Chapter Fifteen

Summer 1468–Spring 1469

London had never looked so festive as it did on the day its citizens bade a bittersweet farewell to one of England’s most precious assets: the king’s youngest sister, Margaret. The cheering throngs were sending the twenty-two-year-old princess on her dutiful journey to Bruges as bride of the powerful duke of Burgundy. It was said to have been one of the greatest matches of the century, and it may have been that Londoners understood its significance even then. Whatever the alliance may have been deemed later, Edward appeared mightily pleased with it then.

Richard slapped a bluebottle off his soft kid glove as a plague of them continued to worry his horse. The animal’s tail swished them from its rump and its shaking head kept Richard busy with the reins. It was unbearably hot that June day, not a cloud in the sky, and the scent of so many garlands and strewn blossoms, mingling sickly sweet with the masses of sweating bodies, horse droppings, and general London filth, was overwhelming. He saw one old woman swoon onto the dirt and called to an escorting guard to fetch water for her.

He was riding side by side with George, and although both regally robed in royal purple doublets with white slashed sleeves, Richard knew most eyes were on his handsome, garrulous brother, who flung coins into the crowd and bent to accept nosegays from giggling maids. Richard sat his horse quietly, hoping the tailor had adequately padded his jacket so his uneven shape would not show. They did not know him here in London, and most stared at him curiously. He knew he should wave, but his horse was skittish, and he kept his eyes on Warwick, who, astride an enormous black courser, was leading the procession with Margaret riding pillion, her scarlet cloth-of-gold gown draped artfully over the horse’s back and tail. Somehow from the February fracas to this auspicious occasion, Warwick and Edward had darned the hole in their former friendship, and Warwick had agreed to be Margaret’s escort. Richard was much relieved; perhaps now he could resume relations with the earl.

Richard had not been privy to the discussions Edward had held with Warwick in February at Coventry, to which the earl had been persuaded to attend by his brother, Archbishop Neville. Warwick had reluctantly reconciled with two of his adversaries, but he would not keep company with the Woodvilles. Edward also refused to take warning from the earl’s ire that he had forged alliances behind Warwick’s back with Burgundy and Brittany against France, leaving the earl to keep his own counsel and the wounds to fester. How the two men arrived at this day of unity was testament to Edward’s naive dealings with the powerful Warwick—of which the earl would fully take advantage in the not too distant future—and Warwick’s arrogant belief that he was the power behind the throne.

Was it Richard’s imagination or were the Londoners cheering Warwick as much as Meg? He thought he heard, “à Warwick” in the cacophony of voices, trumpets, and bells, and he observed how the earl smiled and bowed left and right, throwing coins into the crowd. Richard had often admired his mentor’s ease and generosity towards the Yorkshire yeomen. Warwick seemed to reserve his arrogance for the nobility below him and not for the commoners. Edward would do well to copy him, Richard thought, for once Warwick and Meg’s horse had passed a well-wishing group, the cheers became less enthusiastic for Edward following them.

Halfway down the Chepe, Margaret caught Richard’s eye and blew him a kiss; without a moment’s hesitation, Richard looked over at George. Surely it was for him, Richard thought, but George was busy bussing a plump woman’s blushing cheek, eliciting catcalls from the fishwife’s intimates. Richard pointed at himself, and Meg nodded and blew him another. She looks so confident, he thought. Happy almost. She was sitting tall and proud behind the earl, waving to the wish-wishers lining the windows, doorways and street. But Richard knew Meg was dreading going “to her fate” as she called her arranged marriage.

“’Tis my duty,” she had told him. “As a woman, I was born to be of use to my family. This is what I am useful for, like it or not.” Richard understood duty only too well and had acquiesced. If only Edward had considered duty before marrying Elizabeth, he thought. Although consumed with passion for Kate, Richard knew their love could not lead anywhere; his duty would not allow it.

A cry of “God bless our own Lady Margaret!” from a group of nuns jolted him back to the present, and he remembered learning how Meg spent hours of her time nursing the sick and giving alms to the poor in this overcrowded, plague-ridden city. He would miss Meg. He felt pride for his generous, intelligent sister, and wished instead it were George leaving to be married to young Mary of Burgundy—an alliance that had come to nothing.

He shifted in his saddle and turned to watch a juggler fling balls high in the sky. Is that what Edward must do as governor of his people, he idly wondered. Keep so many balls in the air? All of a sudden he recalled the conversation he had had with poor King Henry about the burden of kingship, and now Richard thanked the saints he was not destined to wear a crown.

