White Boar and the Red Dragon, The (35 page)

And the king himself is already a captive in the great castle. But not put there by me, but by his own disaffected barons! Would you believe it? They had grown tired, it seems, of his ineffectual rule and his preference for consorting with his favourites, mostly low-born men, such as artists, musicians, architects, and the like. He refused to listen to their counsel, so they staged a coup when he had marched as far as Lauder with his army to fight us. He was angry, no doubt, at our sacking and burning of Dumfries. They took several of his favourites and executed them summarily, then imprisoned him—to show that they meant business.

What a turn-up for the books! By the end of July, we had entered this city without the loss of a single man, and I have made it my business to rule that my men do not touch a hair on the head of any man, woman, or child here nor plunder their goods. So far, I am being obeyed implicitly. The city is completely under our control.

Now, I am sending you word of this by the same most effective courier system which you set up earlier, using a relay of riders, so you should have knowledge of what has happened here in only a day or two. But that is not the end of it. I am determined to press on, now that Edinburgh has been secured, and return to Berwick, where I left Lord Stanley continuing the siege while I came to Edinburgh with my remaining army. I can only afford to pay the army for another two weeks, so I must dismiss all but those men needed to resume the siege of the citadel of Berwick. Pray we are successful this time. Stanley must have worn them down somewhat if he has kept up the offensive in my absence, as instructed. The actual town gave in easily to us last time around, but that strong castle is another matter! Being on the coast, the sea is its main defence and it is impossible to approach from that side. The landward approaches are always very well defended, but I am determined to take the citadel this time. It will finish off a most successful Scottish campaign—where, to be honest—we have hardly had to do any real fighting at all!

The Duke of Albany is still proving very troublesome. Now he has changed his mind and decided he does not want to continue trying to become King of Scotland in place of his brother. He has decided he will be happy if we can just get him back his lands and titles. That is good news as far as I am concerned, as I do not think the Scots will welcome him as their new king. He is so erratic and untrustworthy that they would rather stick with the devil they know than the one they don’t!

But, of course, there is one sticking point here. You had half-promised your daughter, Princess Cecily, in marriage to the Duke of Albany when he became King of Scotland, instead of King James’s heir. Now he is not to be king, all that money you have already paid towards Cecily’s dower should be returned. And I intend to get it back, all £5000 of it, from the ruling lords, before I leave Edinburgh. Also, I intend to insist that they leave Berwick Castle to its fate. They must not resist our new attempt to take it back into English hands—where it belongs. With just the actual defenders in the castle to deal with, I am sure we can bring it off!

I am permitting Albany to seal a bargain with the Chancellor of Scotland, whereby, if he agrees to swear allegiance to his brother James for good and all and cause no future trouble, he will receive a full pardon and restitution of his estates, which he is so anxious to get back. I do not hold out much hope that he will keep to the agreement, but that is not my problem after I have returned to England. I am afraid he is another rather like Clarence—if not worse. He has been nicknamed Clarence in a kilt, I have heard. He is fickle and faithless to his own kin and will probably remain so, whatever oaths he swears now, so I intend to get him to swear an oath to keep faith with you, Edward, before I leave here!

A message has just come in to me while I am writing this—it is from the magistrates of Edinburgh. It states that if, as their conqueror, I will withdraw peaceably from their city with my men, they promise that, if you no longer wish to marry Cecily to James’s heir in the circumstances, they themselves will refund every last penny of the dowry money to you in yearly instalments. So I do not have to go a begging or threatening, after all, before I leave. Another problem off my back!

I will write again and let you know the outcome at Berwick, which I hope may be a successful one this time!

Then, I pray that I will at last be able to go back to a bit of peace at Middleham with dear Anne and the children. You have no idea how I long for that blessed day!

I hope that you are now looking after yourself more and taking real steps to safeguard your health. It shocked and saddened me that you were not fit enough to command our troops in this Scottish enterprise, and I know you were very disappointed yourself to have to give over the command to me. I have done my best, as always, to carry out your wishes here and will continue to do so. I thank God that he has given me the strength to command effectively and pray I may remain strong and healthy to continue my work until the campaign is over.

