White Boar and the Red Dragon, The (33 page)

I advise you to keep the knowledge to yourself, for a time when it may prove very useful to you. That time may come sooner than you think! Edward is not in good physical health, after his many excesses. His allotted span may not be long.

Your loving mother,

Cicely, Dowager Duchess of York

Richard, Middleham Castle, Yorks, Late Summer, 1478

‘There is another letter from the king. He is coming to York on Progress and wants to meet up with me. I am not at all sure I want to see him.’

‘But you can hardly refuse. He is the king and can command your presence!’

‘Anne, you know how I feel, still, about what he did! I know I cannot forgive him. It is all still very raw. I lost faith in him when he had George killed, in spite of my pleading, also that of my mother, Margaret, our sister in Burgundy, and many others. And because he just would not reveal to me the real reason for his decision—me, the closest one to him—apart from the queen. It was she who precipitated him into it. I know! I discovered that she had pressurised the Speaker of the Commons, Sir William Allington, a dependent of the Woodvilles and therefore beholden to them, to go to the Lords to insist the sentence be carried out forthwith! And they supported his request wholeheartedly. No doubt the queen’s brother, Sir Anthony Rivers, and many other lords who had reason to hate George or envy him and looked to profit by his death by perhaps getting their hands on some of his great estates and titles the king had granted him, coerced the others into agreement.

She is an evil, vicious woman and she has Edward in the palm of her hand. He has grown to be the one that takes orders from her! She and her many obnoxious, grasping Woodville relatives control him completely now. It is not to be borne. I shall not go to court again in London, unless forced to. He knows how I feel. I made that very clear to him just before George’s execution, when he still had an opportunity to commute the sentence!’

‘And he didn’t.’

‘No, he went ahead with it, as he—and the queen—were determined to do. All pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears!’

‘It was a terrible thing to do—to kill one’s own brother—whatever he had done!’

‘But, as I told you, I do not think he had George done away with for what he had actually done but for fear of what he might do! He admitted that much to me but would not reveal what he was afraid of. He just stated that George “knew too much” and that the royal children were in danger from him. I could get no real explanation of it. Edward obviously did not trust me enough to confide his fears. That is what hurt me so. We have always been so close.’

‘And now there is this awful rift between you! Could you not find it in your heart to forgive Edward? He must have had good reasons for his actions—even if he did not confide them to you. One would have expected him to, I agree, and to trust his favourite and most loyal brother with the real reasons for his adamant stance on George.’

‘Well, he didn’t. He caused the rift, not I. I am not sure it can ever be healed!’

‘Surely you want it to be? It is a big thing for you to have to forgive, I grant, but you are unhappy about your break with him. I know you are. Do you intend it to be permanent? What truly upsets you most—George’s death—or Edward’s lack of trust in you, honestly?’

‘Both, of course. But I must admit, the fact he did not confide his true fears to me cut deep. We have always told each other everything!’

‘Well, I think you should meet up with him in York, however bad you are still feeling, for form’s sake, if nothing else. It would not be good for the people to guess that you are estranged from him, would it? They all accepted George’s execution as a necessary evil, which of course it was. He had done many unforgiveable things. He was a danger to the state, as Edward said.’

‘Are you on Edward’s side in this, Anne? Surely you support me? I am your husband. A wife should support her husband at all times—in public anyway—however she may disagree with him privately.’

‘Of course I agree with you—both privately and in public! You know that. Why ask it? I will come with you and be by your side in York, if you decide you will meet Edward. Do, Richard. I think you will be the happier for it. You have been so morose and distant for months. And I do not think it is only grief for George.’

‘You are right, of course, as always, my dear Anne. You know me so well. Very well, I will reply to Edward and agree to meet him when he visits York. It will be a public occasion anyway, so I suppose it will not be so difficult as meeting him in a private session. He says he is coming without the queen, so that will make it easier still. I do not think I would be able to keep my tongue still if she were there—after what I know she forced him to do!’

Richard, York, September 1478

‘Well, Dickon, you seem to have won the hearts of your people here in York! Among the cheers for me, I am sure there were equally as many for you! “Gloucester, Gloucester!” is still ringing in my ears! I sent you to be Lord of the North and win over these people, who were Warwick’s followers. I expected you to do it by force—if need be—but it seems you have done it by fairness, justice, and sincerity. That is good, very good. I have nothing but praise for your achievements! You were always an excellent commander of men. Now I see you can win their support in more human ways. You understand what makes them tick. You have the ability to make yourself popular. That is a great gift, Dickon, not given to many! I am actually quite envious of what you have achieved in this region. It is good to rule men loyal to you, who want to serve you! You have taught them how to observe your own motto.’

‘Loyalty binds me! Yes, I believe if one treats men honourably and with justice, they respect and follow one. I do my best to carry this out.’

‘And it works for you! I have always trusted you to be on my side and support me in my endeavours. Can I still count on you for that? Will you be there when I need you?’

‘Of course.’

‘But you do not trust me unconditionally, as you once did, do you?’

‘It is only since—’

‘Yes, I know, since February. But what I did, I had to do. There was no other way. I would dearly love you to understand that, Dickon. As king, I had no choice!’

‘I do now. But George would not have revealed what he knew—however much he longed for the throne—he could not do it. Otherwise, he would have told all long before! He had known your secret for years! But you—you went in constant fear of what he might say—that is why you had him killed! It was him—or you!’

‘How can you know this? You are clever, but without information from another source, you could not possibly have guessed what I was withholding from you—the real reason George had to die!’

‘I did learn it from another source—our own mother—the Duchess Cecily! I fear she is estranged from you forever! She cannot forgive you!’

‘How did she know?’