One-by-one her family said goodbye to Margaret in the hall of the archbishop’s palace at Canterbury, where they had all stopped for the night to pray at Thomas a Becket’s shrine. Edward, Elizabeth, George and Richard each presented her with a parting gift, while Cecily, stoic as always, took her daughter aside into an adjoining room and gave her a mother’s blessing.

Watching Meg’s carriage and her entourage move slowly out of the courtyard on its way to Margate, and hence by ship to Flanders, Richard, standing with George and Edward, felt a real sadness at her loss. He had been touched when she sought him out at her wedding festivities at Stratford Langthorne Abbey to whisper that she had divined who was his lady love. “Such a beauty, Richard. And she is with child, is she not?” Meg had asked. Richard had known his flush confirmed her suspicion. He had inveigled Jack Howard to bring Kate to the abbey, amusing the older man who could not refuse. “Even if she were not such a beauty, I would not blame you for having fallen in love with her voice,” Meg had told him. “It is surpassing heavenly.”

Indeed, Margaret’s cheerful attitude throughout the week-long pre-marriage proceedings had impressed Richard so much, he had at one point actually concluded that Margaret would have made a better leader than the men in his family. Her regal bearing—at five-foot eight inches—and her ability to converse as easily with men about policy as with women about fashion would endear her to her new Burgundian subjects in a very short time, Richard had no doubt.

Edward suddenly cried: “Farewell, Mistress Nose-in-a-Book!” The friendly nickname Meg had earned for her love of books made Richard forget his sadness and cheerfully chime in.

Hearing this annoying endearment for the final time made Margaret lean out far enough to see her beloved family get smaller and smaller under the palace gate. She had never felt so alone. She knew it was the last glimpse she would have of them for years—perhaps for ever. Her tears ran unabashed down her face, and she clung to her wolfhound Astolat’s neck, as her faithful servant, the dwarf Fortunata, patted her mistress’s knee.

“Farewell, England,” Margaret sobbed into the wind. “And God save the house of York.”

It was an astute plea as Margaret was leaving an England in turmoil and thus the crown in danger. Indeed, on several occasions during the week-long bridal journey, Edward had received alarming information of incidents that were rumored to include Lancastrians, Margaret of Anjou and, most lamentable for the Yorkists, my lord, the earl of Warwick.

Edward took the arm of each brother, turned them around and marched them back inside the archbishop’s palace, where they proceeded to drink heartily of the strong apple cider for which Kent was famous.

“I think we gave our sister a royal send-off, do you not agree?” Ned asked after the second pouring. “Let us hope Charles recognizes how fortunate he is and treats Meg with the respect she deserves.” He chuckled. “He will regret it if he does not.”

His brothers laughed in agreement and raised their cups. “To Meg!” George cried, and all three downed their cider.

Edward beckoned to his brothers to lean in over the table. “Did you notice who I sent with her as her champion and my representative? Our sister is enamored of Anthony Woodville, and I have a suspicion the feeling is mutual. What irony that her lover should give her away to her husband, don’t you think?”

Richard did not think it was irony; he thought it was cruel, but he said nothing and tried to join in the laughter. Also, he was not as familiar with the apple liquor they were downing with alacrity as he was with ale or wine. Hiccuping loudly after his third helping, he banged his cup down and watched Ned go in and out of focus at an alarming rate. “What’sh in this?” he slurred. “I shwear I haven’t had mush.”

Ned grinned and winked at George, who was also doing his best to stop his own body from reeling. “Poor little Dickon,” the oldest York teased. “He’s been too long in the north where the strongest liquid they have to offer is ewe’s milk. ’Tis time you learned to drink seriously, my lad. Especially if you are to be with me more often.” He reached for more cider and began to pour. “Will and I are wont to frequent the city taverns when we can; the wine and women are more plentiful and accommodating than at Westminster.”

Edward’s words struck a raw nerve with Richard. He had parted from Kate at Stratford with a heavy heart. She was radiant in her pregnancy but had welcomed him to her bed during the few nights the royal party had feted the bride. In whispered conversations after blissful lovemaking, the lovers had told each other of their hopes and fears, and Richard had promised to support Kate and his child, when it came. They had shared gifts—his a gold filigree ring and hers a French écu on a leather lanyard. “My father gave it to me. It came from Agincourt,” she had told him, slipping it around his neck. “It has brought me good luck. Mayhap it will bring you the same.” He had kissed her and told her he loved her. Coward that he was then, he had not told her he would always be faithful. It would have been cruel to explain about duty at such a sweet moment. He had made love to her instead. But Richard swore to himself that he would remain steadfast until such time as he would make a marriage befitting his royal status, which now brought him back to Ned.

Richard stared at his brother and did his best to concentrate, as one does knowing one is inebriated, but the drink also gave him unaccustomed daring. “Have you no shame?” he answered finally, not realizing he was shouting. “You leave your wife’s bed to go whoring? Is that the way a king behaves?”

