Chapter Nineteen

1472–1473

Edward watched his two brothers with growing impatience. His admonition to them during yuletide appeared to have kept the peace for the season, but the two dukes had circled each other for most of the festivities like a couple of rival tomcats.

The court had removed to Sheen, a favorite palace of the queen’s, and Richard’s fight for Anne had reached a climax. Still stuck in sanctuary, the pawn in the two men’s game awaited her fate, although her confidence in Richard never wavered. “’Tis what I like about her,” Richard had admitted to Rob after yet another visit to St. Martin’s in early February with no news of his success. “Her loyalty to me has not diminished despite my inability to win her. I must not let her down.”

Now George goaded his brother, sarcasm dripping like goose grease off greedy fingers. “Such the gallant lover, aren’t you? Anne must be loving her cold little cell at St. Martin’s while you sleep on a featherbed under a coney coverlet. At least she has no excuse to spend as much time on her knees as you do, O perfecte quidem pie hominem.”

George believed Richard’s Latin was as bad as it had been in the schoolroom, but Richard surprised him. “I am no ‘perfectly pious person,’ George. Pietate autem Diabolus esse melius quam,” he retorted. “And you are no better than a devil. Anne is safe, warm and cared for, which is more than can be said for her time at Coldharbour.”

Edward got to his feet surprisingly swiftly for one so large and bellowed, “Enough of this!” causing his new wolfhound pup to disappear under the chair. “I have had enough. You are both equally to blame that this dispute is now public gossip from Carlisle to Cornwall. You have become an embarrassment to me and to the crown, and we will have no more of it. You will both appear before my councilors here at Sheen in two days and put your arguments before them. Mark my words, you will abide by their ruling and this quarreling will stop.” He turned to Elizabeth and held out his hand. “Besides, your bad behavior upsets Bess at this precarious time. Come, my love, you are looking peaked. Perhaps you should rest and leave these tiresome young men to their incessant squabbling.”

The queen, heavy with her fifth child by Edward, allowed him to help her to her feet. She glared at George, and Richard was glad the venomous look was not aimed at him. He had long suspected Elizabeth blamed Clarence’s treason for the deaths of her father and brother following the battle of Edgecote, and she barely spoke to George when they were in private. That the Woodvilles wielded too much influence over Edward was the only issue Richard and George agreed upon, but for now it appeared they had nothing on their minds but dividing up the Warwick inheritance.

Elizabeth then demonstrated why she could be so dangerous. Just as the sun can transform in an instant the darkness cast by clouds, she transformed her sneer for George into an angelic smile for Richard. Startled, Richard had no idea why he had earned the queen’s favor. As he kissed her hand, she whispered: “I am on your side, my lord. I abhor George’s treatment of innocent Anne.”

In the end, and in front of Edward’s council, George gave in. But not before both brothers had dazzled the learned councilors and judges with their impassioned arguments. For every glib, affable and urbane remark of George’s, Richard impressed with his knowledge of the law and his logic: George’s heart pitted against Richard’s head.

Richard was surprised to see the queen in attendance, and several times he saw her whisper behind her hand to Edward. When the verdict was given by Edward that Richard was free to wed Anne, he wondered how much influence Elizabeth had wielded. It was wise to be wary of her, although she had sided with him this time.

George walked away with the earldoms of Warwick and Salisbury as well as manors and lands, and eventually insisted that Edward award him the title of great chamberlain of England, taking it from Richard. Thus in the end, through the skewed division of property and titles, George of Clarence became the wealthiest magnate in the kingdom after the king himself, all this for a man whose treasonous ambition had sent his brothers into exile and caused a rift in noble loyalties that only Warwick’s death had overcome. How Edward could have rewarded George so richly when he had turned against his brother, coveted his crown, and caused so much bloodshed was the question that gnawed at Richard. He harbored so much ill-will towards his brother, it frightened Richard.

