table with Buckingham. Everyone rushed to join him: William Conyers, Lord Scrope of Bolton, Francis, Rob Percy, and Richard Ratcliffe. Gathered close, they spoke in whispers, faces grim in the flickering rush-light.

“What think you?” Richard asked, his grave question directed to Buckingham.

“We’re in a bad situation,” said Buckingham, face flushed, blue eyes dark in the dim light. “The King is fourteen miles ahead of us. If the Queen gets hold of his person, she will rule as Marguerite did through Henry, and we are done for.”

“Then you believe Hastings—that the situation in London is desperate?”

“Don’t you?” Shock widened Buckingham’s eyes.

“I don’t believe the Queen would risk civil strife by circumventing the Protectorship.”

“She stole the King’s signet ring and sealed Desmond’s death warrant when he wouldn’t sign, didn’t she?”

“But that was long ago. Age has surely tempered her rashness.”

“I have had the distinct displeasure to know her intimately, and I can assure you, Dickon, she has not been tempered one whit. If anything, she’s grown greedier, more wilful and thirsty for power. She once vowed to destroy any and all who cross her.”

“What about Anthony Woodville? What’s his role in all this?”

“Unwilling, no doubt. The Queen has spoken of him disparagingly many times. She’s accused him of having more heart for useless learning than for power, and calls him spineless. She’s said that he has too many doubts and not enough ambition. In short, he has scruples, and she has none.”

“And Anthony Woodville himself, what says he?”

“He’s told Bess to show more humility and less pride. His ballads on the Seven Deadly Sins are penned for her…” Buckingham gave a snort of laughter. “But it does no good—she won’t read them!”

“Yet in the end, he does her bidding.”

“In the end, he is a Woodville.”

After a long pause, Richard said, “We cannot fight. We’re outnumbered four to one.”

“Dickon, there’s something you should know.” Buckingham shifted on the bench, drew a deep breath. “Years ago the Queen decided whom she would destroy—Desmond, Cook, Warwick, your royal brother George, John Lord Montagu and…”

“Montagu?”

“She planted the idea in the King’s mind to take away his earldom. He was a Neville.” His mouth thinned. “She has almost come to the end of her list.”

“Blessed Mary, you say ‘almost.’ There are other names on that list?”

“Two.” Buckingham leaned across the table. He met Richard’s eyes. “Hastings… and you.”

~*^*~

Chapter 14

“out…issued the bright face of a blooming boy

Fresh as a flower new-born.”

Richard drew back the shutter and looked out at the street. All was well. Beneath the grey skies of dawn, his armed men were in place, guarding the roads and surrounding the inn where Anthony Woodville lodged.

He would do all he had to do, by God! He was no sacrificial lamb to be led to the block like Desmond, and he would not hand Bess the knife to drive into his belly, as George had done. Buckingham had stripped the blindfold from his eyes. He’d been a damned fool to put trust in Bess. To believe she might have learned something from her mistakes, that she might care a whit about the realm. People like Bess never changed, they only grew more embittered with each failed ambition, each perceived slight. She cared only for herself, and her grudges, and settling her old scores, no matter how much time passed between and how much blood was shed. With Bess, time did not heal; it inflamed. She believed Richard blamed her for George’s death, and she feared his revenge. She was determined to destroy him first, whatever the cost.

With Buckingham at his side and a company of men at his back, Richard rode hard for Stony Stratford. He found the town crowded with armed men and loaded pack animals. As he neared a small whitewashed inn, young King Edward appeared in the doorway between his half-brother, Sir Richard Grey, and his aging chamberlain, Sir Edward Vaughn. He walked towards a magnificent chestnut stallion, and around him thronged ranks of armed men for whom Richard’s own small company was no match.

“Wait here,” Richard ordered his men. He spurred White Surrey forward and drew rein before the royal group. They turned. Surprise, uncertainty, and fear flashed across Edward’s young face in rapid succession and Richard had the satisfaction of seeing Sir Richard Grey’s jaw slacken in shock. If he needed confirmation of Bess’s plotting, he had it. The silence throbbed as he dismounted. Men backed away and opened a path for him. He strode up to young Edward and knelt in homage, feeling their eyes bore into his back.