The momentary silence hung like lead in the small solar. George instinctively shrank back in his chair, a small smile curling his mouth; for once it wasn’t he who had angered the king. Edward’s eyes glittered as he raised them from the jug to Richard, and the set of his jaw told of his ire.

“You presume to accuse me, your king, of bad behavior, my lord?” Edward’s measured tone fooled Richard for a second and gave him license to continue.

“Aye, Ned, I do. You told me once you loved Elizabeth. Seeking pleasure elsewhere does not bear out that love. You pledged your troth before God…” He got no further. Edward suddenly stood up, knocking over his chair and thundered his fists on the table.

“You insolent pup!” he roared, leaning in. “Drunk or not, how dare you! My marriage is none of your business. I am King of England, and shall do as I please.” He glared down the table at his youngest brother, who had initially flinched, but now rose to face Ned, the drink giving him courage.

Holding firmly to the table edge to steady his legs, he told Edward exactly what he had been thinking about his big brother. “You have been my idol all these years, Ned. I looked up to you—we all did. None was prouder of you on your coronation day than I, except perhaps for Mother. I have wanted to be like you all my life, but now…now I am not so sure. You seem to care more for your own pleasure than you do for the welfare of England. How can you set a good example as king when you have no morals?”

George gasped, and Edward took a step back. Not even his mother had given him a dressing down such as this, although Edward knew she had been close—especially after the revelation of his secret marriage. He considered Richard for a prolonged moment, watching his brave little brother squirm on drunken legs awaiting his fate. Ah, the power of kingship.

“Have a care, Richard,” Edward said finally, the measured tones returning. “I should have you put in chains for speaking thus to your king. But you are my brother first and so I shall demand your apology instead. I hope ’tis the drink that has addled your brain or I would take you for a fool or, worse, a prude. Therefore, I shall forgive your outburst. But hear me well, Richard, I will not countenance another.”

Richard felt for his chair and sat down, but his eyes never wavered from Edward’s. He knew he was in the right, and although he wanted to do nothing now but run to the garderobe and lose the contents of his stomach, he said: “I apologize, my lord, but I must stand by my words.”

“Fair enough,” Ned said, relaxing. “Spoken like a York. What say you we find some food.”

And just like that, Edward’s anger died. The next day, he was called away to London on urgent business and took Richard aside. “Do not imagine I have not thought on your words of last evening. But bear in mind, my boy, don’t think I’m ignorant of your dalliance between the sheets with a certain young lady, who,” and he paused meaningfully, “who, I believe is married and with child. Be careful you are not called hypocrite.” He chuckled as he saw Richard’s chagrin and pulled him into a brotherly embrace. “You, too, may find one day that passion trumps duty.”

Never, Richard thought. Not ever.

Richard’s resolve may have wavered a little when he was sought out by Kate’s father-in-law, Master Haute, one day in early October, as Richard was returning to Baynard’s from his daily studies at Lincoln’s Inn. Ned had been as good as his word and arranged for Richard to study the law under Justice Markham, known as “the Upright,” and Richard’s first foray into the law courts was to watch Markham try several instigators of a plot to bring back Queen Margaret from France. Those first months, Richard had struggled with the Latin, but as he read more and strived to understand the English laws, his fluency improved. “Dei verbum est legis,” he was able to tell his chaplain a few months later. “Indeed the word of God is the law,” the delighted cleric had responded.

The affable Martin Haute nodded when a page pointed to Richard seated under a tree, reading a page from a sheaf of papers. A tall athletic man in his late forties, the gentleman from Suffolk bowed and begged a moment of Richard’s time.

He cleared his throat. “Your Grace, I am Martin Haute of Chelsworth. My daughter-in-law is Katherine Haute.” He wished he had not acquiesced in seeking out the duke of Gloucester with Kate’s news. Why would the young man care, he had argued, but his wife, Philippa, had reminded him that Richard had been a guest in their home briefly and that Kate had come to know the duke at Sir John Howard’s manor. She had seen no harm in Kate’s friendly request. “’Tis an opportunity for you to be known to the king’s brother, Martin. It cannot hurt your career at court.”

Now facing the young duke, who had risen quickly at the mention of Kate’s name, Martin thought his mission foolish, but there he was. “Kate wishes to be remembered to you,” he said, “and she thought perhaps you would be happy to know her news. She has given us a beautiful granddaughter, born two weeks since. We insisted the babe be named Katherine after her mother.”

