Authors: Sandra Worth
Francis touched his sleeve. “Nay, Richard. We will suffer. We will despair. But we will go on, and we will be resurrected.”
Richard shot him a twisted smile. “You have more faith than an archbishop, Francis.”
They fell thoughtfully silent.
“It was Buckingham’s revolt that changed everything and gave Tudor hope,” Francis said after a time. “Whatever possessed you to hand him such power, Richard?”
“I thought that obvious. He was like George.” Richard toyed with the hourglass again. The hour was almost spent, and except for a few grains, the sand lay on the bottom.
“Aye. That he was,” said Francis. “Like George.”
Richard threw him a look. Francis was not thinking of smiles and golden curls. “I should have known, should have seen it, Francis. But I wanted George back as he used to be. I thought I’d found him in Buckingham. I couldn’t let myself see… I couldn’t let myself see a lot of things.”
Francis dropped his gaze. Richard gave the hourglass an angry shove; it slid along the table and came to a halt perilously close to the edge.
“The trouble with learning from experience, Francis, is that we always learn too late.”
~ * ~
After a wretched night of little sleep and bad dreams, Richard felt a desperate need for confession. Maybe that would gird him with the strength to do what had to be done this day. He summoned his confessor, Brother John Roby, to his private chapel.
“They say the grey whale travels thousands of miles in winter, seeking warmth and sunlight. Where do I go, Brother?”
The friar regarded him gently. “The cold will not last forever. ’Tis the wild beast’s utter faith in the return of spring that enables him to survive the winter. The sun will come again. Frozen rivers will melt. Flowers will bloom….Faith will sustain you.”
Then he listened to Richard’s anguished confession about Elizabeth and murmured soothing responses about sinful thoughts, assuring him they were deplorable but human, and that God would forgive in the face of true repentance.
“I have another confession… My hatred for Henry Tudor.” The man who had poisoned his peace; who had filled his days with vile rumours and his nights with demons. “I’ve fought a hundred enemies in the field. But this malice, this slander—it has no face, no name— it maims without killing—” He looked at the friar with pained eyes, “How do I fight this?”
“You fight lies with truth,” replied Brother John, “and with goodness. If these are not enough to win, then perhaps the test lies in the battle itself.”
“Battle,” echoed Richard, seizing on the word, giving it an interpretation the friar had not meant. “
Battle
—” In the outcome of battle lay the judgement of God.
Redemption or Death
. Soon there would be battle between him and Tudor. Aye, there was the answer! Battle that would end his torment. One way or the other.
“Remember,” Brother John warned, “evil can be more powerful than good, yet you must not fight evil with evil. Hold on to virtue at all cost. That is the true test, and the hardest one of all.”
But Richard did not hear. Like a man in a trance, he repeated, “Battle… True test is battle… Redemption or death… Battle.”
Brother John regarded him with a depth of pity. After a moment, realising he could offer no further comfort and all else was useless, he made the sign of the Cross.
“Dutiful child of God, I grant you absolution—
Nomine Patri, Filii, Spiritus Sancti.
”
~ * ~
Chapter 25
“There will I hide thee ’till my life shall end,
There hold thee with my life against the world.”
Richard stared at the small group he had summoned to the royal suite. He stared at them in order to imprint their image on his mind, as indelibly as it was imprinted on his heart.
The Countess wore her dark robes of mourning. Beneath her wimple her face was aged, deeply etched by sorrow, but she held herself gracefully erect with the same dignity she had always shown. Little Edward stood at her side, dressed in black velvet. He was nine now, and nothing in his face or manner resembled George or Bella or his proud grandfather Warwick, for there was nothing gay, or proud, or bright about him, and he did not dream great dreams. But his heart was gentle and would always remain so, since it would forever retain the blessed innocence of childhood.
His son, his love-child, John of Gloucester, would be fifteen in May. How time sped past! It seemed only yesterday that he stood in Kate’s house, gazing on his new-born infant. Johnnie was a mixture of Kate and himself, with his own dark hair and her green eyes and rosy cheeks. A handsome boy, he realised suddenly, taking in the strong, square jaw, the broad shoulders, the long muscular legs in blue hose. He would be tall. The thought gave him pride. Aye, Johnnie held great promise. He had a fine mind and he could laugh as easily as Edward had. His cheerful disposition would stand him in good stead. God be thanked, there was no need to worry. No one would hurt him. There was no purpose in it. He had no claim, no rights, no lands, nothing. He was a bastard.
