White Boar and the Red Dragon, The (48 page)

In the light of new information, I have come to believe that Richard offers no real threat to us. I am now sure that he had nothing to do with the death of my poor boys in the Tower last summer or disposed of them expediently.

But I have so many other reasons to hate Richard, and I still do, in spite of this new knowledge which has come to me lately, which I think exonerates him, at least in this terrible deed. For all anyone knew at first, my boys could just have been taken away and be held imprisoned where they could not be a motivation for more uprisings. I prayed constantly that they were safe somewhere, but in my heart of hearts, I admit that I had to believe the poor little souls must be dead. And now I know for certain that they are. Someone had them smothered in their sleep, after they had been heavily drugged. I pray they knew little about it and passed over into heaven, where the innocent go, unaware of the terrible wickedness of their murderer.

I suppose my hatred for Richard started when I felt him a rival for my husband’s love—he was so obviously the favourite brother, the one Edward listened to and whose advice he followed in all things. I could not bear it, knowing that this beloved brother had hated and despised me from the first. He did not think me good enough for Edward—and he made it very obvious. So I retaliated in kind! And he has such a clever and able mind—he was far cleverer than Edward! If we were both in the room, Edward would ignore me, pass over my remarks and advice—so intent was he on listening to Richard’s! I felt humiliated and angered by that, even though I knew Edward loved me more than any other woman. He had many women, but he always came back to me. In all things, I was the closest one to him, but not in matters of state. There, Richard influenced him completely and I did not even have a look in—the king’s own wife!

Richard’s chief councillors first assured me that he had some proof that he did not kill my sons or arrange for others to murder them. Someone else in a very high position had, apparently, more real motive: burning personal ambition to become king himself—and a real opportunity to kill my little sons, being the Lord Chamberlain, with access to any castle or fortress whenever he desired, by virtue of his position!

And that someone was the man who came to me and first told me of the rumours going around that the boys were both dead and that King Richard had killed them or had them killed! That was the one who urged me to stir up rebellion against Richard with the aid of my large Woodville family, in retribution for his murderous deed. And all the while, he had committed the deed himself already! That foul creature was the Duke of Buckingham! I actually entertained my little ones’ murderer unknowingly. How he smiled and dissembled so to the mother of his innocent victims, I know not. Surely this was the evil one in disguise?

Lord Francis Lovell then came to me alone and told me in confidence that he had been instructed by King Richard to tell me of what passed between himself and the Duke of Buckingham at Gloucester during his Progress. No one else but the king, Francis Lovell, and now myself, knows of it, and I was only told to allay my fears. Francis told me of the king’s terrible anger with Buckingham; how he shouted abuse at him violently and cursed him to hell, for committing this appalling deed. He told me also of Richard’s great grief for my sons, as he had loved them as the children of his beloved brother, Edward. Francis was the first one to be taken into Richard’s confidence the same day, as his best and closest friend, after Buckingham had been sent away with the king’s curses ringing in his ears and promises of retribution which would catch up with him soon! And then, of course, not long after, Buckingham raised his great rebellion against the king to remove him—not to help put Henry Tudor on the throne, as he had promised Lady Margaret Beaufort, his mother, who was also implicated in the uprising—but to elevate himself to the highest position in the land! He had planned it all along. Even King Richard had been taken in by his flamboyant and frequent gestures of loyalty and had rewarded him extravagantly!

Why would Francis make this up? I believed him. He had no reason to lie. He had more reason to keep completely quiet on the king’s behalf; to tell no one, least of all myself, whom he knows has hated Richard always. But Richard had actually instructed him to tell me of it, because I needed to know what had happened to my little sons and not be kept in torture of mind any longer. I was devastated to hear the truth, but at least I can begin to grieve for them now. Richard also wanted me to know what really happened, to allay my fears for myself and my daughters and to bring about our speedy release. Somehow, this confidence rang true to me. I knew it was time to emerge at last from my self-imposed imprisonment. I have to admit, against my will really, that Richard must have a streak of good in him, after all! He had no need to do this for my children and I. Something of common decency motivated him to it. But I have been instructed never to divulge a word of it to anyone else, so I have broken that promise already by telling you, my eldest son. Unless you want your mother’s death on your conscience, you must never breathe a word of it to another living soul! Richard would not show kindness to me a second time, if this became common knowledge!

