The Rose of York: Crown of Destiny (15 page)

“As soon as we get to London, I’ll have my physician take a look,” Richard promised, swept with a need to comfort the boy. “He may have just the potion for you.”

The table was cleared and more rush-lights were lit. Richard called for pen and paper. Dabbing the quill pen into the ink, he began doodling, one eye on the boy, his mind drifting back to when he’d been twelve himself. He remembered how Edward had appointed him commissioner of array, how Francis and Anne and his friends, the two Toms who’d been killed at Barnet, had insisted he must have a motto. His heart constricted. That had been the start of the troubles, but he’d been too young to understand. All he knew was that he’d been chosen to do man’s work, and he was proud. “Do you have a motto, Edward?”

The boy shook his head.

“I do,” said Richard. “See…” He wrote out
Loyaulte me lie
—Loyalty binds me—then he signed his name beneath: “Richard of Gloucester.” “And you, Harry?” he asked Buckingham.

“Why, indeed, I do!” Buckingham took the pen, dipped into the ink, and wrote out,
Souvente me souvene.
“It means, Think of me often.”

“Can you write, Edward?” asked Richard gently.

“Aye,” young Edward said with a proud lift of his head. They passed him the parchment, pen and ink. He hesitated. “But I can’t write with my left hand, like you, my Lord uncle.”

Richard smiled. “A good thing, Edward. Or you would have a handicap to overcome.”

Young Edward bent his head. Slowly, carefully, he wrote out his name at the top of the page: “Edwardus Quintus.”

Richard examined the stiff, childish hand. “Very good… You know what this means, don’t you?”

Edward frowned. “No, my Lord.”

“With this signature you can command anything you wish and it will be done, for you are King and your word is law. Is there a desire close to your heart, something you’d like to do? Maybe a gift you’d care to make?”

Edward thought for a moment. “There is a chaplain at Ludlow of whom I am very fond. It would give me much pleasure to reward him.”

“His name?”

“John Geffrey.”

“Done!” Richard summoned his secretary, John Kendall. “The King commands that you dispatch an order to the custodian of the seal of the earldom of March to send a writ to the Bishop of Hereford asking that one John Jef…” He looked at Edward. Edward said brightly, “Geffrey…” and spelled it out. “That John Geffrey be appointed to the rectorship of the parish church of Pembrigge.” Richard looked kindly at his nephew. “See how easy it is, my Lord King?” For the first time, Richard saw him smile.

Later over wine, they read Malory together, and Edward, relaxing a little more, asked questions about kingship and Good and Evil.

“A wise king is just,” Richard replied. “When there is justice, all is right with the world. There is peace, men are content.”

“Then why was King Arthur and his good kingdom destroyed by evil?”

“Only in Heaven has Good triumphed over Evil for all time. On earth it is a daily battle we wage, each of us choosing our side and accounting for our choice to God on Judgement Day.” Then partly to reassure the boy, and partly to plant the seed in his mind by which he might one day judge his own mother’s actions, Richard added, “Remember always that the fountain of Goodness is justice, and the fountain of Evil is greed. From greed flows jealousy, hatred, treason, and all foul deeds.”

At the end of this heavy discussion, the young King rubbed his bleary eyes and made his way up to bed. And Richard thought,
there’s hope after all
.

On the second of May a messenger arrived from Hastings. It was the same man who had brought news of Edward’s death. He knelt before Richard. “Catesby, is it not?” Richard asked.

“Aye, my Lord Protector. This time I am heartened to bear good tidings. Your letter to the council was well received. The Protectorate is approved. The Woodville cause has collapsed.”

Buckingham gave a cheer. Richard allowed himself a small smile.

Catesby continued. “The Queen has fled into Sanctuary, taking with her all manner of crates, boxes, furniture, plates, tapestries, and coffers containing half of King Edward’s treasure. For two days and nights the carts rolled into Westminster Abbey. Lord Hastings bids me tell you that she broke down a wall in order to move in her goods more quickly.”

Buckingham roared with laughter. “Last time dear old Bess was in Sanctuary, she complained bitterly of being uncomfortable!”

“What about the Queen’s brothers, Dorset, Lionel, and Sir Edward?” Richard demanded.

“Sir Edward has sailed from England with the fleet, taking the other half of the King’s treasure with him… My Lord Protector, Lord Hastings wishes you to know that the royal treasury is empty.”

