Authors: Sandra Worth
Her chest heaved with the effort of speech, but she managed to touch the girl’s cheek in a loving gesture. “You shall… make a fine queen… Elizabeth.” Then she smiled. For even the bleakest winter’s day held the promise of spring.
~ * ~
Chapter 17
“Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold.”
A month after Richard arrived in London, William Colyngbourne, the maker of the impudent lampoon, was caught and indicted for his seditious, mocking rhyme, and charged with paying a man to deliver a message to the French court that Richard intended to make war on France and throw their envoys into prison.
“We must make an example of that traitor!” Richard raged.
That traitor
who had not only ridiculed him and his government before all England but had cost him the chance to make peace with France!
That traitor
, laughing at him like Trollope who had sworn fealty to his father, absconded with his battle plans, then led the Christmas ambush at Wakefield in which his father and brother were slain.
That traitor
, laughing at him, as Buckingham had laughed—
“Traitors embody all that’s vile in man!” Richard kicked over a chair and swept an arm across the table, sending goblets crashing to the floor. “He must suffer before he dies!” He turned on his councillors. “He must suffer!”
Catesby, Francis, Rob Percy, Scrope, and Ratcliffe stood pale-faced, staring at him as though he had lost his mind. He pressed a hand to his aching head, sank heavily into a chair. “He must suffer,” he said quietly. “He is a traitor.”
Catesby cleared his throat. “Aye, Sire. That he is, and well we know it, and he must die the foul death of a traitor. But first he must be tried, so that the people will know justice was done.”
“Catesby gives sound advice, Richard,” said Francis. “Colyngbourne must be proven guilty by a commission of law. A fair-minded commission.”
“I’ve always upheld the law!” snapped Richard, offended by the implication. Then, reflected in their eyes, he saw the scene in the Tower where Edward’s friend, Hastings, once his own ally, had been rushed out of the council chamber and beheaded for his treason. Since the execution had been hasty, a log had served as the executioner’s block. He looked away with shame.
“Colyngbourne shall have his day in court and it shall be as unimpeachable and impressive a commission as I can appoint. Men shall not say I indulged my malice.”
Urgent hoof beats sounded in the outer court.
“My lord, it’s the yeoman of the Chamber, William Bolton, whom you sent to Hammes to bring back Oxford,” said Catesby, glancing out the window. “But Oxford is not with him!”
Richard pushed him aside and examined the group dismounting in the snowy courtyard. John de Vere, Earl of Oxford, was the greatest Lancastrian leader alive. If he had escaped to Tudor’s side—
He crushed the thought. Footsteps sounded on the stair. William Bolton appeared at the threshold of the chamber. One look at his face and Richard knew.
Sweeping his hat beneath his arm, Bolton strode up to do his obeisance.
“Oxford has escaped,” said Richard, before Bolton could speak.
“Aye, Sire. You were right to suspect the Lieutenant, James Blount. He not only helped Oxford escape, but fled with him to Paris. When a detachment from Calais was sent to investigate the situation at Hammes, they were refused admittance. The castle is now under siege.”
Richard gazed out the window. Another dismal day. Grey, cold, miserable. And the snow, covering what yesterday had been green, or so it seemed. People hurried here and there below in the courtyard, carrying sacks, leading horses, hammering repairs, and out beyond the walls of Westminster Palace, in the crowded streets, beggars begged, vendors hawked their wares, ladies shopped for silks, and butchers slaughtered animals. Life went on as it had for centuries. With one difference. Chivalry was dying. He leaned his full weight on the stone embrasure of the windowsill.
Live pure, speak true, right wrong, follow the King
—The code of honour that had held good men together since King Arthur’s days was fragmenting, dissolving. Oaths, loyalty, meant nothing. Soon man would sink back into the beast. The round table had been splintered by betrayals and feuds. Then, as now. What had changed?
Without a word, he strode out of the council room, leaving his men staring after him in stunned surprise. He crossed the snowy court and took the tower steps up into the massive Keep, unaware of the people who jabbed one another with their elbows as he passed. A chill wind blew through the stairwell from the battlements above. Voices came to him; men laughing at a jest, women chattering with gossip. He wondered if Anne would be in the privy suite. She was not. There were only the servants, polishing mirrors, beating the mattress, sweeping the rushes. One of his squires sat cleaning the jewelled sword that had been a gift to him from Edward before Barnet. The acid odour of vinegar pervaded the room and transported him to the past, and all at once it was his young squire, red-haired Johnnie Milewater, sitting there again, head bent, polishing his sword on the eve of battle.