Since 2 May, I have been living quietly in a house on the outskirts of London, where it is peaceful and my girls have freedom again. I think we will be able to live fairly easily on the 700 marks a year Richard has granted me. But I do have a sort of guardian, appointed by Richard, to keep an eye on me, a man named John Nesfield, one of the squires of his body. Ostensibly, he is my attendant, but I know he is really a spy to make sure I do not get out of line. If I do, I will lose my stipend. I cannot afford to get on the wrong side of Richard any more. If I am tempted, I will remind myself that my girls’ lives depend on my good behaviour.

Now, my son, I urge you to abandon your support of Henry Tudor in Brittany and come home to England.

The king has promised you a pardon! He made this long proclamation in which he promised to keep me and mine in safety, and that surely includes you. I urge you to put yourself in Richard’s hands, as I have. I think that will better serve your future prospects. After all, it is best to be on the side of a king in office—which Richard most certainly is, than on that of one who only may or may not achieve that high status!

I know you will find it hard to understand really, in spite of what I have told you, that I have decided to come to terms with the man who has done me so much wrong, who declared my little sons bastards for his own ends, then deposed them, drove you into exile, and executed your brother Richard, Lord Grey, and my much-loved brother Earl Rivers. I have lost three of my beloved sons. You are the only one left. And I need you near me. I need your support.

What else could I do? I am a woman alone now and I had had enough of my miserable existence in sanctuary. I put my pride, my hurt, and my anger aside. I had no choice.

Please come home soon, my dear son! If you cannot leave the Welsh prince openly, then find a quiet and secret way to do it! I am sure it will be to your future advantage.

Your loving mother,

Elizabeth, Dowager Queen

Duchess Cecily, Fotheringhay Castle, Northants, April 1484

My Dear Richard,

This is a blow, a terrible blow! It is unbelievable, yet only too real for you and for poor Anne. I know that little Edward was not a strong child, but this is still so unexpected. However, I did wonder that he had not the strength to attend your coronation in London, even if transported down by horse litter. Then I could see that he was barely able to get through the day of his investiture at York in September when he was officially made Prince of Wales, and your successor, in that grand ceremony. But he bravely did his duty and did not give in to his bodily ills. He showed great courage and maturity for one so young. I thought it was just another of his heavy colds. He tried so hard to control his persistent cough. I did not think that it was a really serious condition. Children are always ill with something or other. They go down fast with chills and infections but usually recover just as quickly. But you tell me that he had a very bad winter again? It is sad, so very sad. At least Anne was with him for part of that time, even if neither of you were there when he at last succumbed to his illness on 9 April, so she must not feel this terrible guilt you say has overwhelmed her. As the king’s wife, her place was by your side. She did not know how seriously ill little Edward was—none of us did. Her role as a mother came second to her role as the queen. Those in high places often feel this awful guilt when they have to leave their children in other’s hands; when duty frequently calls them away—even if the children are well. I did, frequently, when I felt constrained to support your father by accompanying him on his many expeditions—even when I was heavily pregnant at times—so the depth of despair that Anne is in is very understandable. But it will pass. God will give you both the strength to bear this terrible loss somehow.

And the doctors tell you now that they think he was actually suffering from the consumption, but because he did not cough blood until a month or so ago, it was not diagnosed? Even if it had been, I am sure there was little more that they could have done for him. Everything that could be done was done, I am sure. As the king’s son, I am sure he had every possible care.

