White Boar and the Red Dragon, The (31 page)

Anne was devastated about her sister’s death too. They were always very close as children, though they had grown apart since Isabel married George.

Now, I think George is teetering on the verge of madness. His behaviour, always erratic and unpredictable, has become outrageous.

First, he decided, in his obviously sick mind, that his wife had been murdered. Poisoned, no less. And by the last person, surely, who would have harmed Isobel? Ankarette Twynyho, her old nurse, who had cared for her and the child through her last illness. Grief is a terrible thing, but what George did went far beyond that.

His hatred of the Woodvilles tipped his reason, I am sure. He had obviously convinced himself that they had coerced the poor nurse into administering poison to kill Isabel to get back at him for all his hatred of them—which was mutual—and his high-handed attitude to them over the years. He openly despised them for their low birth—particularly the queen—dismissing them as upstarts.

Now he has had the Twynyho woman dragged off and summarily hanged without trial! It is surely the act of a badly unbalanced mind! He has always been arrogant, but taking the King’s Justice into his own hands is beyond forgiveness. The king is furious about it.

Many actions of George’s lately make the king angry. I think his days of forgiving our charming brother have run out at last!

And there are other things, very strange things. When he comes to court, which is very infrequently now, he is ominously silent; glowers at the Woodvilles, particularly the queen, and even Edward sometimes. And he ostentatiously refuses all meat and drink when it is offered. Why? Does he think that someone is trying to poison him too?

He has always been one to brood on grievances, or supposed grievances. Now he is in a furious mood constantly. He says little, but we all know why it is. With poor Isabel scarce cold in her grave, his ever-vaunting ambition led him to ask for the hand in marriage of someone far and away above his grasp! None other than Mary of Burgundy, the greatest heiress in Europe, now that her father the duke has lately died. And she, even more arrogant perhaps than her suitor, turned him down flat! Also, as king, Edward forbade the marriage, even if Mary had accepted George’s proposal. George will have hated him for that. Perhaps he convinced himself Mary would have taken him for husband if Edward had not scotched the plan roundly? He has such a high opinion of himself! But all Europe knows of George’s past indiscretions and his open treachery to Edward when he sided against the king with Warwick. Burgundy would not want such a troublemaker in its midst. But what is even more shocking to the king and I is the fact that our own sister, Margaret, Duchess of Burgundy, supported him in this! What can she have been thinking of? She always loved George best of all of us, her handsome, charming brother who protected her as a child. They were like two peas in a pod. Worst of all, it has come to light, through letters to each other which have gone astray, that he feels himself more suited to be king than Edward; that he also has more right to be king, as Edward was proclaimed a bastard all those years ago by his own mother. That nonsense concerning the archer Blaybourne and our proud Lady Mother Cecily again! Will that silly story never get laid to rest? And according to her reply, Margaret believes he has the rightful claim too!

This is tantamount to treason on George’s part, and surely her foolish fondness for George has persuaded Margaret into such an indiscretion as actually writing her support for him down in an answering letter? It is hardly believable! Edward feels very upset, as well as angry, about all this, I know. Surely he must do something about George now. Things cannot go on like this. George has gone too far—even for the king’s forgiving nature.

I expect to hear very soon that Edward will take some action, for this is a very serious matter. It is the second time that George has, in effect, turned traitor to the king! Edward cannot ignore it.

And I suppose I will have to leave the peace and quiet of Middleham and travel to London to support the king in whatever decision he makes. I dread it, for I feel I know what the outcome must be. And despite his foolish stupidity and falseness, George is still my brother—and I dread what may happen to him now.

George of Clarence, the Tower of London, Summer 1477

I have gone too far this time. I know it. I will be lucky to escape with my life. I do not think I will. I have never seen Edward so angry with me. He has always forgiven me my waywardness before. All my life, I have depended on his clemency and natural generosity of heart. But not this time. This time I could see he is inflexible. He has made up his mind about me. Something tells me he will never relent again—and that death stares me in the face. A traitor’s death.

