Jean Plaidy (34 page)

“Then everything will be all right,” said Edward.

I wished I could have shared his confidence. I was convinced that the situation was fraught with danger. What a tragedy that Edward had died! He was not old. He had lived just over forty years and had seemed so strong, indestructible, until he had had the seizure at the end of the previous year. But of course he had never denied himself anything that his deeply sensuous nature demanded, and hearty eating and insatiable sexuality had taken their toll. Now he had left us with a twelve-year-old boy to rule us, and powerful families attempting to take power.

These were days of deep anxiety and my cough was always worse at times of stress.

I yearned for news. Visitors to the castle were very welcome for they all talked of the death of the king and there were various versions of what was happening or about to.

There were some who came from London, and they were only too eager to tell us all they knew. We learned that there had been much speculation as to how the king had died. The general view was that he had caught a chill during a fishing trip he had taken with a few of his closest friends. The rain had been torrential and they had been in wet clothes for several hours. In view of his recent illness, they said, the king should have been more careful of his health. There were some who said he had never recovered from the tertian fever, which he had caught when campaigning in the French marshes; others said he had lived too well; and, of course, there was the inevitable murmur of poison. But the prevailing verdict was that the king had died through an excess of living.

I learned that he had been ill for ten days, during which he had busied himself with setting his affairs in order.

“They laid out his body on a board in Westminster,” said one informant. “He was naked, all but for a loin cloth—a splendid figure of a king, even in death. The Lords Temporal and Spiritual came to gaze at him, and after that the corpse was embalmed and lay in state in St. Stephen's Chapel for ten days before it was taken to Westminster Abbey. A life-sized model of him was placed beside the bier. The figure was dressed in royal robes holding the orb and sceptre…so lifelike that it might have been great Edward himself. Then he was taken to Sion House where the cortège stayed overnight, and then on to Windsor to be placed in the king's own chapel of St. George.”

I said, “It was what he would have chosen. He would have wanted to go in splendor.”

“I have it on authority, my lady, that the cost was one thousand, four hundred and ninety-six pounds, seventeen shillings and two pence.”

“He would have liked that, too.”

My thoughts were all for Richard and some time later I was to hear the truth of all this from his lips. Then I learned how near he had come to failure; and had things gone against him at this time our lives might have turned out to be entirely different.

What was happening was that when Richard was approaching Northampton, he received a message from Lord Rivers saying that he had left Ludlow with the king in the hope of reaching Northampton on the twenty-ninth of April. He asked Richard, if he reached that town first, to wait there for him, Rivers, to arrive with the king. If Rivers arrived there first, he would wait for Richard. That seemed a very desirable arrangement, for Richard could then take the king to London.

But when Richard reached Northampton, there was no sign of Rivers, and, having settled his followers in the outlying district, Richard went to an inn where he proposed to spend the night. While this was happening, Rivers arrived. He was very respectful to Richard, hailing him as the Lord Protector and explaining that, as he had been unable to get accommodation for himself and his party in Northampton, he had gone on to Stony Stratford. He himself had ridden back to Northampton to explain to Richard what had happened.

Richard was immediately suspicious of this story, but gave no sign of it. The account of lack of accommodation was false. Richard had been able to find room for his men. However, he invited Rivers to sup with him.

While they were talking, the Duke of Buckingham arrived and the three of them supped together.

It was quite a merry party and after they had retired Buckingham came to Richard's room, and they discussed the situation. It was clear that Rivers had been deceiving them, said Buckingham. He had obviously planned to get the king to London before they arrived there, and to crown him so that he, being the anointed sovereign, would decide whether to accept the guardianship of his uncle. And, of course, he would be primed by his mother not to do so. “You can depend upon it,” said Buckingham. “Rivers has already sent a message to Stony Stratford telling them to leave at once.”

Richard was too astute to have allowed that to happen, and immediately Rivers had arrived at Northampton, he had ordered that no messages were to be sent from the town until he gave permission. So, he assured Buckingham, the king would stay at Stony Stratford until he arrived to conduct him to London.

Buckingham was impressed by such sagacity and again pledged his support to Richard.

Richard's next step was to arrest Rivers and to ride to Stony Stratford with Buckingham where the king, with Lord Richard Grey and the aged Sir Thomas Vaughan, whom Edward had appointed to be young Edward's chamberlain and counselor, was eagerly awaiting the return of Lord Rivers.

I was sorry for that young boy when I heard this. He must have been bewildered to have kingship thrust upon his young shoulders. What had he thought, expecting to see his genial uncle, to find the Duke of Gloucester in his place? He would have been dismayed, I knew.

Richard acted promptly. Richard Grey and Thomas Vaughan were arrested, and Richard took charge of the king. The next move was for Edward to enter his capital in the company of the man whom his father had appointed Lord Protector of England and the guardian of his son.

It was others who told me of that ride into London. The king won the hearts of the people, as children do. He must have looked charming, dressed in blue velvet, riding between Richard and Buckingham, both clad in somber black. It was a colorful occasion for the City fathers were present in their scarlet trimmed robes, with several hundred leading citizens in purple gowns—all come to greet the new king. There were cheers for the king and the Protector and murmurings against the hated Woodvilles. The queen had already fled to sanctuary with her younger children.

The new reign had begun.

         

A message came from Richard. I was to prepare to leave for London without delay. The coronation of the little king was to take place on the twenty-second of June, and naturally I must be present with our son. Richard was living in Crosby's Place and was occasionally at his mother's residence of Baynard's Castle. When I was approaching London I should send a message to him and he would meet me.