‘George told her! The priest who attended the Lady Eleanor Butler on her deathbed, to whom she confessed your plight-troth promise to her, learnt it all from her own lips—and then confessed the secret that was burning in his brain to George, as his liege-lord, when he too was dying. The priest sent him a letter!’

‘God’s bones! How many more are aware of this?’

‘Who knows?’

‘And can you forgive me, Richard? Or are you estranged from me forever too?’

‘I am still your devoted subject, but things are not quite as they were—I do admit that!’

‘I pray that you will understand fully one day, Dickon! As your brother, I too am appalled by what I did. But as king, it was necessary! I regret the need for my action every day but not the action itself. It was the right-and only thing to do!’

‘But do you admit that your queen had a lot of influence over that decision? That is what I cannot stomach!’

‘She sought to persuade me through fear for her children and their futures—as I tried to explain at the time. That is all.’

‘I will try to understand, Ned. But you must give me more time. You were always your own man. You made your own decisions based on your own beliefs. But you have allowed yourself to be influenced over many things by the queen and her family over the last few years. To speak bluntly, I feel you have weakened somewhat! The Woodvilles have become the power behind the throne. They seem to convince you that their will is your will!’

‘You judge me harshly, Dickon! If you were anyone else but my dearest brother, what you have said could be construed as tantamount to treason! But I know you mean well and speak from the heart. I have grown tired, Dickon. I do not have the energy—physical or mental—which I once had. Sometimes I make mistakes. I am only human. The king is not perfect, I admit. Mea culpa, mea culpa—in many ways! You’re still so young, still have a lot of the idealist in you. As I told you once before, years ago, expediency and pragmatism are often the only way, however emotion tells one otherwise. This is how it was with George. I still loved him—believe me—in spite of everything. But it was needful for the good of the realm that he should die!’

Anne, Middleham Castle, Yorks, Early Spring, 1480

I am in terror for Richard’s life. He has had to go to London and the dreaded plague is raging there! The king’s own small son, George, who is almost two, is very ill with it and his life is despaired of! This terrible disease, which can kill in less than twenty-four hours with some, is no respecter of persons. I pray continually that my dear husband does not succumb. He is with Edward, comforting him and supporting him while the poor child lies so sick at Windsor Castle. His official reason for going was to discuss the Scottish problem with the king, who wants to go to war against King James of Scotland. I am not sure I completely understand the reasons for this impending war, I must admit. Richard will make it clear to me later, I am sure. While he was journeying there, little George fell ill. Richard did let me know by fast messenger that he would now have to stay at Windsor until all danger of infection had passed within the castle, as he did not wish to bring it home to the children and I. For once, I am sorry for the queen. She must be in mortal fear that her other children will fall prey to the plague! Children get ill so easily. Ned is often sick with his weak chest. The slightest cold goes straight to his lungs and he coughs for weeks. And then there are the terrible breathless attacks he gets, often in the middle of the night. I have tried every remedy I know to help, but nothing does really. The doctor says he may grow out of it as he gets older. I pray so, for it is awful to watch, feeling so helpless, and must be quite terrifying for the poor child. Thank God there is no plague around here in the clear, healthy air of Wensleydale. I am sure Ned would go down with it as easily as poor little George has done. Babes stand no chance against so many ills.

No one knows where it comes from, this most terrible of diseases, though some say ‘tis rats that carry it.

A comet was observed just before the outbreak started in September last year, a sure foreteller of terrible times to come!

I begged Richard not to go to Windsor, because the plague was already there, but he felt he had to.

Edward needs his support more than ever now with important decisions of state. His health is not good, and he has lost a lot of his determination and strength of mind. Richard says in his letter that Edward is eaten up with guilt because he believes the little child George has fallen ill through his fault—because he had his uncle of the same name, George of Clarence, done to death. That is surely superstitious nonsense, I think. Would God punish a babe for its father’s sins? Though it does say in the Bible: ‘The sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children…’ But surely, in other, less cruel ways?

I look at my little Ned playing here with John and with the other children we have taken in, George’s children. Poor mites, they are orphans now, and Richard felt it was the least we could do for them. I am constantly surrounded by the laughter, bustle, and screaming of lively children! I do not mind most of the time, though it is very wearing when I am not well—which is often, unfortunately. I am frequently sad too, wishing they were all mine. Bella and I were close, so I can regard them as almost mine, I suppose. They are my niece and nephew. I cannot seem to get with child again. I have had a very painful miscarriage recently and fear that I am unable to bring a child to full term once more. With only one son, I long to give Richard more legitimate heirs. It is necessary for a man in his position.

Richard is away so often I hardly see him for weeks at a time sometimes, but he holds so many important positions which the king has made him responsible for, that it is inevitable, I suppose. He does try to fulfil all his various responsibilities to the best of his ability. He goes from town to town and village to village with his group of magistrates holding courts at which any man, rich or poor, can bring him grievances, and he will do his utmost to settle things to their satisfaction. He has become noted for his fair-mindedness and determination to give all men the same chance of justice, whoever they be. He has also become loved for it in these regions. People have got to know that he is above self-interest and is fair-minded and honest.

When he is not engaged in this work, he is visiting his various castles and estates, particularly Sherriff Hutton, Barnard Castle, and Pontefract Castle and making sure that all is well and that the estate managers are doing their job properly. He has appointed completely trustworthy men in each case, thank goodness. Sometimes I travel with him, for a change of scene, but not often. I find I do not have the energy for long days’ riding. And I prefer to sleep in my own bed at night.

When he does make time to visit us, he finds it so hard to relax, being forever at his account books and writing important letters, that I have to beg him to take breaks, or the children and I would never see him at all. I worry about him, that he stretches himself too much and works far too hard. He does get very tired, and that is why I fear the plague may get him now, God forefend! I know what I am talking about; my own delicate health has often been made worse by exhaustion.