Surely he will not condemn me to that terrible, brutal death, his own brother? Whatever I have done?

I knew somehow, while I was saying and doing some of these things of which I am accused, where it might lead me. I have been on the downward slope for years, but it has turned into a landslide since Christmas. I have always been weak and easily led, I admit. From boyhood, I’ve been prey to bad influences. And I do not think before I act. I have had endless time to reflect on my behaviour over the years whilst incarcerated in here, and I see things clearly now, where I have constantly gone wrong. I was warned, many times, that my behaviour was not acceptable as the king’s brother, but I ignored all the warnings. And now it is too late.

Of course, it is the drink that is largely responsible for my behaviour since my poor, dear Isabel died just before Christmas. I have always been a heavy drinker, but since that terrible time, I have never been sober. Her death broke my heart. My poor children have lost their mother—and soon they will be orphans! The drink has made me do things I am sure I never would have otherwise done. It has made me very incautious with my tongue—careless too. The brother of the king cannot speak so. I realise that now. It is too dangerous. I have gone well beyond the pale of reasonable behaviour.

This necromancy business, for instance. I have accused Edward of dabbling in the black arts with the aid of Jane Shore, his favourite mistress, and with the queen. These Woodvilles will be the death of me! They have always hated me and persistently tried to persuade the king to see the worst in me. And he has always held out against them and their vicious tongues. Until now. It is the end of the line for me, I am sure.

Of course, the queen has hated me even more venomously ever since I had her father, Lord Rivers, and her brother, John, executed. But that was necessary at the time and I did it on Warwick’s orders anyway. She has spread wicked stories, which are mostly quite untrue, about plots against the king I am supposed to have hatched, about injuries I am supposed to have done to her Woodville relatives, and she has complained of evil ambitions I am supposed to have had, and even that she feared her eldest boy will never become king when Edward dies, if I live—as I will have him done away with! My own nephew! I may be a lot of things which are not good—I admit—but I am no child-killer!

Most of it is nonsense. I do hate the Woodvilles, that is true, but I have not done a quarter of what she vehemently alleges, what they all, as a tribe, accuse me of. She has the king’s ear constantly, and he believes everything she says, as he is besotted with her. She bombards him with tales of my supposed infamy. I do not hate the king. I am just envious of his position—which a quirk of fate decided, that is all. I admit, I always have been. But envy is a common sin, especially among siblings. But here it is interpreted as treason!

It does not mean I wanted his death!

But he wishes mine now. At last, this hated, evil family has broken through Edward’s defences of brotherly affection and family loyalty. The love he has always borne me, despite all my admitted faults, has been dissipated by their constant accusations.

I feel I will not be long here. Edward will either release me soon or have me executed. And something tells me it will be the latter. Even Richard has been pleading for my life constantly, I hear; Richard, whom I have envied all my life too because he came first in Edward’s heart. Apparently, he even travelled all the way down from Yorkshire to plead with the king to forgive me—just once more. I must admit it humbles me a little.

I am lost and adrift here, like a piece of driftwood at the mercy of wild waves. Stronger forces than I can control will decide my fate. Will Richard persuade the king to let me live? He is an able and persuasive man. And Edward loves him well and has always listened to him. But I think the king will be adamant. He is afraid of me, you see, afraid of what he suspects I know.

He is doing this because I have a secret about him that I found out by accident! If revealed, it would blow his world apart and that of his vicious wife, the queen—who is no queen in truth and that of his children. The whole succession would be put in jeopardy; would be destroyed! He is terrified that I will open my mouth and tell what I know. So he cannot let me live, fearing what I could do with this knowledge! I am to die, not for my indiscretions, my jealousy of him, or my past treachery in plotting with Lord Warwick against him—he forgave me that—but because of what I know and could reveal any time—I could destroy them all!

