The Rose of York: Crown of Destiny (13 page)

Richard rested his hand on Conyer’s shoulder. He was a tall man, and the gesture, which had come so easily to towering Edward, felt awkward. He dropped his hand. “Thank you, Conyers. You’ve always spoken bluntly and advised me well. Let us hope that all the reasonable men in the land don’t reside in the North, but that a few are left at Westminster.”

A flurry of missives and messengers came and went from Middleham over the next days. Harry, Duke of Buckingham, wrote from his castle in faraway Brecon in South Wales eagerly offering his support and putting himself entirely at Richard’s service, with a thousand men if need be. He begged an immediate answer.

Richard wrote back that he was coming south to join the King’s procession to London and would be pleased to have Buckingham meet him on the road, but with a small escort only—not more than three hundred. He had decided to disregard Hastings’s advice about bringing a strong armed force. Two hundred and fifty men were enough, and if Buckingham brought the same number, they would have more than sufficient escort between them. After all, they were not at war, though it seemed Hastings was itching to start one.

With his friend Francis Lovell at his side, he bade farewell to Anne and young Ned as they stood in the chill, windswept bailey. He was leaving for York, the muster point for his escort, and from there they would go on to London. Anne offered him the stirrup cup. He drank and handed it back to her. She stood on tiptoe to kiss him.

“God be with you and keep you, my dearest Lord,” she said anxiously.

“I shall return as soon as matters permit, my dear lady.”

She nodded, backed away to allow the children a chance to say farewell. Ned’s squire lifted him up for an embrace. “When I’m bigger, my Lord father, you shall not have to ride alone,” he said.

Richard tousled his dark hair, not trusting himself to speak. How he loved the boy! Young George Neville stepped forward. “My Lord, I wish you would let me come with you—’tis not too late, even now…”

Richard’s lips curved gently. George was eighteen, almost full grown, and nearly as tall as his father had been. With the wind blowing his tawny hair and Roland at his heels, Richard could see John clearly. His heart constricted. “Fair cousin, contrary to what you may have heard, there’s no urgency. Attend to my Ned and lady wife, and be of comfort to your dear lady aunt until I return.” Young George inclined his head obediently and stepped back.

A silence fell, broken by the loud flapping of the Boar banner in the wind. Then Richard clattered over the drawbridge. His men fell in behind him. As Ned and George waved farewell, Anne stood and watched, gripped by unease. Richard’s confidence troubled her. Since he didn’t approve of Hastings, he gave no credence to his warnings. Yet Hastings was a seasoned statesman. There was no reason why he would react as he had, if given no cause. Besides, he was kin, married to her aunt, Katherine. It was something they often forgot, since they had been separated by such distances and moved in different circles for most of their life. But kin always looked out for kin.

Her hand sought the gold crucifix at her neck. Richard had many admirable qualities. He was blessed with a fine mind quick as mercury, but dearly as she loved him, he had a fault that could not be overlooked: He had never outgrown a certain childish innocence.
And innocence is dangerous
, she thought,
for it blinds us to truths we do not wish to see
. At that moment a gust of wind brought down the Boar banner in the dale and men rushed to help the standard bearer raise it back up. Anne gasped and her hand flew to her mouth. A portent?

She felt her mother’s arm slip around her shoulders. Sorely did she need the comfort! All her life she had read omens in such absurd trifles and, though she always prayed to be wrong, so accurate a harbinger of the future had they proven that she was convinced she had second sight.

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Chapter 13

“…the knight…show’d a youthful face,

Imperious, and of haughtiest lineaments.”

In York, Richard ordered Requiem masses for the repose of Edward’s soul, then he administered the oath of fealty to King Edward V to all his men and the city magistrates. There was, however, one who was absent, and Richard couldn’t refrain from remarking on it when Conyers came striding up to him in the market square as they prepared to march. “Percy’s not here,” he said.

Conyer’s expression hardened. “My Lord, his messenger said to give you this.” He handed Richard a missive.

Richard read, looked up. “He regrets he cannot accompany me. His duties at the border require his presence.”

“Sounds like a Percy—never there when you need him,” said Conyers, who was related to the Nevilles by marriage, and therefore suspicious of Percys. He threw Rob Percy a glance, adding hastily, “No offence meant, Rob.”

“None taken,” smiled Rob.