Once more, as so often is the case when appalling things happen, we must say that it is God’s will. But God’s ways are quite inscrutable at times. As it states in the Bible so truly, they ‘passeth all understanding’. But we are not meant to fully understand, I suppose, but just accept whatever he sends us in life, both good and ill. It is very hard, almost impossible at times—such as now.

And you surely did not deserve such as this. Ever since taking the throne, you have gone out of your way to be a good king! You have worked unremittingly for the commonweal—which was your stated intention—and I know you allow yourself little rest but are involved in continual schemes and plans to improve the lot of the ordinary folk of this great country.

Your recent great Parliament after Christmas and the new laws you had passed there for the benefit of true justice for all men, both rich and poor, have proved that you have the best of intentions, my son. You have even risked alienating those nobles who would support you in times of need, as these new laws do not benefit them—indeed, often go against their interests in some cases! And this is how you are rewarded for the care and concern you have shown for your people. It is a cruel injustice! But the world is full of injustice.

What God gives with one hand, he often seems to take with the other. You have so much in many ways: the highest office in the land; great riches and estates; a loving and faithful wife; an excellent mind and the strength and determination to carry out your will successfully, as men respond to your leadership with respect and loyalty. But I expect you feel the one thing you valued most of all—your dear son—has been torn from you cruelly and inexplicably. And of course, Anne is not a strong woman, and I expect you fear there will be no more sons. But there is still time! She is young yet. Who knows but in a few months she may bring forth another male babe! I know that that would not compensate for Edward’s loss, but you must try to look forward now, both of you. What else can you do?

I am with you in mind and heart, Richard, if not in body. I understand and feel your pain. As your mother, how could I not? Try to gain some comfort from prayer, even if you feel God has used you harshly. I find it helps greatly to calm my mind and spirit, so I devote a good part of every day to prayer. I will pray most earnestly now for your peace of mind, and also for Anne’s.

God be with you, my dear son.

Your loving mother,

Cecily,

Dowager Duchess of York

Richard, King of England, Nottingham Castle, Late April 1484

My Dear Mother,

I thank you for your long letter and your loving words of comfort. Anne and I need all the comfort we can get at this dreadful time. She has been utterly felled by what has happened. She has taken to her bed, will hardly eat or drink, refuses to speak—even to me. She seems to have cut herself off from the world. I cannot get near her in spirit. We are cut off from each other. I want to comfort her, but I do not know how, as she even rejects my physical presence. I cannot understand it. I need her so much. If she would at least allow me to hold her in my arms, perhaps we would both begin to heal? Surely she could begin to accept our little son’s death if she would allow herself to be comforted. She does not even cry now—just lies there like one dead to the world, uncaring and unresponsive. We are all at our wits’ end as to what to do to help her.

I have called the best doctors in to see her, but they can do nothing for maladies of the spirit, they tell me. Only time will perhaps heal her. All they can say is let her rest and give her time. Am I to lose my dear wife’s companionship at this time when we surely need each other most, as well as my poor son’s life? It is unbearable.

And affairs of state still have to be dealt with somehow, though I have not the heart to do anything. I have to force myself to read and sign papers about things which now seem to have no relevance to my life, which I honestly could not care less about at the moment. Things which concerned me most intensely until a fortnight or so ago are now meaningless. I have to concentrate hard to listen, to understand, to get the meaning from the words in front of me, when all the time, I just want to tear them up, throw them to the four winds, tell my councillors to go away and leave me alone. I can only keep going by an effort of will.

This is my punishment. God’s punishment for doing what I should never have done, for taking the throne. For breaking faith with my dear brother Edward and overriding his deathbed wishes by superseding his son! I know that many call me a wicked usurper and hate me for wresting the throne from that poor boy, who could not defend himself against my decision. I am a usurper—even if I became one for the best of reasons! At the time, it seemed the best, the only thing to do. But I must have been wrong. And now is the time of retribution! My retribution.