And the future of the Yorkist dynasty! I could reveal it now to try and save myself! But who would believe me in here? I am allowed no visitors of importance who might take me seriously. My gaolers would just laugh at me and say it was the ramblings of a drunken man terrified for his life and clutching at any straw to try and save himself. They would dismiss it as lies—but it is all true—all true. Why did I not speak up before?

Because I thought Edward would relent, forgive me again—until I realised that he knew about this secret that I hold! That signed my death warrant, I know it!

How will they put me to death, if the worst comes to the worst? Will Edward commute the terrible sentence for treason? Will he take some pity on me as his brother? Will I be told when it is to happen or just be done away with in the night like old Henry VI?! I cannot bear to think of it, and yet it obsesses me constantly, what is to come—soon, I feel.

I am given every luxury in here, far more than most prisoners, even noble ones, get, I am sure. I have even been given a large barrel of my favourite Canary malmsey. I drink it like water—it is the only comfort I have now; the only resort to blot out what seems inevitable—the only way to forgetfulness.

If it is to happen, my death as a traitor to my brother the king, the supposed king—who rules where I should have ruled—let it happen soon—preferably when I am heavily drunk.

If I am given one last request, then it would be for them to allow me to drink myself into an oblivious stupor before they carry out the deed—perhaps, for past brotherly love, Edward will allow me at least that last favour.

Henry Tudor, Brittany, January 1478

Woking Old Hall,

Surrey,

England

My Dear Henry,

I am sending you the warmest greetings for your twenty-first birthday on 28 January. This is a big milestone in your life, and I am so sad that we cannot be together to celebrate it. I hope that Duke Francis will see fit to arrange a celebration for you, where you can meet with some, at least, of your supporters, especially Uncle Jasper. That would be a kind thing for him to do—and he does seem kindly disposed towards you, I think. He did not let you fall into the hands of crafty King Edward after all last year. Let me know later on how you spent your special day!

Here, in England, King Edward’s great displeasure with his brother George of Clarence continues. So much so that he has finally lost patience with his actions. Clarence has shown in more than one way over the years that he has traitorous intentions towards the king. But he also took the king’s law into his own hands, having tried and condemned to hanging a servant he was convinced poisoned his wife, Isabel, who of course died from the effects of child-bed fever and perhaps, say some—a lung disease brought on by her weakness after the birth. Anyway, George had this woman hung without trial, and the king was outraged! It was just the end of a long line of George’s transgressions. He was forgiven by the king again and again, but never learnt his lesson and changed his ways! He has been imprisoned in the Tower of London for a long time, and perhaps he thought that would be his only punishment.

But now, he has been indicted in a court of law by the king himself, who conducted the trial and expounded all the charges against his foolish brother. It very much looks as if the death sentence for treason will be served on him. One cannot say he does not deserve it! Whether the king will actually have it carried out is another matter, as he has always been close to his brothers, and it may go against his conscience, even though Clarence is patently guilty of so much plotting against Edward. We shall see.

But think, my son. If he is executed for treason, that will be one less contender for the throne between you and your rightful place as the future king. I have always been convinced, as you know, of your destiny! Fate works itself out in strange ways. George of Clarence has many times stated that he should be king and that Edward has no right to the throne. He may be right! There have been many rumours circulating for years that Edward was born a bastard in France, the son of a common archer whom the proud Duchess Cecily committed an indiscretion with while her soldier husband was away at the wars. It may be true. There is no smoke without fire, as they say—and if so, it would mean that Edward’s children would have no right of inheritance after him. Which would leave just Richard of Gloucester—and you!

I keep as well as can be expected, though my health was never good. I hope that you are now fit and well again and that this winter has brought you no more agues? Last winter, you had a bad attack of the sweating sickness, I know, which many do not recover from at all. You, being young and strong, were able to fight it off, but still, my son, be careful. Do not take chances with your health. Your presence will be needed for great things in the future! Enjoy your birthday, my dear son! I am always thinking of you and praying for your health and well-being!