Richard mounted White Surrey. “Perhaps this time the Earl of Northumberland tells the truth… I can vouch that the Scots can be troublesome.”

Near Nottingham Richard found a messenger waiting with a missive from Anthony Woodville. The Queen’s brother wrote that he expected to be in Northampton around the twenty-ninth of April and hoped the Duke of Gloucester would meet him there. Reassured by the courteous tone of Anthony Woodville’s letter, Richard sent back an acknowledgement, relieved that Hastings had been wrong. More messengers arrived as they rode south. Most came from Hastings, each bearing tidings more urgent and ominous than the last. Though Richard was loathe to put any trust in Edward’s old friend, it was becoming more difficult to dismiss Hastings’s concern.

“What do you make of this?” he demanded, passing Hastings’s message to Conyers as they rode together in the cool April sunshine.

Conyers heaved an audible breath when he finished reading. “He doesn’t sound like himself,” he said, handing back the note.

“Aye, he claims he stands alone, that his very life is in danger because he has espoused my cause. Hard to believe.”

“For genial Hastings to make such a statement, the situation must be dire.”

“Genial, he is, and brave, too. But dissolute,” said Richard with a tightening of his mouth. “There’s no reason why matters should be so desperate.”

“There’s the Queen, my Lord. Her nature is well known.”

“She’s wilful and greedy, but would she risk civil strife by lawlessly circumventing the King’s will?”

Conyers made no reply. Richard gave a sigh. “Only when we are in London and see for ourselves will we know the truth. I shall keep myself uncommitted until then.”

“But is that wise, my Lord?” offered Conyers, anxiety evident in his tone.

“Wise, I know not… But it is fair. Perhaps that’s more important.”

Late on the day Anthony Woodville had expected to arrive in Northampton, Richard rode into the city with his cavalcade. There was no sign of the Queen’s brother and young Edward. He dismounted before the inn where he had arranged to meet Buckingham and turned to one of the men he had sent ahead to secure accommodations. “Where are they?” he demanded.

“They have already passed through, my Lord, and continued south, to Stony Stratford.”

Richard frowned, looked at Conyers and Francis. “But we clearly had an arrangement to meet here.”

They had no chance to respond. The Duke of Buckingham’s herald was riding up. The man dismounted, bent a knee. “My Lord, His Grace wishes you to know he will arrive shortly.”

“Well then, let’s make ourselves comfortable.” He turned White Surrey over to his squire and went into the inn, the innkeeper at his heels, indicating the way. Crossing the plank floor, Richard took the creaky stairs up to his room. As he entered, horses’ hoofs sounded in the street. “That must be Buckingham.”

“Not Buckingham,” corrected Francis from the doorway, “Anthony Woodville!”

Richard went to the window. “Indeed it is, but young Edward is not with him. At least not that I can see from here.” He threw his gauntlets on the bed and hurried downstairs.

Anthony Woodville, Earl Rivers, came riding up, surrounded by a train of attendants. “My Lord Protector, I greet thee well! I have come at the behest of our new sovereign King to convey his greeting to his gracious uncle.” Anthony Woodville gave Richard a deep bow.

“Earl Rivers, you are most welcome,” Richard said pleasantly, betraying none of his unease. “Pray, enter, partake of refreshment.” He turned to the innkeeper. “Arrange lodgings for Earl Rivers and his men.” He led Anthony Woodville into the parlour. “I see my royal nephew is not with you.”

“My Lord, the King pushed on to Stony Stratford for the night because it was feared there were insufficient accommodations for both the royal train and your own.” He smiled.

Though Anthony Woodville had tried to speak casually, Richard caught the faint tremor in his voice and knew instantly that he lied. Indeed, if his royal nephew were so eager to greet him, why had he rushed on to Stony Stratford? There might not have been enough room in town for them all, but certainly enough for young Edward and part of his train. Richard decided not to pursue the matter for the moment.

“I see…” he said, inviting his brother by marriage to a plank table in the parlour. Spiced hippocras and appetisers were brought. Anthony Woodville sipped his wine and munched a pasty.

“The ride from Ludlow was most pleasant, my Lord brother,” Anthony Woodville said, referring to their ties of kinship through his sister Bess. “I particularly enjoyed the Shropshire countryside. The hills are covered with an abundance of snowdrops this time of year…” He proceeded to paint a colourful account of his journey. They drank together and ate, and for the most part, it was Anthony Woodville who talked. Richard listened, observing him and turning over in his mind the meaning of this cordial embassy that contrasted so strangely with Hastings’s reports. Except for one thing—the missing King. That nagged at him.