Your affectionate brother,

Richard

Westminster Palace, Late August 1482

My Dear Dickon,

I am amazed at how much you have achieved in such a short time! You are truly my rock—my trusty and able brother. To have occupied Edinburgh without a fight was incredible enough (where were King James’s soldiers while you carried off this feat?), but now to have regained Berwick at last—permanently this time, I hope. After thirteen changes of ownership between us and the Scots over the years, it is about time our right to regard the town as English was settled once and all!

I only wish that I could have been with you to witness your victories! I had fully intended to take charge of the army, as you know, when we began this wretched Scottish War, but I had to concede defeat—not to the enemy, but to my own diminished bodily capabilities. I realise—too late—that I have overdone the feasting, wine, and women over the years, and my health has suffered badly in consequence. I am far too overweight and tire easily. I have to admit it is all my own fault. I am determined to take myself in hand, diet, and drink a smaller amount. I already seem to participate far less in my recreational activities with the ladies. I do not have the energy any more! It will be hard for me to accept the changes I must make in my lifestyle, I know, but otherwise I can achieve far less physically when it comes to things I should do—such as lead my armies into battle. Thank God I have you as my strong right arm! I will reward you handsomely when you return home, you know that.

I seem to have become much weaker in so many ways since George’s death, not just physically. Having to make that decision to have him executed killed something inside me. I have lost much of my strong will, and, I admit, I let others guide me when I cannot decide what to do—perhaps not always the right counsellors or the right council. You were right when you said the Woodvilles have too much influence over me. I would not admit it then, but I freely do now! When you are by me, it is fine. You always seem to know exactly what to do when problems strike. You are most decisive and energetic. But I feel somewhat lost without your presence these days, even though I know you are achieving great things elsewhere in my name—as you have lately been doing in Scotland. It takes a lot for me to admit all this, and I have done so to no one else—not even the queen. Although I still love her, I find I cannot always trust her now, or her motives. I admit she is most self-seeking, like all her family, and can be venomous at times to those who oppose her. A pity. But you are as honest as the day and have always been my greatest friend and confidante, as well as my dear brother!

I hope that the Scots will settle down now that you have given them something to think about. They must realise that you are an opponent to be taken on at their peril!

The king’s younger brother, the Duke of Albany, has been a particular problem, acting towards his brother in much the same way—if not worse—as George did to me.

I hope the fighting will come to an end soon, Dickon, and that you will come home safely to your dear wife, Anne, and your boy, Edward, whom I know miss you greatly, and to me. I need you by me, now more than ever!

Your affectionate brother,

Edward, Rex

Anne, Westminster Palace, Christmas, 1482

All the bells of London are ringing, it seems, to welcome us into Westminster. I am almost deafened by them. They are mainly for Richard, of course. He is the hero of the hour!

The king ordered a wonderful reception for us at the city gates. We rode in escorted by the Lord Mayor himself and his aldermen, resplendent in all their finery, who were waiting there to greet us and welcome us to the capital!

I was a little embarrassed, really, as I know it is all for Richard, not me. I am just his wife.

We are cold, stiff, and very wet from our long journey down from Middleham, which has taken nearly a week, in unrelieved, miserable December weather. It was mostly raining, but we also had to contend with fog and several icy mornings. I am so thankful it is over. I am coughing again, probably from a chill I caught sleeping on damp linen in one of the inns we stayed at. I hope it gets no worse. Richard is concerned for me, but I assured him it is nothing.