“My Lord King, gracious nephew, we greet you well and with all reverence,” he said.

Edward murmured a courteous acknowledgement while his eyes searched the distance. “Where is my uncle?”

Richard stiffened.
Am I not his uncle too?
“My Lord King, I have grave tidings to relate concerning your uncle Anthony.” Richard gestured towards the inn where they could speak privately.

Edward glanced at his half-brother. Richard Grey proved no help. The young man was still struck mute, staring at Richard as if unable to believe the evidence of his own eyes.

“Your Grace, the matter concerning your uncle Anthony is of the utmost urgency,” Richard insisted when Edward made no move to re-enter the inn. “May we speak privately?” Again, he pointed the way. This time the young King nodded.

Once inside, Richard expressed his condolences and informed young Edward of the masses he had ordered sung for his father in York and the oath of fealty he had administered to the citizens. He hoped that would reassure the boy of his intentions. His gaze flicked to Richard Grey and Thomas Vaughn, hanging back in the room as if ready to bolt for the door. The exit was blocked by his own men-at-arms, who stood squarely before it. Reassured, Richard turned back to the King.

“Your Grace, your royal father is dead only because certain ministers about his person encouraged his excesses, ruined his health, and brought him to an early demise. These men must be removed from power in order that they not destroy you as they destroyed him.”

Richard Grey stepped angrily toward Richard. “How dare you…”

Buckingham blocked him. “How dare you interrupt your betters, Woodville.” Eyes flashing, a hand on his dagger, he made “Woodville” sound like an epithet.

As calmly as he could, Richard said, “My Lord, for many years I have served my royal brother in council and in battle. Because of my experience, my reputation, and my nearness of blood, he appointed me Protector of the realm. But these same ministers who brought about my royal brother’s death have conspired to set aside your father’s will and deprive me of the Protectorship. They are Richard Grey here, his brother the Marquess of Dorset, and your uncle Anthony.”

“It’s not true!” cried Richard Grey. “Don’t believe him, Edward!”

“B-but they are my f-friends and I t-trust them,” stuttered the young King. “As for the P-Protectorate, I am certain my uncle Anthony and my gracious mother the Queen…”

“The governance of the realm is for those of royal blood, not low-born Woodvilles!” Buckingham snapped, pushing forward. “Your mother has no rightful authority. You’ve been deceived!”

Edward paled. His frightened eyes flew from Buckingham to Richard. “B-but what about my uncle Anthony?”

“For my own safety, I’ve been forced to detain him in Northampton,” said Richard. “No harm shall come to him. You can see for yourself when we return tomorrow.”

Tears welled in the young King’s eyes and he bit his lower lip to stop its trembling as Richard stepped aside to allow him to ascend the stairs to his chamber. Buckingham followed. Richard nodded to his men-at-arms and they seized Richard Grey and Vaughn. He watched as they were taken upstairs. Now he had to deal with the royal escort. He went to the door and hesitated, his hand on the knob. What if they resisted? What would he do? He was outnumbered. He couldn’t fight. Everything depended on what he said, and how he said it. He had to do well. There would be no second chance. He braced himself, flung open the door, and stepped out to face the sea of expectant, staring faces.

“The King,” he proclaimed loudly, firmly, “has been received into my Protectorship as his father, King Edward IV—God assoil his soul—ordained in his testament. Therefore all servants and men-at-arms who accompanied the royal retinue from Ludlow are dismissed to return to their homes!”

Richard waited. In that moment, life was suspended; he drew no breath, heard no sound, saw no movement.

Then suddenly the world came back to life. Men murmured; horses neighed. Slowly, in small groups they melted away.

~*^*~

Chapter 15

“a blooming boy… crying, “Knight,

Slay me not; my three brethren bade me do it…

They never dreamt the passes would be passed.”