Richard felt as though he could float off the ground. A child? He had a child—a daughter. It took all his resolve to calmly put out his hand to shake Martin’s and say, “My congratulations to you and to your daughter-in-law, Master Haute. I trust Kate and her babe are well?” What he really wanted to do was dismiss the man and give out several shouts of joy. Instead he listened as Martin described young Katherine and how she was the image of her mother. May the saints be praised, Richard thought. The Hautes mercifully thought the child was their son George’s, who was blond-haired and blue-eyed.

The bell for terce rang and seeing Richard gather his papers, Martin bowed and politely excused himself. As he rounded the corner of the nearest building, he could have sworn he heard whooping.

With his obligations to both Edward and Warwick and his work at Lincoln’s Inn, it was six months before Richard could excuse himself to ride to Suffolk and meet his daughter. He had, however, made good on his promise to Kate to help provide for the child. An annuity of five pounds was entered in Richard’s household accounts in Katherine Haute’s name, with no explanatory footnote.

Kate had moved from her in-laws’ house in Chelsworth and was the proud owner of her own small house, given to her by Margaret and Jack Howard on their property in Stoke by Nayland. Only they knew of little Katherine’s paternity, and removing Kate from her in-laws lessened those good people’s chances of discovering it, too.

Richard and his squire, a young man named John Parr, rode fast out of the Aldgate, joined the Colchester Roman road and thence onto Stoke. With every passing mile, Richard’s anticipation grew. He wondered if motherhood had changed Kate in some way. Would she still be beautiful? Would she still care about him? Her letter-writing was sporadic, and he could see she labored over the penmanship. He loved imagining her chestnut head bowed over a parchment, her generous mouth screwed up in concentration, and her ill-sharpened quill leaving splotches on the page. Would the baby scream if he picked her up? At least he knew that George Haute would not be there—he had gone with Jack Howard and Warwick to Calais.

As they cantered through the village of Stoke towards Tendring Hall, Richard wondered if he should have alerted Kate first, but he wanted to surprise her. It had been a spur of the moment idea, and so he had decided to inform only Lady Howard of his visit. The kindly Margaret was waiting for him and, after giving him refreshment, sent Wat the groom down to Dog Kennel House—the name Jack had given Kate’s new home—saying she wished to see Kate. A true romantic, Margaret was relishing the clandestine meeting between the two young people.

Margaret was discreet enough to have left the tower room when Kate arrived looking for her, so she did not witness the passion with which Richard and Kate were reunited. She did watch and smile as they trotted down the long drive to the cozy cottage on Richard’s horse, Kate cradled in front of her lover. Margaret knew full well what love was; she and Jack had found each other after previous marriages, and she had never been happier.

Once upstairs in Kate’s fire-lit chamber, Richard could not believe the entrancing little person swaddled in her cradle was his. He gazed in wonder at the cherubic face framed in wisps of copper-colored hair, the baby’s tiny mouth working on her thumb as she slept. “She’s perfect!” he said. “I cannot believe she is mine.” He pulled Kate to him and whispered, “Oh my dear, my heart is so filled with pride and joy. How can I ever thank you?”

Smiling seductively, Kate responded by drawing him to her bed.

With Richard’s knightly training complete, he was released from Warwick’s charge and was a frequent guest at Edward’s council table. The rumors of rebellion were rife in April, and Edward had not lost time executing several Lancastrian lords for treasonable treating with Margaret of Anjou. The previous autumn he had allocated money to local sheriffs for the purpose of spying on the suspected families in their district. It was the first spy network set up in England, and the resulting arrests had revealed to the council the precariousness of Edward’s hold over the kingdom. Richard was dismayed to learn how many times the earl of Warwick’s name had been associated with some of the accused troublemakers.

What was worse in Richard’s eyes was that George’s name was being more and more associated with the earl. He feared for the stability of his family, let alone England.

“Why do I hear nothing but praise for Warwick when he is clearly undermining his king?” Edward complained to Richard one day. “Just because he dispenses leftover victuals to the commoners outside his door does not mean he is an upright man.” Richard bit his tongue as he had seen how Warwick drew the people to his side through his even-handed and strong governance.

“Perhaps if you showed more compassion for your subjects—stopped taxing them with so many benevolences, heard their grievances with respect to outdated and unfair laws—they would rally to your banner, Ned.” Richard was becoming more at ease in his role as advisor to his brother, and Will Hastings had more than once complimented Richard on his maturity and common sense. Knowing how much Edward favored Will, Richard was gratified to have earned the older lord chamberlain’s approbation. The young duke still did not approve of the unfortunate influence the hedonistic Hastings had on the king, but he had begun to understand that Ned was just as guilty. It was as well Richard had earned the councilor’s trust, for in a very short time the two would need to work in tandem on behalf of Edward to avert a regnal crisis.

