Thwarted Queen (48 page)

“That’s true.” Richard rose stiffly from his chair. “Why did I not think of that before?”

I put my hand on his shoulder, which felt fragile and bony to my touch. “Because you’re exhausted,” I said. “And you have not been nourishing yourself for these past several weeks.”

Richard took my advice, and that very same day sent his cousin Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, to the Guildhall to address the mayor, aldermen and citizens of London.

Buckingham spoke eloquently on my son’s behalf, glossing over my foolishness and instead telling the good people about Edward’s bigamous marriage with Lady Eleanor. He ended by appealing to them to offer the crown to my son Richard.

Again, they were met by that silence. Apparently, people were not happy about the way Hastings had been executed without trial. They were not happy that Richard had not crowned his nephew as promised. They were very unhappy that he had a large army in the north that he could bring down on them at any moment. For they hadn’t forgotten how they’d suffered under the Bitch of Anjou.

I sighed with impatience, but trusted Richard ‘s sterling qualities would sway them.

Buckingham remedied the situation by having his men throw their caps into the air and shout, “King Richard!”

The next day, there was a meeting of the Lords and Commons in Westminster. Again, Buckingham addressed them, dwelling on Edward’s bigamy with Lady Eleanor. And so they declared Edward’s marriage to the Serpent to be invalid, their children illegitimate.

Richard’s reign had begun, and I could finally retire in peace.

For my work was done.

Chapter 69

July 1483

My youngest son, King Richard III, dated his reign from June 26, 1483, the day he was installed on the King’s Bench in Westminster Hall. He now had the title Richard, Duke of York, had striven for, the title that had been torn from him by his enemies in 1460. It was my son’s task to ensure that he kept that title.

Richard was crowned in Westminster Abbey on July 6, 1483, in the presence of his beloved wife Nanette, who was crowned queen, and their only son and heir, Edward of Middleham. I was not present, not because I disapproved of Richard as certain folk claim, but because I was indisposed, the strain of the previous weeks finally coming home to roost.

However, I rose from my bed to give the new king my solemn blessing before he set out for his coronation.

Richard was anxious that his subjects should know their new king, so only two weeks after his coronation, he set off on a royal progress to travel around the country. He’d been traveling only three days when he decided to pay me a sudden visit early one morning.

“My son,” I said, coming forward and searching his face. “What troubles you?”

Richard had acquired a healthy summer tan, but dark circles around his eyes betokened many restless nights.

“Come with me,” I added, “and let us pray for guidance.”

We went to my private chapel. It was a spare, white-washed room with a portrait of Saint Bridget and a statue of Our Lady carrying the Lord Jesus. The king and I spent the next several minutes in prayer.

Afterwards, I led Richard back to the solar, now warmed by a roaring fire. Richard had been kind enough to restore all of my lands, and so I was able to entertain in rather better style than previously. I signaled to the steward to open my best Bordeaux, which I poured for him myself. Then I settled in a large carved chair with cushions and rug.

Richard put his wine cup down untouched, covering his face with one hand. I signaled for Mother Avisa to get a tonic for headaches.

Then:

“Those accursed Woodvilles,” he finally spat. “Am I never to be free of their plotting?”

I frowned at the rawness of his outburst. His life had not been easy of late, and he needed rest. Otherwise he would damage his health.

He looked up. “Two plots have I uncovered: One is to spirit Edward’s daughters out of their sanctuary in Westminster Abbey and send them abroad. The other is to rescue Edward’s sons from the Tower.”

“No.” I put my wine cup down.

“Indeed yes, Mother,” he replied.

I rose stiffly to my feet and went to put a hand on his shoulder. My son ached for comfort, I could feel it. “We must act decisively to stop this nonsense once and for all,” I said. “We cannot lose heart now. You are the legitimate ruler of England. No one can take that away from you.”

I sat next to him and chafed his hands. “As for Edward’s daughters, all you need do is tighten your cordon around Westminster Abbey. You have enough men for the task. You must insist no one goes in or out of the abbey without your permission.”

“What should I do about Edward’s sons?”

I paused, for that was a knotty problem.

“We should plan for the future,” I replied. “Of all my children, only Edward, Beth, George, and you have male heirs. George’s son, Edward, Earl of Warwick, also has a claim to the throne, but he is only eight years old. He is too young and not strong enough in his wits to be a real threat to you as long as you keep him with a trusted member of the family. Perhaps you should have him stay with Nanette, as she is his nearest female relation. The poor child needs some kindness in his life, and your wife will be kind.

Richard’s smile wiped away his lines.

“Beth has many sons, all strong and healthy,” I continued. “And more to the point, they are loyal to you. If anything happened to your boy, perhaps you should consider making her eldest,
John de la Pole, Earl of Lincoln
, your heir.”

The color drained from Richard’s face.

I took his hands. “Richard, I know you find this painful, but we live in dangerous times. Your Edward is only seven years old, and not strong. Beth’s eldest son has twenty-one years, old enough to assume the responsibility of being your heir. He can fight for you.”

Richard made a face as I pressed a wine glass into his hands. He took a sip and put it down. “What about Edward’s sons?”

“Folk do not want to believe they’re bastards,” I replied. “The Serpent and her horde of Woodville relatives will never stop plotting. Edward’s sons are Woodvilles at heart, their mother saw to that. Edward was too weak-willed to stop her. As Woodvilles, they pose a danger to your throne. You’ve already discovered one plot. There will be others.”

Richard nodded, and we gazed at the fire together.

“How I blame myself,” I said, “for my own lack of responsibility. If Edward had not been born, none of this would have happened.”