God be thanked for that.
He let his gaze pass to Elizabeth, but only for a moment, for the sight of her brought heavy woe. She wore his favourite robe of deep green, and her pale hair shone in the dimness. That was all he would allow himself to see.
“You must go to Sherriff Hutton, you’ll be safe there,” he said thickly, avoiding Elizabeth’s eyes, “all of you.”
Elizabeth nudged little Edward forward. He fumbled with his hands shyly. “Uncle, I would s-seek… a favour of you.”
Richard’s heart ached for the boy. Gently he said, “Dear nephew, whatever it is, you know I will try to grant it.”
“I w-w-wish I c-could fight for you…” Edward drew a deep breath, made fists with his hands in an effort to suppress his stammer. He succeeded, and the words poured forth like a waterfall, “I wish I could fight the bastard Tudor, dear lord Uncle, but as I am too young to help you slay him, will you take my banner into battle instead of me—?” He hung his head, embarrassed by his emotion and the effort it had taken him to get the sentence out.
Elizabeth placed her arms around his little shoulders, nodded to a servant in the corner of the room. The man brought the folded banner to Richard, knelt and unfurled it. A blaze of gold tassels and golden embroidery on white silk shot across the carpet. In the centre stood a nut-coloured cow.
Richard stared at the Dun Cow of Warwick. When he had last seen that emblem, it had been in the fog of Barnet and he had fought on the opposing side. He winced.
“We’ve been working on it all winter,” Elizabeth said. “Cousin Edward helped in the design. He is talented in things artistic.”
Richard knelt, took the child’s hands in his own. “I shall bear your banner at my side and my thoughts shall be of you, Edward, and of your noble grandfather, Warwick the Kingmaker, and all those of the House of Neville whom I loved so well.” A loud sob escaped from the boy. Richard pulled him close in a last embrace and felt the wet of his tears against his neck, then realised that they were not Edward’s, but his own. He swallowed, clenched his jaw, imposed iron control on himself. He would have need of his strength a while longer. There was still Elizabeth.
He rose stiffly. “Go now, Edward. Worship God devoutly, remember to apply yourself to your studies, and never forget knightly conduct. For there is wisdom in prayer and learning, and a great lord has need of both.” He gave the boy’s hand to the manservant and watched him leave. His heart contracted violently in his breast and he felt a sudden need to call to him, “May God be with you, fair nephew!”
One sad backward glance, and Edward was gone.
Richard looked at John. “Father!” his boy cried on a sob. Richard clasped him to his breast, long and silently. Then he forced himself to loosen his grip. “Fare thee well, my dear son,” he said, his voice cracking. John fled his arms, stifling a moan as he ran.
The Countess stepped forward. They gazed into each other’s eyes a long quiet moment. “Dear lady, whom I have loved as a mother,” Richard whispered, taking her gently into his embrace. “I thank you for the comfort and the love you have ever shown me.”
Tears sparkled in her eyes, rolled slowly down her cheeks. “You were the son I never had, Richard.” Her voice trembled. “I shall pray for your victory.”
He bent his head and stood motionless as she left him, and in the rustling of her garments he heard the rustling of the wind through the trees of Middleham, the call of the wild, the rush of the rivers. He bit his lip until it throbbed like his pulse. When he had regained control of himself, he lifted his head and looked at Elizabeth. Her eyes were red-rimmed, swollen. With a motion of the hand, he dismissed the servants and waited until the door thudded shut behind them.
He said thickly, “I regret the death of your uncle Anthony. I know now he bore me no ill will. He was but an unwilling pawn.”
“Aren’t we all?” she whispered.
“Can you—can you forgive me, Elizabeth?”
“I forgive you, Richard,” she said, gazing at him through her tears. “Because I love you.”
“No!” he said roughly, sharply. “No, don’t—I’m old, finished. God has taken everything from me, left me alone, barren. But you are young. You have your life before you. You’ll change. You’ll forget me.”