In January, Richard had served on a special commission of oyer and terminer for the first time. Presiding alongside several other nobles, Richard watched as the judge and jury found two traitors guilty of being in league and plotting “the final death and destruction of the Most Christian Prince Edward IV…”

He did not, however, choose to witness the cruel hanging, disemboweling and quartering of the accused. He was not so naive as to think he would never have to see such a death—it was part of everyday life in that day and age—but this was his first time of pronouncing a death sentence, and he chose to leave Salisbury before it was carried out. Am I a coward? he worried, remembering how he had vomited upon seeing poor Piers Taggett’s violent death. He had been spared seeing bloodshed in the years since Ludlow, but he did not doubt that at some point, he would have to put his knightly skills to the test and spill another man’s guts without benefit of choice. Today, he had had the choice, he reassured himself, and he was about to urge his horse into a canter when he fancied he heard his father’s voice asking the same question: “Are you a coward, my son? That is what others will think when you are absent from the punishment you were responsible for meting out.” Richard gasped and clutched his chest, the blood pounding in his ears. Is that what they will believe? He could not tolerate that he—Richard Plantagenet, son of York—might be branded a coward.

Reining in his mount, he glanced about him, wondering who was watching. Only a washerwoman hanging clothes raised an eyebrow as the young noble, grimly talking to himself, made an abrupt turn and galloped back to the market square.

By the time the third man was quartered, the horror of the cruelest of executions eventually allowed the bile to settle back into Richard’s stomach. The young man was becoming hardened to his station in life, like it or not.

An uprising in Yorkshire was reported in early April, led by an activist calling himself Robin of Redesdale, and although Edward trusted in Warwick’s brother, John Neville, to rout the rebels, which he did with little or no resistance, it unnerved Edward that Neville agents were said to have incited the unrest.

“At least I can count on one of our Neville cousins,” Edward remarked to Richard. “John seems to understand loyalty better than his brother.”

“Be not so quick to condemn my lord of Warwick,” Richard replied. “We only suspect him of turning his coat. I still cannot believe it of him. This rebellion had naught to do with him.”

Edward grunted. “I pray God you are right and that this is the end to the troubles.”

It was not.

Two weeks later another “Robin,” this time of Holderness, gathered followers in the East Riding of Yorkshire, who seemed bent on restoring Henry Percy to his rightful earldom of Northumberland. These ragged men threatened at the very gates of York until once more John Neville, who had, ironically, been given the very earldom in question by Edward many years since, put this rising down as well. However, a revival of Redesdale’s movement occurred almost immediately in Lancashire, and his army grew. It was time for Edward to leave the comfort of Westminster and deal with the insurrection himself.

It was also time, Edward said, for Richard to get a taste of combat. “You will come north with me, brother. Go muster your men.”

Muster his men? How? Richard, in his seventeenth year, had only a few retainers at his disposal. His squires, a few servants, and his friend Rob Percy, who had chosen to join Richard’s household from Middleham. Certainly, Richard had others he could call on from his several land holdings scattered around England, but Edward was leaving immediately. Richard also found himself low on resources to pay those he could muster. It was an embarrassing situation to be in for a royal prince, he fumed, but he did not dare complain to Ned. Instead he asked for a loan from a trusted friend, who had once asked a favor of Richard.

On June 21, the two brothers rode out of London towards Bury St. Edmunds and Walsingham, where they would pray for guidance in their mission at the two world-renowned shrines. The journey was uneventful except for an unexpected reunion with the indomitable Kate. She had talked her way into riding to Bury alongside Margaret Howard, who was to meet Sir John there. Kate had an inkling Richard might be in Edward’s party, and she had been right.

Somehow the two lovers were able to escape for an hour or two one afternoon, and, consumed with passion and overheated in the hot June sun, they had thrown off their clothes and plunged into the nearby river. Like two children released from supervision, they frolicked in the cool water until, excited by the delicious exploration of each other’s submerged bodies, they made love in rhythm with the gently moving stream.

“Perhaps we have made a son, today,” Kate whispered after they climbed out onto the bank and lay naked on the green moss to dry in the sun. “I shall pray to Saint Catherine that we have.” Gentling him over onto his stomach, Kate stroked the slight protrusion and enlarged clavicle.

“Does it hurt, my love? It looks as though it must hurt.”

He tensed. “Only when I have sat my horse for too many hours. But I have worked long and hard to compensate,” he told her. He could not see her expression from his position but, certain it reflected disgust, he tried to roll back over to conceal his flaw. Kate resisted him and then, with a tenderness that moved him greatly, she kissed the shoulder.

