White Boar and the Red Dragon, The (32 page)

Your loving mother,

Margaret Beaufort,

Countess of Richmond

Richard, Westminster, 16 February 1478

‘Edward, how could you do this? George is our own brother. He is of our blood. You cannot have him put to death. He is no common criminal. And to actually indict him yourself in a court of law—that is unheard of!

Was it not enough to let him rot in the Tower all those months last year? What was the purpose of that if you intended to have him executed in the end? Why not get it over with straightaway?’

‘I wished to punish him and frighten some sense into him, that is all. To make him think, while he was imprisoned, on all the wrongs he has done against me and this realm of ours over the years! Can you not see that?’

‘So why decide at this precise moment that he has to die, if you intended to let him go after a salutary lesson? What has hardened your heart so now?’

‘I have been persuaded—by circumstances and by many advisors—that it is for the best. After all, while he lives, he will continue to cause trouble. He never learns from his mistakes. It is necessary for him to die. He is a traitor to me and a murderer of the innocent. He spreads sedition, and I believe he hates me and is determined to take arms against me and mine if I do not act now. He has always had a strong ambition to be king, you know!’

‘He is an ambitious fool, I grant you that. He has been false to you—even a traitor—when he sided with Warwick against you, but why did you not have him executed then for his actions? You publicly forgave him! Surely you cannot punish him now for deeds committed years ago which you forgave at the time?’

‘George intends to oust me from the throne if he can. He will plan uprisings against me. He will be a constant threat and worry. And I have had enough of him. It is best to do away with him, as he will never change his ways!’

‘There is more to this than meets the eye. Something you are not telling me. We have always been so close, Edward, as close as brothers could be. We have trusted each other implicitly. I have looked up to you and supported you all my life. I have been as loyal as anyone could be! Can you not explain to me why, in a few days, you have given up all thoughts of pardoning him and are now intent on his execution?’

‘I signed the death warrant on the 7 February. It is too late to retract now, even if I wanted to. The Lords and the Commons are demanding that the sentence be carried out without any more delay. Ten days are allowed between my signature and the execution. And the tenth day is tomorrow—the seventeenth! George dies on the eighteenth. I can do nothing now!’

‘You could if you wanted to—you are the king. You make the law! Who is pushing you into this? I do not believe you really want to kill your own brother, whatever he has done, or may do. It is the Woodvilles, isn’t it? The queen is behind this! She has always hated George.’

‘It is true she fears him and what he may do—as I fear him. But mainly she fears for our children.’

‘What could he do to them, if he lives? Tell me, Edward. What could he do?’

‘He knows too much…’

‘About what? Do you not trust me enough to tell me?’

‘Well—for a start, I have discovered that he believes my children, as well as I, are bastards.’

‘How could he possibly come to that conclusion? And even if he did, in his twisted mind, how could he seek to prove such a thing? Everyone has discounted that stupid story that has been going the rounds for years about our proud Lady mother and the archer in Rouen. I suppose George—if he really believes that you are the son of a commoner and a bastard, could seek to prove it, though how, I cannot imagine! But as for the children… ?’

‘There is more—but I cannot tell you, Richard. I dare not. It is more than my life is worth!’

‘If you cannot trust me with your confidence, who can you trust? Whatever it is, I am sure you would feel better telling me of it. I am your friend as well as your loyal subject. I would never disclose to anyone anything you told me in confidence. I can see that, whatever it is, it is making you ill. Lately, you have looked so tired and drawn, so unlike your usual self!’

‘I am not myself, Richard, far from it. And I do appreciate your loyalty and love, you know that, but there are some things best kept to myself, that even a loving brother should not know. Be patient, Richard. One day, I may tell you what eats at my soul, but not today. Today, I am the king, not just your brother. I have to keep resolute and do what has to be done. And I have to protect others whom I love!’