“You can’t believe that! This is no childish infatuation. I’m a grown woman and I love you, Richard. Anne wanted us together—she made me promise—”
Richard held up a hand. “You must not say these things. I must not hear them.” Despite his resolve, his eyes stole back to her. “It’s impossible, Elizabeth,” he whispered hoarsely.
They stared at one another, and without warning they were in each other’s arms. He held her close, her cheek against his and he could taste the salt of her tears and knew that his own were on her lips. Despair swept him and he felt his grief like a burning in his blood. He thrust her from him.
She stood, face flushed, breasts heaving. “I crave a favour, my lord!”
He waited.
“I wish a portrait of you. A miniature… It would be a comfort to me.”
His throat ached. Anne had used those same words when she had begged a portrait of him, but he’d never found time to pose. There was always so much work to attend.
Oh, my Anne!
Elizabeth spoke again, her voice a tremulous whisper, “—and your book,
Tristan and Iseult
.”
He held his back rigid and cast around for some bulwark against the rising tide of pain. His lids came down over his eyes. He managed a nod. There was silence for a long moment, then he felt a touch on his cheeks, a touch like butterfly wings where Elizabeth’s lips rested for a fleeting second.
“I’ll never change,” she whispered. “I’ll go to my death loving you, Richard.”
And then she was gone, nothing left but a trace of her fragrance. Lavender. Anne’s fragrance.
Richard heaved his shoulders back, lifted his face to the cold air that blew in through the window, and again he was back on the windy moors. But this time it was winter and there was nothing all around but desolation and despair and the wind that howled a single thought:
If Tudor won, he would marry Elizabeth
.
“Damn you, Tudor! Bastard! Vicious lying Lucifer—” He kicked the stone pillar, pulled the brocaded cloth from the table. A dozen small glass ornaments smashed to the floor. He strode to the mirror, flung it from its stand and it shattered into a thousand fragments. “You have no right to the throne. Bastard!… Whoreson!… No right to Elizabeth—the curse of God be on you!”
His crown lay on a carved table against the wall, resting on a satin pillow. He picked it up into his hands and held it high. It glittered in the low light, seemed to wink at him. He threw his head back, gave a shrill howl like a wounded animal, and laughed.
The curse of God is on myself!
~ * ~
On the night of the tenth of May, while the palace slept, Richard entered the south door of Westminster Abbey and went quickly up the transept towards the shrine of St. Edward. He had come to say goodbye to Anne. Tomorrow he would set out for Nottingham, maybe never to return. He was not afraid. Once his heart had been filled with fear. Now there was nothing left to fear because there was nothing left to lose. Except a battered crown.
With his face half hidden in his hood, he stood before the guards around Anne’s tomb and, not trusting himself to speak, dismissed them with a wave of the hand. They filed past silently with their torches, leaving gloom behind. The door shut with a resounding
clang
that echoed for some seconds through the empty halls of the Abbey. He threw back his hood and sank to his knees before Anne’s tomb.
Tapers flicked unevenly, throwing shadows against the walls and the marble effigy of Anne that he had designed himself. She lay on a pillow, draped gracefully in a sheet, a crown on her flowing hair, a soft smile curving the corners of her lips. She held a lily in her hand and doves encircled her. She had always loved their gentle cooing at her bower. He reached out a trembling hand and touched the stone face. “Anne,” he whispered, “Anne, Anne… I’ve come to bid you a last farewell, Anne.” Though he knew it was only the trickery of the candlelight, in the agony of his soul he wanted to believe the statue moved. “Dearest love, my sweet wife… we had so few days together on this earth, but always your tender love watched over me and gave me strength… Now there is no comfort. Your image lives within my heart, yet I cannot feel your warmth—” He swallowed the choking tightness in his throat. “May merciful God reward thee for the faithfulness and kindness thou hast ever shown me, my gentle, beloved Anne. My little bird—”
~ * ~
Chapter 26
“Now must I hence.
Thro’ the thick night I hear the trumpet blow.”
When the cock crowed in the darkness over London, Richard was already up and dressed, ready to leave Westminster. He’d spent most of the night by Anne’s tomb and had bid all whom he had loved farewell, except one. His mother, “Proud Cis,” the “Rose of Raby.” It was to see her that he was journeying to Berkhampsted.