He sighed then, understanding that she was unperturbed by his imperfection. “I am fearful of it being noticed. Any enemies I make will be sure to blame the Devil and call me a monster. I do fear that I have displeased God in some way,” he confessed. Then turning over and taking her hand to his lips, he asked, “Tell me true, my rose, does it notice when I am not prancing about naked.”

Kate smiled and shook her head, her curtain of wet hair sprinkling his chest with cold drops of water. “You have no need to trouble yourself, Richard. Only I know what is beneath your shirt. Well, me and Rob Percy, I suspect.”

And perhaps Mother, Richard thought, remembering the concerned look on Cecily’s face the last time they had embraced. “Aye, Rob knows and certes, my squire. I could not bear for others to know, so I beg you never to disclose my secret to…”

Kate stopped his words with a kiss.

By the time Edward reached Lynn, he had gathered more than 200 men to his banner. It has to be said that Edward did not appear in any great hurry to quell whatever annoying rebellion had erupted in the northern “wilds” of his kingdom, more’s the pity. Richard silently took offense to Ned’s ribbing of his preferred part of the country, but as he had similar feelings for the self-important southerners he ignored his brother’s taunts.

They had taken to the waterways of the fenlands after leaving Bishop’s Lynn and the little army ventured all the way to Fotheringhay on the winding River Nene. Seeing his birthplace for the first time since he had left it at seven years old, Richard remarked it did not seem as imposing as it had been then. Even so, the keep rose high on the motte with the York banner floating over it, and it was comforting to see not much had changed in almost ten years.

Richard watched with an ache of envy as Edward dismounted in the inner bailey to stride eagerly across the cobbles and take his wife in his arms. Elizabeth had accompanied her father and two brothers to meet Edward on his march north, and they had mustered more men to Edward’s side. How he wished he could take Kate as a bride, but the idea was absurd and he put it from his mind.

Although more troops and supplies arrived during the last two weeks of June, Edward was disappointed he had not been joined yet by the earls of Pembroke and Devon. He moved out of Fotheringhay and rode unhurried to Nottingham castle, where he dug in and waited for news.

Edward blanched, reeled backwards and collapsed into a chair when he read the missive that he now crumpled in his clenched fist.

“What is it?’ Richard and Hastings asked in unison. Elizabeth quickly poured some wine and offered him the cup.

Edward downed the contents in one long swallow. All eyes were on him as he handed back the cup to Elizabeth, who was now kneeling by his side. “What is it, my dear lord?” she asked.

“The worst of news,” Edward’s flat monotone belied the words, but all could see he was in shock. “Not only is my cousin of Warwick preparing to turn his coat, but it would seem my brother George has done the same.”

It was not a complete surprise to anyone in the room, but all gasped just the same. Richard felt the bile in his throat as all the years of friction and suffering at George’s hands rose to sour his senses. He could not speak he was so overcome with a heady variety of emotions: anger, disappointment, scorn, sadness, deliverance, and loss.

“’Tis said Warwick has not only promised Isabel to George but my crown into the bargain,” Edward growled, rising and pacing about the room.

“The crown?” Earl Rivers shouted. “Has the man gone mad? ’Tis not his to give. It is time for you to cut off his haughty head, Your Grace,” he counseled Edward, who turned his back and stared silently out of the window. It was clear to Richard that Ned was in no mood for discussion.

Richard seized a moment of silence and faced the handsome patriarch of the Woodville family, who was decidedly overstepping his bounds albeit he was Edward’s father-in-law. “My brother and I wish to be alone, if it please you, my lord. I pray you, take no offense, but George’s defection is a family matter, and we would be grateful for time to discuss it between ourselves.”

“I am Edward’s wife,” Elizabeth objected. “I should stay.”

Richard smiled and, in a rare gesture for him, went to Elizabeth and lifted her hand to his lips. “He will be with you shortly, Sister, I promise. Just allow us this moment, I beg of you.” What he wanted to say was: Much of what ails us is your family’s fault. You have all set yourselves up above those who are far nobler than you. Your influence with the king has repelled those who would give experienced counsel—including Warwick, hence distancing himself from good governance. Instead, he simply opened the door.

The queen had no recourse in the face of such diplomacy and flounced from the room, followed by her family and Will Hastings, who acknowledged Richard’s wise decision with a quiet, “’Twas well done, my lord.”

When the door was closed, Richard waited for Ned to say something—perhaps even reprimand him. He suddenly noticed Ned’s shoulders were shaking, and thinking his brother was laughing, he took a step forward. “Ned,” he said, “Ned? Are you all right?”

But when Edward turned to face his brother, Richard was horrified to see that Edward was weeping. “Dear God!” Richard exclaimed, and the youngest York took the eldest into a close embrace and let his big brother cry.