‘So, whatever this is which weighs so heavily on your heart, you cannot, or will not, tell me? You will not share the pain of it with me? That is unlike you, Edward. It grieves me deeply that you do not trust me enough to confide in me. I can only pray, along with our mother, our sister Margaret in Burgundy, and all the family, that you do the right thing in the next twenty-four hours and lift this terrible shadow of a traitor’s death from George!’

‘I have no intention of carrying out the ultimate penalty on him, Richard. There will be no hanging, drawing, and quartering. He will die by a method of his own choice. I have already conveyed that message to him. The Constable of the Tower will shortly let me know how he has chosen to die!’

‘It is horrible. Horrible! I do not believe you will carry this terrible thing to its ultimate conclusion. I am sure you will rescind the sentence. I am going now, for my heart is breaking. But if George is executed tomorrow, you will have lost not just one brother, but two, for I will never trust you again. It is clear to me that you intend George’s death not for what he has done, but for whatever it is you fear he will do—which you will not trust me enough to tell me of! I must now visit our Lady mother at Baynard’s Castle. She is inconsolable, I hear. She loves George still, in spite of what he has done. She bore him, remember, in pain and tribulation. I suggest you pray most earnestly, Edward, as she is doing and I will later do. Now I have one last plea to make of you. I wish to visit George this evening in the Bowyer Tower. Surely, he needs to know that we have not all forgotten him in his hour of need?’

‘No, I forbid it. He is to have no visitors! I have banned them for weeks. I will not change my mind now. He will have a priest to give him absolution, that is all. I had in mind to send his old friend, Bishop Stillington—he is in the Tower too, as he has incurred my displeasure.’

‘Are you afraid George will divulge to me whatever it is he knows which terrifies you so? Surely, if he meant to do it, he would have done so by now? He has had plenty of opportunity, in public, as well as privately! He is in extremis of mind at the moment, I am sure! I must go to him, whatever you say. He needs some comfort from his kin.’

‘If you do, you will find yourself barred from the Tower. I am implacable on this. Do not even try to gain entry. The constable has had specific orders not to let anyone—anyone—in to see him!’

‘And that is your last word, Edward? I pity you. To deny a man who faces execution a sop of comfort? I shall never forgive you for this, never!’

Dowager Duchess Cecily, Fotheringhay Castle,
Northampton, Summer, 1478

My Dear Richard,

I am only just beginning to come to terms with the terrible thing that Edward has done in having George put to death. My grief has been unutterable. And I shall never forgive Edward. He knows that. I have told him so many times since that terrible February day. It is the act of a coward, I believe! For I think I know what it is that he was so afraid George would reveal! You say he would not confide to you why he gave in to that awful Woodville woman’s urgings to carry out the death sentence—even though he was disposed to forgive George again until she started pressurising him. Well, George was many things that were not good, I acknowledge that, but it did not give Edward, even as king, the right to behave like Cain and murder his brother. For murder it was, no less!

I know you agree with me. Your letters express the same desolate grief that I have felt these last months. I can understand how you do not want to be at court any more—though you never did like it much, nor did I. That is one reason I have kept myself quiet here all these years. I do not approve of the appalling immorality and licentiousness one sees there, led by Edward himself, the queen’s degenerate sons, the Marquess of Dorset and Lord Richard Grey, and particularly that rake Hastings. I have come to the conclusion that Edward is weak in many respects and has been easily led into wrong ways of living and behaviour. I told you before that, in my opinion, he was not fit to be king and that I wished that one day you could claim the throne, as I know you would do a much better job as the monarch. You are far more upright and principled. Perhaps this could be construed as treason that I write, but I no longer care!

When I heard that Edward had married that low-born woman, Grey, in 1464, I wrote to him privily not to commit bigamy and to admit that he was not—and never could be—lawfully married to her, before it was too late!