The chambermaids straightened in surprise and the squire leapt to his feet. With a limp motion of the hand, Richard dismissed them. The door thudded shut. He went to the altar in the alcove. On the prayer desk stood his copy of Wycliff’s translation of the New Testament. He laid his palm on its gilded brown leather cover.
He had ordered the laws enacted by his Parliament to be proclaimed in English instead of Latin so that his people would understand their rights. For the same reason, he owned a Lollard Testament, not because he was a Lollard and disavowed the miracle of transubstantiation or thought the church too rich and corrupt, but merely to read the Bible in English. To understand God’s words more clearly. Yet never in his life had he felt so distanced from God as he did at this moment. Despite all his good works, he had failed to win His favour. For all his piety, his prayers fell on deaf ears.
He lifted his eyes to the gold enamelled triptych that stood below the altar, a gift from his mother on his ninth birthday, the year he’d left for Middleham. The left panel depicted the Kiss of Judas… Aye, he understood too well what it meant to be kissed by Judas… The right displayed the Last Judgement and the tortures of the damned. He winced, averted his face from their agony and the ruby drops of blood. He looked to the centre where the Virgin grieved over the dead Christ. In her stricken face he saw Anne, who grieved over Ned… Why had the Blessed Mother not protected Anne? Why did God not hear his prayers?
God.
He had taken Ned from him. Now He might take Anne. She was wasting away, with scarce enough strength most days to rise from bed. He raised his eyes to Christ’s face on the silver cross, contorted with suffering, and sank to his knees. He tried to pray, but he could find no words.
~ * ~
“The messenger is here to report on the execution of the traitor Colyngbourne, Sire,” announced the herald. The December morning was bitterly cold, yet Richard leaned out of the open window in the Painted Chamber, watching the snow fall and listening to the wind howl, oblivious to the icy wind lashing his face and whipping his furs.
“Tudor’s agent died the foul death of a traitor, Sire,” said the messenger. “He was hanged on a new pair of gallows, cut down while alive, and his bowels were ripped from his belly and burned before his eyes. He lived until the butcher put his hand into the bulk of his body, for he said at the same instant, ‘O Lord Jesus, yet more trouble,’ and then he expired.”
Someone muttered, “So may all traitors end.” To which many of his lords and a number of his officers and knights, murmured, “Aye, aye.”
Richard gave a nod of dismissal and the messenger withdrew. He felt no satisfaction, only a terrible tenseness in his body. He moved back to the council table, picked up a document from a sheaf of papers and held it out to the messenger from Calais who had come with the ill tidings two days before. “I am granting the garrison at Hammes a full pardon. You will leave today and inform them of it.”
“My lord, the wife of the traitor Blount was unable to escape with him. Do you wish her returned to England for punishment?”
“She is included in the pardon and may go wherever she wishes.”
“Even to France?”
“Aye,” said Richard.
“My lord, you are too merciful!” Sir Ralph Ashton exclaimed in a shocked tone, a hand to his dagger hilt.
“Except for Marguerite d’Anjou and Bess Woodville, women have no part in the troubles caused by men,” said Richard dully.
“Traitors must be crushed, my lord. Make an example of them—or they’ll breed like maggots and eat you alive!”
“No doubt you’re right, Ashton, but that is not my way.” He turned listless eyes on his secretary. “Kendall, issue commissions of array to the men appointed commissioners last May. They are to order my subjects to be ready to resist the rebels.”
Howard shook his silvery head. “’Tis too early, my lord. Tudor can’t launch another invasion ’till spring. There’s time yet. The realm’s weary of summonses to arms and talk of war. The Christmas season’s a’coming—best not to remind them that peace is not at hand. Besides, there’s no money.” A loud murmur of assent greeted this response.
“What am I to do until then?” Richard exploded suddenly.
Sit and watch Anne die?
Unable to choke back the anguish that threatened his composure, he swivelled on his heel and left the room.
His councillors stared after him, stunned at his outburst which had had no prompting.
~ * ~
Chapter 18
“And I, the last, go forth companionless
And the days darken round me.”