“They have twice as many men as we have, Your Grace,” Will Hastings informed the king a few days later. He cursed the slow intelligence of the rebels’ movements, but when the hoped-for reinforcements from the earls of Devon and Pembroke did not appear, the usually even-tempered chamberlain was nervous. “If you want my advice, you will send your in-laws away. They are part of the grievances laid out by Redesdale and his followers. Aye, even Elizabeth. You have allowed her family to exploit their position, and their presence is only aggravating resentments here.”

Richard had become accustomed to the familiar way Hastings addressed the king. He recognized the informality came from the same degree of trust he himself had in Rob Percy.

“I agree, Ned. Let the people see the Woodvilles have no influence. Listen to the people’s grievances,” Richard begged, “they do not want to fight. They complain they have fought too many battles already for a cause that is not their own. They have been forced to leave their homes to fight those battles, paid too many taxes to fund the fighting, and have no food to feed their families. And they blame the Woodvilles. They have had enough and are wanting you to listen.”

Edward studied his steepled hands and nodded slowly. “Elizabeth will not like it, but I will send them away.” He looked up at his two advisors. “What then?”

“I cannot believe Warwick wants to attack you,” Richard said, “and I do not think you believe it either, Ned, or you would not have just put him in charge of our fleet to ward off the French. He is patrolling the Channel protecting us. It does not make sense.”

“Astute thinking, Richard,” Edward said, grateful for this brother’s wisdom and loyalty. “We know the rebels are led by Warwick’s adherents, so who do you think is giving them their orders?”

Richard shrugged. “There are so many Nevilles—from both branches of the family,” he said. “Perhaps these are from the Stafford line not our Beaufort one.”

But all three men knew in their hearts that Warwick was the culprit, although the earl’s two cousins wanted desperately to believe otherwise.

“Perhaps,” Edward humored his brother. “Then all we can do is wait here in safety for Pembroke and Devon.”

They waited in vain.

In the meantime, and unbeknownst to the Yorkists at Nottingham, the earl of Warwick, his wife and two daughters, George of Clarence, and Warwick’s brother-in-law John de Vere, earl of Oxford, had sailed from Sandwich to Calais, where, on the eleventh day of July, Archbishop Neville performed the marriage ceremony between Isabel and George.

There was now no doubt of Warwick’s treasonable intentions. The next day, Warwick and his followers issued a manifesto to Parliament in the form of a letter denouncing the king’s willful exclusion on his council of…princes of royal blood, in favor of the deceitful, covetous rule and guiding of certain seditious persons. In particular, they mentioned Earl Rivers, his wife and sons, and the earls of Pembroke and Devon. They did not dare include the queen. They have caused our said sovereign lord and his realm to fall in great poverty of misery, disturbing the ministration of the laws, only intending to their own promotion and enrichment.

Warwick declared his intention of returning to England to lay these grievances and proposals of reformation before the king.

How ironic that ten years earlier, Richard duke of York, Edward’s father, had set sail from exile in Ireland with exactly the same goal in mind: To reform the bad governance of a king.

Cut off from the south by the rebels, the king was unaware of these developments, all too easily—and expediently—choosing to believe that the silence from Pembroke and Devon meant they were making their way to Nottingham.

Twice Richard attempted to rouse his brother to be more aggressive in his intelligence gathering, and twice he was rebuffed. To Richard the silence was ominous, but Edward scoffed, “You are too pessimistic, Richard. If we are so outnumbered, why have the rebels not attempted to reach us? Where are they?”

Richard could only demur, but he was anxious to leave the castle. Part of him longed for his first foray into battle, and so far he had seen nary a sword unsheathed nor a cannon ball fired. But he was convinced Edward needed to gain the trust of his subjects again, and he would not do that by cowering behind castle walls.

Hastings spoke up then, voicing what Richard was thinking. “Go among your people, Edward. You are your own best advocate. I’ve seen you charm the surliest of men with a warm greeting or a friendly slap on the back. Be the people’s king once more. Dare I say, but you have lost the common touch that endeared you to all, which has allowed Warwick to exploit and gain from it.”

It was a bold pronouncement that earned Richard’s admiration, but both waited apprehensively for the king’s reaction.

Again Richard was impressed by the trust the king had in his lord chamberlain, because Edward finally nodded and said, “Aye. I see that now,” and rose with more purpose. “Let us make plans to find Devon and Pembroke.”

At the end of July, Edward finally received word of the two earls’ progress, and heeding Hastings’ advice, he marshaled his meager troops and began the march south to join them on July twenty-ninth, a much happier Richard by his side.

The mood would not last long.