I urged him to put her away and find a fitting bride from the courts of Europe. But he ignored me! You know that, at the time, I also admitted publicly that Edward was born of an extramarital relationship I had in Rouen while my husband, the duke, was constantly away fighting? That made Edward a bastard in reality. I did not think any of the family—including you—believed me then. But it was true. I was very angry when I heard what Edward proposed to do and, at the time, wanted to punish him by revealing his illegitimacy. I have been a pious and religious woman all my life, but this was my one fall from grace. My husband never got to know of it from me—though I think he may have guessed. Because he loved me dearly and he did not want to compromise me, I think he turned a blind eye to my indiscretion and accepted its consequences. I have always been thankful to him for that! He was a good man and would have made a fine king! He never spoke of my affair or questioned me but accepted Edward as his own unequivocally. And no one but I, and now you, because I have chosen to tell you, knows that. Though Edward’s birth and christening were noted in the register of Rouen Cathedral, it was a very small christening only, in a side chapel, not a huge one in the main cathedral like your eldest brother Edmund had. It was deliberately kept low key. Blaybourne, an archer at the Rouen English garrison, was my lover, and I am sure he was Edward’s father because the dates fit, from the time I became pregnant to Edward’s birth! It was he who comforted me in my loneliness in 1441 when my husband was away for a particularly long period. Now, you may be wondering what all that has to do with George’s secret? Well, I will tell you!

Edward was not free to marry, even if the woman he had chosen as his queen was suitable! He had already undergone a ceremony where he agreed to be plight-troth to a high-born girl, widow of Lord Sudely’s son for some years, to whom she had been married at thirteen. And she herself was the Earl of Shrewsbury’s daughter, and in English law, plight-troth is considered as binding as actual marriage.

Her name was Eleanor Butler, and after Edward married Elizabeth Grey, she retired to a convent in Norwich and took the veil. She died there only four years later. Of course, Edward had had no intention of marrying the girl! He was twenty years old, a lusty boy, used to getting his own way with women—as he still is—and she was a virginal, pious girl. He was determined to have her; he was besotted with her. So he had this farce enacted to persuade her, which of course he did. She loved him truly and believed in his good intentions, foolish girl! But he never honoured the plight-troth. When he became enamoured of Elizabeth, he conveniently forgot it and sought to keep it quiet all his life!

The poor girl never said a word about it but retired to the convent as I have said. But when she was dying, four years later, she confided her secret to a priest, who gave her absolution on her deathbed. The priest also kept the silence of the confessional until he too was about to die, when he wrote a letter to George, his liege-lord, and told all. The knowledge had hung heavy on his mind for years and he wanted to do the right thing by making it known before he died.

You may ask how I know all this? George had always hankered after the throne, and when he discovered that Edward was unlawfully married to Elizabeth and that therefore his many children were bastards as well as Edward—for George did believe my confession, it suited him to—he had now realised he had a chance of realising his dream of attaining the throne, as he was next in line! He confided in me. I too have kept quiet—up to now. But after what Edward has done, I have been very tempted to reveal all. It has hung on my conscience too. But Edward is also my son, whatever his many faults. I am telling you, because I think you have a right to know. If Edward should die, you are the next rightful king! Think on that! But while he lives, to reveal this would cause so much trouble for so many people—particularly those many innocent children of Edward’s, who are of course, bastards in effect. I cannot bring myself to do it.

What you do with this knowledge is your affair. If it can help you in the future—then use it! I am sure Edward discovered that George knew this secret and was terrified he would reveal it in order to bring down the whole royal family and achieve his greatest ambition—to become king—which he believed he should have been all along! That is why Edward felt he had to do away with him. I am convinced of it.

But George had known this fact for a long time. If he were going to reveal it, I know he would have done so long since. He dare not speak about it! So Edward need not have worried. Edward knows, of course, that his mother is also privy to his secret—so perhaps he may soon seek to have me done away with too?

And now you know it too, my dear Richard, perhaps you will decide to face Edward with it? He loves you well, and I know you have always loved him well too, so I do not think you would be in any danger from him, particularly as you do not publicly hanker after his throne, as foolish George did! But, who knows? Edward has changed so in the last few years, I would not be surprised at anything he did now!