“…the ceremony was splendid, the King enjoyed it greatly,” Anthony Woodville was saying about the Feast of St. George that he had celebrated the night before he left Ludlow. “I remember when our royal brother, King Edward—God assoil his noble soul—made me Knight of the Garter… Ahhh…” He related his memories.

Richard studied him, this patron of Caxton. He certainly did not think of him as kin, and would not address him as brother, but he did not hold him in the same contempt as the rest of his clan. Richard had fathomed the others: they were evil. Anthony was different. His family was tightly-knit, yet he seemed to keep his distance from them. The Woodvilles were worldly, and he, too, enjoyed the good things of life—like the goose liver pate he was now devouring—but he had never displayed the same greed for gold that they had. Indeed, it was said of him that his dress often included a hair shirt. Richard wondered if he wore one now beneath his rich earl’s robes of bright blue velvet furred with miniver and trimmed with gold. A smile almost tipped the corners of his mouth at the thought of a pious Woodville. It seemed a contradiction. Even Lionel, Bishop of Salisbury, that large, multi-chinned hog, was a debauched and unholy man.

Aye, Anthony Woodville had undeniably strong spiritual qualities. He debated devotional writings such as those of Christine de Pisane, occasionally indulged himself in a scholarly work of his own making, and had translated three devotional accounts which Caxton printed. He had even penned ballads against the Seven Deadly Sins.

“Have you read Sir Thomas Malory’s account of King Arthur’s knights?” Anthony Woodville was asking.

“Aye,” Richard said, “most recently.”

“And your favourite part?”

“When Arthur slays Mordred.”

“Why?”

“Justice is done.”

“But justice comes at high cost. To get at Mordred, the King must sacrifice himself.”

“You miss the point. The cost of treachery is what’s high. Justice is all that’s left.”

“Aha…” said Woodville. Softly, he began to recite, “‘Then the king looked about him, and then was he aware of all his host and of all his good knights, no more were left alive…’”

Richard picked up the tale. “‘Then the king got his spear in both his hands, and ran toward Sir Mordred, crying, “Traitor, now is thy death day come!”’”

“I pray I never see another battlefield,” sighed Woodville. “’Tis too much, all that death.”

Now Richard understood why Anthony Woodville had gone on pilgrimage the day after the Battle of Tewkesbury. Edward had called him a coward, this man famed for winning tournaments. He was no coward, and he was no Woodville, this Woodville. He was not a true knight, and not a true pilgrim.

He was an enigma.

Maybe Buckingham would know what to make of him.

Harry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, arrived in the midst of supper. With a swift movement full of grace and virility he stretched his long legs over the pine bench and sat down. The congenial conversation quickly became merry. Harry Stafford was charming, witty; Anthony Woodville, widely travelled, imaginative. Richard, who felt he could add nothing to their brilliant conversation, listened and said nothing.

It was late in the evening when the three men rose from the table. “So, ’tis agreed we ride to Stony Stratford together in the morning?” said Anthony Woodville.

“Indeed,” smiled Buckingham. He slapped Anthony Woodville on the back in a gesture Richard found poignantly reminiscent of Edward. But then, Harry was kin and, after Richard himself, the noblest blood in England. He was descended from Thomas of Woodstock, Duke of Gloucester, the youngest son of Edward III. That Gloucester had been murdered by his nephew, King Richard II. Therefore, when the Lancastrian Henry of Bolingbroke came claiming King Richard’s throne, Gloucester’s heirs gladly threw him their support.

Richard’s gaze dwelled on his cousin. Fair and golden, his features were so perfect, so symmetrical, that the delicacy would have made him too beautiful for a man were it not for his commanding air of self-confidence and the haughty lift of his head. His father and grandfather had died fighting for Lancaster, but that was in the past. Harry was one of them now. He had been raised among Yorkists since childhood and he’d married Bess’s sister, Catherine, at the age of eleven. Since this marriage had been forced upon him against his will, his hatred of the Woodvilles was well known, but in the feuds of the last ten years he’d taken no part and was rarely to be found at court. Like Richard himself.