Now, all the misery of our long journey and my indisposition fall away as we reach the gates of Westminster Palace itself. For Edward, the king, is here himself to greet us! Richard’s most beloved brother is welcoming him with open arms and tears of joy streaming down his ruddy face. He kisses Richard heartily on both cheeks, then bows to me and kisses my cold hand, which he has withdrawn from my sheepskin muff. Then he hands me down from my grey himself, like any groom. Richard has gone down on one knee to kiss the king’s ring, but now he rises, smiles directly into my eyes, and kisses my hand too. Then he takes my arm to escort me into the palace. He includes me in this great welcome. I am his beloved wife, and he is proud to acknowledge me as such in front of all! He wants the whole court to see it. I begin to feel warm inside, in spite of the damp cold which still envelops me from the journey and a burning sensation in my throat and chest. The servants, grooms, and equerries, the whole castle population, it seems, are cheering and clapping us as we enter the palace, the nobles of the court lining the corridors and thronging the anterooms we pass through. Only the queen is noticeable by her absence. But then she never did like Richard, and the feeling is mutual. He sees right through her. And she has always feared and hated his popularity with, and influence on, her husband.

Edward claps his hands, and hot mulled wine appears as if by magic and is
served to us on golden trays in golden goblets. I drink deeply, then cradle my goblet
in my frozen hands and feel the welcome warmth surge through my veins.

‘My Lady Anne, I pray your cold little hands will warm quickly now you are here. We cannot have you ill! I have ordered hot water to be brought for both of you so that you may take long, hot baths and banish the December chill. Then we will eat and talk for a long time in my privy chamber. I cannot wait! But first things first.’

So the king did notice how cold my hand was when he kissed it.

Now we are in the Great Hall, with roaring log fires on both sides and the pageantry of Edward’s Court all around us, like I imagine an exotic tropical jungle would be—though I have only seen pictures in books of such places. The strong colours, and stronger smells of hot bodies and perfumes, envelop us in their pulsating life.

They are almost overwhelming, almost too much a contrast to the long days’ travelling in the raw December cold. I have always hated this court, as Richard does, but today I must admit, I welcome its warmth, if nothing else, and am grateful for Edward’s hearty welcome.

Now, I take a closer look at the king and am truly shocked by what I see.

His bonhomie is sincere and unforced, but his face is flushed unhealthily, not only from the heat. His eyes have a feverish brightness, it seems to me. I can see that Richard is concerned too. But he does not comment on his elder brother’s unhealthy appearance; he says nothing at Edward’s endless goblets of wine—brandy—wine too, until the hectic flush on his genial face becomes really worrying.

The king is obviously no longer in control of himself, I think. He is grossly fat and obviously dependent on the huge amounts he drinks. I catch Richard’s eye when Edward is pouring himself yet another goblet-full and shake my head. He acknowledges my concern for his brother by a slight nod, followed by a frown as he watches Edward down it in one gulp. It is a worrying sight, as he seems to drink continually. What a sad state of affairs that this splendid man, with his erstwhile splendid physique, should be reduced to this sickly looking alcoholic! He seems so pathetically grateful to have Richard back by his side. He is even reluctant to let him out of his sight when we go to our rooms.

Later, bathed and dressed in clean clothes more suited to the court, we attend the special feast Edward has had prepared for us. I am almost too tired to eat and my chest hurts. But I make a show of enjoying myself for Richard’s sake.

The king drinks copiously throughout—his capacity is incredible. Richard drinks and eats most sparingly—he always has. Seeing what has happened to his much-loved brother through overindulgence is enough to put him off his meal altogether, I should think.

After the feast, I am nodding with tiredness and plead the excuse of exhaustion to the king and Richard to retire to my bed. But it is more. I feel now that I am ill, though I say nothing of this in front of Edward. Later, I suppose, I will have to admit to Richard that I seem to be going down with a lung affliction again. I have had a weakness in my chest all my life, and I think I am in for a bout of bronchitis. The only cure is bed and rest and keeping in an even temperature. Then I must be patient as it runs its course. Even so, I can see it will be sure to ruin Christmas for Richard if I make a fuss. But I will not.

And I think Edward wants Richard to himself anyway. Even if I were not exhausted and ill, I would have felt it right to withdraw and leave them to talk together without interruption. They must have so much to say to each other—so much to catch up on. My ladies will mix me horehound from my herb box, which I always carry with me for just such a time. It is good for coughs and lung-congestion. Also, I think, a little poppy juice will help me to sleep.