Once again Edward’s intelligence was tardy, for on July twenty-sixth Devon and Pembroke, commanding two separate forces, did not make their rendezvous somewhere in Northamptonshire before being outmaneuvered by the rebel force and vanquished in the battle of Edgecote Field. Both earls were sent before Warwick and executed.

Not far from Northampton, a messenger from the royal force reached Edward with the bad news. Upon hearing that the rebels were at hand and had already defeated their comrades, Edward’s small army dissolved like a summer’s mist, leaving the king and his small entourage marooned in the middle of nowhere.

Richard could not believe his ears.

“You are my prisoner,” the earl of Warwick told the angry Edward at Olney, where the earl had cornered the helpless king and his few men, who were seeking to ride back to Nottingham.

Like a wounded dog, Edward turned his horse around to face the earl and snarled, “Nay, my lord, you are mistaken. As soon as I return to Westminster, ’tis you who will be tried for treason.” He attempted to unsheathe his sword, but Warwick’s henchmen had hedged him in and one wrenched the weapon from his grasp.

“I think not, Your Grace,” Warwick almost purred at Edward. “As you can see, you are greatly outnumbered. I am here speaking for your subjects who seek naught but a way to lay their grievances and the need for reform before you.”

Richard observed several heads nod in agreement and sheathed his own sword. He suddenly saw Francis Lovell among the earl’s knights and lifted his hand briefly in salute. Poor Francis had no choice but to be at the earl’s side, Richard knew, for he was Warwick’s ward. The youth’s shoulders shrugged a reluctant response. It was then Richard determined he would make his protégé one of his household when the present debacle was resolved. It was clear Francis wanted none of this treason.

However, more important matters concerned Richard here at hand, as he watched Edward use his intimidating strength to push away the guards and move his horse closer to the earl’s. “So what do you propose, cousin. That you take my place as king, or….” Suddenly Edward caught sight of George, skulking behind Warwick’s brother, the archbishop. Kicking his horse’s flanks viciously, he jostled Warwick and rode straight at George, purposely allowing his mount to rear up and stop a precise few inches from the startled duke of Clarence.

“Did Warwick promise you the crown, my lord duke?” Edward cried, and he slashed George across the face with his rein. “Over my dead body, traitor! My own brother. You are lower than the muck in a gong-farmer’s barrow. Aye, turn your face away in shame. I have no wish to see it ever again.” And he wheeled his courser around and rode back to Warwick, Richard, and Hastings. “Keep him from my sight, do you hear me, my lord.”

Warwick nodded and glanced at Richard. Despite his enmity towards Edward, the earl still felt an affinity for Richard, whose eyes spoke of betrayal and sadness as they held Warwick’s for a moment, and Warwick had the grace to lower his gaze and incline his head in a tacit understanding of the young man’s conflict.

“What do you intend to do with me, pray?” Edward was bold despite the danger. “Am I to suffer the same fate as my ancestors Richard of Bordeaux or the second Edward, shut away to be forgotten until discovered dead?”

“You are still the king, cousin,” Warwick assured him. “But your power will be greatly reduced—at least until I and my council believe that you have accepted our manifesto.”

“Pah!” Edward harrumphed. “So another Magna Carta. I think you overestimate your sway with my people, my lord.” He looked around hopefully at the soldiers but saw nothing but surly faces. Thus powerless, Edward gave himself up to the earl, who told him to choose from his retainers to accompany him to his confinement at Warwick castle, where, the earl assured the king, he would be housed in comfort.

Hastings moved his horse towards the king, but Edward gave an imperceptible shake of his head. “I trust you have no quarrel with my chamberlain or my brother, Gloucester?” Edward asked Warwick. “I will be content to have two gentlemen of the bedchamber and my secretary to take with me into this ‘confinement.’”

Warwick bowed. “As you surmise, Your Grace, we have no quarrel with Lord Hastings or Richard.” He emphasized Richard’s first name purposely. “They may go where they will. Fare you well, my lords.”

Hastings leaned over to Richard and muttered. “I’m for Lancashire,” where Richard knew Will had large land holdings, “and may I suggest you find Jack Howard and keep me apprised.” Richard nodded, and after saluting Edward and ignoring Warwick, Will and his men cantered away.

“Find Elizabeth and tell her the news, Richard,” Edward commanded, only now choosing to dismount. “I am sure this ‘confinement’ is a temporary inconvenience. Am I right, cousin?”

Warwick said nothing and watched as Richard followed the king out of the saddle and Edward took his brother in a warm embrace. “Don’t let him get away with this,” Edward hissed in Richard’s ear. “Gather support and we shall defeat these rebels ere the rising of the next moon. Now get you gone from here at once, before the traitorous whoreson changes his mind about you.”