Richard returned to Northampton with his prisoners and the King. On the ride back, he stole glances at young Edward. The boy’s lower lip trembled and tears sparkled in his eyes, yet he sat erect in his saddle, clinging to his dignity. Richard’s heart ached for his nephew. In an instant his life had changed and all that was dear was rent from the young fellow.

He has to be so afraid, feeling so alone surrounded by strangers, not a familiar face among them
, Richard thought. He felt guilty about that. To sever all connection with the little King’s Woodville past, he’d had to replace young Edward’s personal attendants with his own men. He knew that he himself appeared fierce and foreign to the boy, and again he regretted lacking his brothers’ casual ways, their brilliant smiles and fair good looks, and their ability to win hearts. He wished he could put Edward at ease, for well he understood the boy’s misery. He had been little more than half young Edward’s age when his own father died and he’d been sent away for refuge to a strange land; alone, except for George.

He bit down on the emotion that flooded him. He had no wish to be here, to be doing this. But for this boy’s mother, all would have been different. If only Edward hadn’t married her! But he had. And worse: he had died suddenly, prematurely, consigning England to the uncertainties of minority government and the machinations of an evil Queen. Twice in the last eighty years a child had inherited the throne—Richard II and Henry VI—and each time brought disaster to England. Not for nothing was it said, “Woe to thee, O land, when thy king is a child!”

When they arrived in Northampton Richard sent messengers to Anne and his mother, summoned his secretary, John Kendall, and dictated a letter to Hastings and the council. “I have not captured the King but rescued him and the realm,” he began, pacing to and fro. “For those who have tainted the honour and health of the father cannot be expected to have more regard for the youth of the son. For my own safety and the safety of the kingdom, I have arrested Rivers, Vaughn, and Grey and their fate will be submitted to the decision of the council.” He halted, heaved an audible sigh. “That is all… Nay, add that I shall soon bring the King to London to be crowned.” He waved a hand. “Given under our signet at our town of Northampton, this day, the thirtieth of April, 1483.” He threw Buckingham a glance. “What think you, Harry? Is that good enough?”

“It shall make Hastings’s work easier for him, I warrant.”

Richard went to the window, thrust it open, and peered outside at the armed men milling in the street. Now that his work was done, he felt weary and famished. He hadn’t realised how hungry he was or how late it had become. The light was fading fast; it was already five o’clock, high time for dinner. The clanking of dishes and the smell of cooked meat on the spit wafted up from the kitchen, sending his stomach growling.

That evening Richard ate heartily cured tongue, roasted partridge with cold herbed jelly, dates in relish, cheese, waffles, rice cakes, and marchpane. He drank deeply of the sweet spiced wine and noted out of the corner of his eye that young Edward barely touched his food. “Fair nephew, can you not eat?”

The boy shook his head.

“Even kings must keep up their strength.” The boy hung his head. “I am sure your uncle Anthony has cleared his plate and would wish you to do the same.”

At the mention of his uncle, Edward’s head jerked up. “Is my uncle allowed to eat?”

The child’s response confirmed what Richard had always suspected: the Woodvilles had poisoned his nephew against him. He gestured to the innkeeper.

“Your Grace?”

“Prepare these same dishes for Earl Rivers and send them to his lodgings.”

“But, my Lord, he has already dined.”

“Already?” repeated Richard meaningfully. “The exact banquet?”

“Aye, my Lord… Except—except for the rice cakes and marchpane.”

Richard gave young Edward a measured glance. “Nephew, I tell you what… If you eat your partridge, I shall send your uncle Anthony rice cakes and marchpane.”

The boy picked up a leg and took a bite. Richard watched him. He was nothing like his own Ned, with his fair hair and milk-white complexion, yet in some ways he reminded him of his son. It was his innocence and his vulnerability, for it was apparent that the boy did not feel well. He chewed slowly, carefully, on one side of his mouth, nursing the other as if it were tender.

“Do you have a toothache, Edward?”

Young Edward lifted a hand, gingerly touched his lower jaw on the right side of his face. “I always have pain in my jaw. Isn’t a toothache supposed to go away?”