Richard sighed. Buckingham laughed. “How very Woodville.”

Richard turned his head and looked at him.
Edward would have laughed
, he thought,
and then he would have kissed some merchants’ wives and raised more money
. He turned his attention back to Catesby. There was an honest, forthright quality about this sinewy young man who was around his own age.

“You are to be made comfortable and denied nothing, Catesby. Inform our landlord that he is to spread out for you the best table he can prepare, and get some rest. We leave for London at the cock’s crow.”

Catesby thanked Richard in fine, courtly fashion, adding to Richard’s good impression.

Early the second morning after they had left Northampton, the royal cavalcade approached Barnet. The skies were pearl grey, spring flowers dotted the bright green rolling hills, and the air was damp with dew. Bells from Hadley’s church chimed for Prime, flooding Richard with memories. Many who rode with him this day had fought against him that other, but there was one he missed still… One he would always miss. Halting before the peaceful little church on the hill, Richard dismounted and went inside. He leaned against the pillar, laid his hand against the cold stone. The nave was gloomy and cool; candles flickered at the altar and feeble daylight bathed the Cross.

As he stood there, twelve years slipped away in his mind and again it was the day of the Battle of Barnet, a day of death. He heard the crash of metal, the screams of terrified horses, the cries of dying men. The fog swirled around him. Swords flashed; men fell. Cries of York and Lancaster mingled in the murk. He closed his eyes and saw himself dismounting before Hadley Church after the battle. Looping the reins of his war horse around a tree at the edge of the graveyard, he had followed its curving path to the entry. With great effort, he pulled open the iron-hinged parish door. The church was empty. A fitful grey light came through the coarse glass windows, and the dank, musty air stank of burning mutton fat from the votive candles at the altar. He had taken a step down into the nave and felt suddenly faint. Putting out an arm, he had leaned heavily against a pillar.

Drawn by the clanging of the door, a pimply acolyte had come out from the vestry. He had given a start at the sight of Richard.

Richard had suddenly realised how frightening he must appear with his bloodied hair and clothes, his bloodstained, bandaged arm, and a face that had to be as pale as a phantom. His taut mouth had softened.

The boy had recovered, and come towards him. “Do you seek Sanctuary, my Lord?” he had asked, recognising Richard’s high estate despite the condition of his clothes.

Richard had been unable to respond. He was fighting a terrible fatigue, a pounding head and blurred vision, and stood erect only with great effort. He had rubbed his eyes in a desperate attempt to clear his mind.
One day
, he had thought with a stab of fear,
the moment will come when I will no longer be able to exert will over body and I will break
. He had shaken his head with determined effort. “Priest!” he had demanded, more harshly than he intended. The flustered boy had run off into the nave and out the west door into the churchyard. A moment later an older man had lumbered in the same entrance. He was gaunt, his grey hair thinning around his tonsure.

“My Lord, you asked for me?” he had inquired, his face flushed.

With a slow, clumsy motion, Richard had withdrawn a small bag of coins from within his doublet. The movement had sent pain shooting along his right side. He grimaced.

“Pray, sit down, my Lord!” the priest said. With concern for his benefactor, he dusted the steps with a corner of his gown.

Richard shook his head. “I wish… prayers… Masses… for one dead in battle.” There were many dead in battle whom he would remember: his boyhood friends, the two Toms; his squire, John Milewater. And Warwick. Later, he would buy Masses for them, too, but this—this could not wait.

The priest took the purse, made the sign of the Cross. “It shall be done, my Lord,” he had said. “And the name of the deceased, God assoil his soul?”

“John Neville, Marquess of Montagu,” Richard had replied in a choked voice. “He died honourably.” Somehow, he felt it necessary the priest know that. Heaving himself around, he had dragged himself from the little church.

A voice said, “May I help you, my Lord?” It was a different priest than the one he remembered.

Richard bought masses for the repose of John’s soul. Outside, in the brightness of day, he breathed deeply of the fresh morning air. Aye, life went on. He strode to his waiting horse. It was Sunday, the fourth of May.

~*^*~

Chapter 16

“He makes no friend who never made a foe.”

The gates of London stood open to receive them. Men jostled for space on the city walls and cheering crowds packed the narrow streets and hung over balconies. Gaily dressed in scarlet trimmed with fur, the Mayor came out to greet Richard and the young King, accompanied by his aldermen and a train of leading citizens, including five hundred eminent merchants clad in violet. All across the city, church bells pealed in celebration.