The royal apartments teemed with as many people and as much business as Richard’s council chamber. Anne was directing the preparations for the Christmas celebrations from bed. While Roland slept beside her, Elizabeth and the Master of the Wardrobe stood on either side, surrounded by servants who undraped fabric for her inspection. There were cloths of gold and tissue of silver, and silks and damasks of every hue—purples, crimsons, greens, blues, and apricot. She was nodding assent to a bolt of violet tissue when Richard walked in. The Master of the Wardrobe gathered up his fabrics and meinie and withdrew with a bow. Elizabeth blushed, curtsied and, avoiding his eyes, rushed past him.
“Stay, Elizabeth—” Anne called out, but Elizabeth was already gone. “She’s so shy… Not at all like her mother.” A coughing fit racked her chest and she gasped for air. Servants rushed to attend her. They held a silver basin to her mouth. Anne threw up bile and laid her head back on the silk pillows. A lady-in-waiting gently wiped blood-tinged mucus from her lips. Richard winced. He sat down on the velvet coverlet and took her hand. “You’re not to tax yourself, my little bird. I can appoint others to the task and—”
“No, Richard,” Anne interrupted, struggling up in bed. “I enjoy it. Elizabeth is helping me, and so is my mother. It shall be every bit as bright and splendid as you wish, Richard.” He gave her a smile, though his heart felt as heavy as stone. Anne looked even more wan and pale than yesterday, if that were possible, and her hand felt as light as a flake of snow. Afraid she might read his thoughts, he averted his eyes and plunged into conversation.
“I’ve ordered an elaborate costume for myself of cloth of gold and crimson velvet, slashed with purple satin, and trimmed with ermine.”
“You shall look very handsome, Richard.”
“’Tis not why I chose it, my little bird. Sadly, the people judge the King as much by how he looks as what he does. Therefore, I must look most kingly and—and happy—”
Anne touched his cheek. “And I shall dress most queenly, dear Richard. We shall revel together most majestically.” She managed a smile. As casually as she could, she said, “Elizabeth has been a great help to me. I don’t know what I would do without her.”
Richard said nothing, but the hand that held hers loosened its hold.
“You don’t like her. Yet she favours you.”
“’Tis your womanly wild imagining.”
“Why do you say that?”
“She has no reason to favour me.”
Softly, Anne murmured, “Love has little to do with reason.”
Richard discarded her hand roughly. He went to the window and stared out. A tiring maid came to sponge Anne’s brow. She waved her away; waved everyone away. The chamber emptied. “Why do you dismiss it so?” Anne panted. “As though it’s an impossible thing… Is it because you think you’re not handsome enough to be loved by a beautiful young woman, not tall enough, not blond enough—”
Richard swung around. “Cease, Anne! I’ve no wish to discuss it further.”
“You’re weary, Richard,” she whispered, her voice cracking for lack of breath. “Come, sit with me. Drink. It’ll do you good.”
Richard took a seat by her bed and heaved a heavy sigh. “’Tis not you, my love, but the court. The incessant intrigue. The malicious gossip. The evil eyes always watching, waiting for their chance to wound. I can feel them like daggers in my back. How I hate London, Anne! How I wish to be in the North, with you and—” He broke off, bit his lip. He put out his hand to her and she took it into her own.
“Dear love, I know. But even here, in this gutter where rats congregate, there are good people. Elizabeth is one of them.”
“Why must we talk of Elizabeth, Anne? Have you nothing to say to me?”
Anne felt the silence between them as heavily as the load of sorrow that weighed her down. When it’s too painful to look back, and worse lay ahead, she thought, where do you go, what do you do?
She laid her head against Richard’s shoulder and closed her eyes.
~ * ~
Chapter 19
“Sir Mordred; he that like a subtle beast lay couchant with his eyes upon the throne, ready to spring, awaiting a chance.”
On Epiphany, wearing their crowns, Anne and Richard sat on their thrones, presiding over the Christmas revelry in the great hall of Rufus which had been decorated with candles and evergreens. The air was fragrant with the scent of pine and bayberry, and the hall glittered with colour from the tapestries, silk carpets, and dazzling gowns and jewels of the nobles. Laughter, conversation, and singing resounded through the chamber. Richard had donned his sumptuous robes of crimson, purple and ermine studded with diamonds, and Anne a gown of violet and silver. On the dais where they sat, a fire crackled in the hearth. Even so Anne was cold.