“Edward seemed like a hero to me when I was a boy,” murmured Richard.

I winced. “The plain truth is that he and I were too much alike. I was irresponsible in the getting of him, and he was irresponsible in his marriages, particularly in bringing that awful Woodville woman into the family. His fault compounded my own. The worm in the apple was his wife, his
second
wife.”

Richard was silent.

I leaned forward. “For the good of our family and for the good of England, we must set right these wrongs.” I took both his hands in mine and gazed into his eyes. “We must destroy the Woodvilles once and for all.”

Richard stared at me. “Do you really believe that?” he whispered. “Rid ourselves of those two boys in the Tower?”

I paused for a long moment. I could hardly believe what I was suggesting, but what could I do? The Serpent was dangerous.

“It grieves me much that you have to bear the weight of my sins and of Edward’s folly,” I murmured. ”That you are the person burdened with putting everything right.”

Richard sat for many moments. Finally, he rose and kissed me on the cheek.

“I thank you,” he whispered softly. “You have given me the strength I need. It shall be done.”

Chapter 70

Berkhamsted Castle, Hertfordshire

September 1483

Madam,

I beseech you most humbly for your daily blessing and prayers for matters have been accomplished which you know of. I make a solemn oath that I will found a chantry at York, where one hundred priests will say masses for my soul.

Written at York, the eighth day of September, in the first year of our reign, by the hand of your most humble son,

Ricardus Rex

I wobbled and sank into my seat, motioning Gerard to rise. He was now in his early forties, remaining at my side since the day I’d arrived at Berkhamsted some fourteen years before.

“How did it happen?”

Gerard hesitated.

“I must pray for my sins, of which there are many. But I cannot take responsibility for something if you keep me in the dark.”

“Tyrell saw to it.” Sir James Tyrell worked as a secretary in Richard’s household.

“And?”

“Smothered,” he said hoarsely.

My stomach churned. I sat up in my seat.

“They were smothered in their beds in the dead of night,” continued Gerard.

“When?”

“The night of September third to fourth. Tyrell had to leave London at first light on the fourth to make it back to York on September the eighth for the investiture of Lord Richard’s son, Edward. He left York on the night of August thirtieth to London to collect robes and wall-hangings for the investiture.”

Richard’s son and only child, seven-year-old Edward of Middleham, had been made
Prince of Wales
in a special ceremony held in York on September 8, 1483. It took about four days of fast riding to travel between London and York, a distance of some two hundred miles.

“Did they suffer?”

“I don’t know.” He avoided my eyes.

I rose. “Where are they buried?”

“Under the stairs in the White Tower. In a chest.”

I rubbed my hands together to warm them. “Master Gerard, this has been most painful―”

“I’ll not work for you no more,” he growled.

“Gerard!”

“That was evil,” he spat. “Pure evil.”

“Gerard,” I said, putting my hand on his arm, “You don’t understand.”

“I understand full well!” he exclaimed, glaring. “You murdered those two boys, innocent lambs they be. Why couldn’t you let them live?”

“Because,” said I, sinking wearily into my chair, “if they’d lived, we would have been killed.”

“They wouldn’t have killed you. They had the souls of angels.”

“Maybe not, but their mother would have. She had to be crushed.”

Gerard was silent for a moment, considering. “And would that have been so bad?” he asked eventually. “I mean, folk, they die all the time. What’s so bad about being murdered? I mean, the way you done it, madam, you’ve put your immortal soul in harm’s way. You will burn in hell
forever
. And I want no truck with that. I’m done. I’m going.”

And he strode out, leaving me sitting in my chair, with the ghost-like forms of two boys filling my head. As I tried to reach for them, I felt myself turning to ice.

Chapter 71

September 1483 to August
1485

Richard didn’t have an easy time of it as King of England. By late September 1483, rumors stirred abroad that the sons of the late king had met a violent end. In short order this rumor became the talk of the courts of Europe. Many switched allegiance to one Henry Tudor.

Henry Tudor, Earl of Richmond, was a totally unknown Lancastrian exile who would have remained obscure but for a chance meeting between his mother
Lady Margaret Beaufort
and Richard’s cousin Henry of Buckingham, himself a male heir to the Plantagenet line and possibly angling for the crown. Shortly after my son’s coronation, Lady Margaret—a formidable, highly intelligent woman—managed to persuade Buckingham to abandon Richard’s cause and join her son’s. I am not sure how she did it, but she probably played on Buckingham’s fears. For the southerners were not happy that Richard’s loyal northerners were taking all the royal offices, or that the so-called Little Princes in the Tower—Edward of Westminster and Richard of Shrewsbury—had disappeared.

Lady Margaret was a kinswoman of mine, by my mother. Like me, she descended from John of Gaunt and his third wife Catrine de Roet. It was ridiculous for Tudor to put forward a claim to the throne, for there were many descendants of the House of Lancaster abroad who had a much better claim that he. For instance, the King of Portugal and the Queen of Castile were descended from John of Gaunt’s first and second wives.

It would be as ridiculous as if I’d claimed the throne of England on my own behalf.

In any case, it was unlawful, for the Beauforts had been debarred from succession by Richard II during the legitimization ceremony in the House of Lords that my mother attended in 1396. However, Lady Margaret Beaufort put ideas into her son’s head, and thus Richard soon found his rightful claim to the throne challenged by this obscure upstart, aided and abetted by the treachery of his cousin Buckingham.

In early October 1483, Henry Tudor’s fleet set sail from Brittany, intending to invade England, but a storm drove the ships back to port. In mid-October, Henry Tudor tried again, but on All Saints Day, Buckingham was arrested.

He was executed on All Souls Day.