Richard and Buckingham rode bareheaded. They had both dressed in coarse black mourning cloth and their men had donned black for the occasion, making a sharp contrast with the Londoners. Young Edward rode between them, dressed in blue velvet with a matching cap crowning his bright hair. Richard thought him a touchingly diminutive figure on his enormous chestnut stallion. On through the narrow streets rolled their procession, past Ludgate, past St. Paul’s, around Westminster. There was such a noise of welcome that Richard knew Bess had to be drowning in it, even through the thick stone walls of her sanctuary. He couldn’t suppress a smile. On this day, the odious Queen had planned to have young Edward crowned, and then, no doubt, to sign his death warrant.

Young Edward was temporarily lodged at the Bishop of London’s palace. With Buckingham at his side, Richard went to Crosby Place, his townhouse on Bishopsgate Street, where Hastings awaited. The reunion was warm. Richard’s disapproval of his brother’s friend had evaporated under a weight of gratitude for his recent services. Francis and Rob joined them, and over wine and sweetbreads, they brought one another up to date.

“A great deal has happened. The people are afraid, Dickon,” said Hastings.

“I know. To ease their minds, I’ll have the city fathers and the lords spiritual and temporal take the oath of fealty to King Edward in a public ceremony as soon as possible.”

“A good idea,” agreed Hastings.

“Aye,” Buckingham agreed, “but one thing troubles me. Edward needs to be moved from the Bishop’s Palace. It’s not suitable housing for him.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Hastings. “It’s perfectly suitable for a King. Henry lodged there many a time.”

“That’s exactly the point, Will. We don’t wish to remind the people of Henry. He was deposed.”

“No one’s planning to depose Edward, Harry,” said Richard.

“We know that, but others don’t,” insisted Buckingham. “Besides, it’s not safe.”

“It’s as safe as anywhere else,” Hastings replied irritably.

Buckingham turned to Richard. “Dickon, you know I’m only looking out for your good. The Woodville bitch is hatching plots to get her hands on Edward even as we speak! Edward must be moved to the Tower.”

“If you do that, Dickon, the people will see young Edward as your captive,” Hastings said.

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Buckingham. “The Tower’s a royal residence! The bitch chose it for Edward’s birthing, remember? Warwick’s revolt forced her into Sanctuary. That’s why Edward was born at Westminster instead of at the Tower. Besides, there’s a zoo to entertain him. He’ll be happier there.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you, Harry… Rob, Francis, what do you think?” Richard asked.

“Harry makes a good case,” Francis said. “I vote for the Tower.”

“So do I,” Rob agreed.

Rob and Francis brought up other business, and when they had covered everything of importance, everyone relaxed amiably until the subject turned to Bishop Morton.

“I hear you were doing well with Edward in Northampton, but Morton ruined everything once you got here,” Rob said.

Richard put down his wine cup, said bitterly, “Morton told him that his mother had fled into sanctuary on my account.” He bit his lip. “The devil take Morton!”

Hastings gave him a sympathetic look. “Edward had to know sometime, Dickon.”

“But not like that. You should have seen Edward’s face. Now he thinks I’m the villain the Woodvilles have always claimed. Not only did I lock up his brother and favourite uncle, but his mother fears for her life at my hands.” He rose from the table, went to the window and fidgeted with his ring, as he always did when he was nervous or upset. A silence fell. Rob and Francis shifted uncomfortably in their chairs, but it escaped Richard’s notice that Buckingham’s expression turned suddenly fearful and that he fell into deep thought.

Hastings set his cup down and heaved a sigh. “Aye, by fleeing into Sanctuary, Bess Woodville proclaimed her own guilt to all the world but him.” He felt badly for Richard, who was in an awkward position. It would not be easy for him to regain the King’s trust after this. For himself, however, he was vastly relieved. He’d had no part in the events at Northampton—at least not in young Edward’s eyes. That was what counted. One day the young King would no longer be a minor. Richard had, at best, five years to change the boy’s mind. With Bess around, that might not be enough. As there was no comfort to offer, Hastings brought up the delicate matter he had put off. “Bess is not without her sympathisers, however. You do know that Edward’s Chancellor, Archbishop Rotherham, delivered the Great Seal into her hands in Sanctuary?”