It was news I had been longing to hear. The first thing I did was go to my son's apartments to tell him we were going to join his father. I heard him coughing as I approached. He smiled at me, almost apologetically, as he did when I found him coughing. My love would overwhelm me at such moments. I was deeply affected that he should have thought he must feel ashamed of his weakness.

I embraced him and said, “How are you today, my son?”

He said, gasping a little, but brightly, “I am very well, my lady.”

I knew this was not the case.

I asked John how his brother was when they were together.

“Oh, he gets tired quickly, my lady,” he said. “He only has to do a little and he must rest.”

I sent for one of the physicians and asked him to tell me truthfully what he thought of Edward's condition.

“He is not strong, my lady,” was the answer. “He needs great care.”

“I know that. I am proposing to take him to London to join the duke.”

The physician looked grave. “In my opinion, my lady,” he said, “that journey might tax his strength too far.”

“Too far…” I echoed in dismay.

“It is just that he needs much rest and when his cough is bad it is not good for him to be sleeping in strange places and facing all kinds of weather that he might encounter on the roads.”

I was in a quandary. I must join Richard but I dared not risk my son's health by taking him with me.

Edward wanted to come and I did not know what to say. If his health suffered through the journey I should never forgive myself for putting him at risk. Richard would be bitterly disappointed. As I did, he tried to convince himself that Edward would grow out of his weakness. Richard himself had done so. He had been delicate as a child, yet he had grown healthy, even though he lacked the strong looks of his brothers. And what had happened to them? Excesses had killed one, folly the other. Richard, happily, was given to neither of these weaknesses.

I knew in my heart that I must not submit my son to the rigors of the journey, and when the time came, I set out, leaving injunctions that Edward was not to tire himself and that I must be sent news of him regularly.

So I rode south to join Richard.

He met me on the outskirts of London. I thought immediately that the last months had aged him. He looked drawn and there was a new wariness about him.

He was bitterly disappointed, as I had known he would be, that Edward was not with me, but he thought I had been right not to bring him.

We rode together through the city to Crosby's Place. Much as I missed my son, I was glad to be with my husband, though I was not sure at that time who had the greater need of me.

         

When we were alone together Richard told me how glad he was that I was with him.

We did not speak a great deal of Edward. I think we were both afraid to face our fears and were trying to convince ourselves that he was merely suffering from an illness common to many children.

Richard then told me about the manner in which he had brought the king to London and added that the relationship between them was not a comfortable one.

“I see nothing of my brother in him,” he said. “He is all Woodville. I fancy he resents me. He blames me for the fact that his mother is in sanctuary and Rivers, Vaughan, and Grey are imprisoned. It was necessary, Anne. There would have been war. They will have to lose their heads…and soon, I think. I wish the king would trust me.”

“Poor child, this is too much for him. He ought to be spending his time in childish pastimes, rather than finding himself the center of intrigue.”

“I would Edward were here. None of this would have happened if he had lived.”

“How I wish that, too!”

“Anne, what am I to do? It is my duty to my late brother who suspected something of this might happen. He has left me a sacred duty. It is England that is important. There must not be a civil war again.”

“I am sure you will prevent it, Richard. You are wise and calm. You do not seek revenge on these enemies…only that what is done to them shall be to the benefit of the country.”

“That is so. But I do not know whom I can trust, Anne. What joy it is to have you with me! To you I can open my heart and speak as though I were communing with myself. Every man about me could be a potential traitor.”

“You have good friends. Buckingham, Hastings…and what of Francis Lovell, who was with us in the old days at Middleham?”

“Francis is a good friend, yes. Oh, there are a few, but I think of those powerful men in high places who could do me much harm. I never trusted Lord Stanley. He is shifty. This side one day…the other the next. You know he was connected with our family at one time?”

“He married my father's sister.”

“And now he is married to Margaret Beaufort. She is a strong-minded woman and Stanley is easily swayed. Moreover, she is the mother of that young man now skulking in Brittany, but methinks with an eye on the throne.”

“Not Henry Tudor!”

Richard nodded. “I suppose he considers himself the Lancastrian heir now.”

“How could he? He is of such dubious birth.”

“Men such as he is brush aside such matters. King Henry allowed Margaret Beaufort's marriage to Edmund Tudor, whom he called his half-brother, and Edmund Tudor may—or may not—have been the legitimate son of Queen Katharine, Henry's father's widow, by Owen Tudor.”

“But it is very dubious indeed. Oh, Richard, I should not concern yourself with such a man.”

“You are right. My enemies are closer at hand. There is another who gives me cause for uneasiness, and that is John Morton.”

“You mean the bishop?”

“Of Ely, yes.”

“Did he not work with your brother?”

“Yes, but only when the Lancastrian cause was lost. He is ambitious, as so many of these churchmen are. They disguise their lust for power under a cloak of piety. They are the ones I do not trust, the ones to fear most.”

“Dear Richard, you are overwrought. The death of your brother has affected you more deeply than you realize. I know how you cared for him, how he was always in your thoughts.”

“That is so.”

“Once the little king is crowned and on the throne you will have about you a council whom you can trust and your cares will be lifted.”

“You may be right. How pleased I am that you are here!”

I was greatly cheered, but I wished I could dismiss any anxieties about my son.

         

Trouble came from an unexpected quarter.

Richard said to me, “Jane Shore is now Hastings' mistress.”

“I have heard that she is very beautiful,” I replied. “And I remember her having been wooed by Hastings in the first place. Then your brother saw her and forced Hastings to give up the pursuit.”

“That may be true. Hastings and my brother revelled together. They had similar tastes for women and fast living. I think that was at the root of the friendship between them.”

“So now Jane has gone to her original wooer.”

“She will no doubt pass from one to another. She is that sort of woman.”