But for now Richard feigned contentment. He had achieved his main goal, permission to wed Anne, which meant he too would profit from her inheritance and that of the countess of Warwick, her mother. The latter prize was not his to win nor Edward’s to give, however. The Beauchamp inheritance, which included the vast Despenser lands, belonged to Countess Anne, and Richard, through Edward, was depriving her of it—illegally. But who would gainsay the king? It was one of the only times in his life that Richard was to behave dishonorably towards a woman, and his conscience may surely have pricked him given the kindness Anne Beauchamp had shown him during his years at Middleham. He finally shook hands with George but only after hours of debate and arguing. Was he as greedy for power as George? Nay, Anne may have been a great heiress, but she was the only noblewoman Richard wanted as wife, and in time he would learn to love her.

He looked into George’s face, studying the handsome, vain man standing before him. George’s smugness infuriated Richard, just as the jealousy and bullying had when they were young. Richard knew his brother had not changed, and he felt a lifetime of anger and resentment rise to the surface. Turning away abruptly, he bowed to the king and queen and quit the chamber without saying another word.

Edward’s magnanimity toward his faithless brother disturbed Richard. Did Edward not see how shallow George’s loyalty was? Richard had made up his mind long ago never to trust George again, family or no, and in some part of his heart it saddened him. Not for the first time Richard wished his father had lived a long life; York would not have allowed his three sons to fracture the family as they had.

If only Richard could have foreseen the future, he might have warned Edward of George’s lack of scruple, for, as the fable goes: a leopard does not change his spots.

Instead he went straight back to London to give Anne the good news, but not before securing Edward’s signature to petition Rome for a papal dispensation allowing the marriage between the cousins, who shared two sets of common ancestors.

“I care not one whit about dispensation, Richard,” Anne said, happily, in the cloister of the sanctuary church of St. Martin le Grand a few days later. “We will receive it eventually, just as George and Isabel did, but I beg of you, let us be wed tomorrow.”

Richard chuckled at her enthusiasm. “What, no special gown? No elaborate ceremony? No nuptial feast? What kind of woman are you?”

“One who loves you and has since I first saw you.” Her disarming answer made him encircle her waist and draw her to him. “I have dreamed of this day for too many years, Richard.” She paused and gripped his velvet jacket tightly. “Especially that awful day when my father made me plight my troth to Edouard. It feels as though I have held my breath from then until that day you rescued me from my misery in the tavern kitchen. I am finally alive again, thanks to you.”

Richard pulled her onto a bench and took her hands in his. “I shall do my best to make you happy,” he told her, “and if there is aught I can do for you, you have only to ask.” He wished with all his heart he could offer something more than brotherly affection, but for now, that would have to suffice. Anne seemed no more than a child needing his protection. And his heart ached for Kate.

“Take me back to Middleham,” she begged, “I have no desire to live in London. It does not suit me.”

Relieved she had not requested a declaration of love, Richard readily granted her wish. “I, too, feel like a dog up a tree here, and to breathe the clean air of the dales again is perhaps what I need to banish the foul stench of dissent between George and me. Aye, we can live in Middleham.”

He was startled when Anne loosed her hands and, putting them either side of his face, drew him into a hungry kiss. Her lips parted, inviting him into her mouth, and thus taken unawares, he found himself responding. When they separated, Anne blushed and hung her head.

“Forgive me, Richard, but I simply could not wait, for, after these last two years, who knows what life has in store for me. I hope you are not ashamed of me?”

Richard laughed out loud for the first time with Anne. “I do believe the mouse has roared,” he marveled, reaching for her hand and kissing it. “Far from being angry, I am much in awe. I fear there is a touch of wanton in you, Anne,” he teased, and she blushed again.

Middleham in June meant larks in the meadows and wild thyme on the hills. Anne eagerly pointed out her favorite dropwort among the tall grasses, their white and pink bulbous buds ready to burst into starry white flowers with showy yellow-green stamens. Richard was amused by his wife’s girlish delight in the colors of the countryside; he didn’t know a dog rose from cow parsley, but he sensed Anne would teach him. The many towers of Middleham soon rose on the horizon, and Anne sighed happily: “Home. We are home, my dearest husband.”

Husband? Richard had not grown used to the idea after only a week, and except when he had sworn to take Anne as his wedded wife in front of the priest at St. Martin’s, he had not yet referred to her as “wife.”

It had been a simple ceremony, with only Anne’s gentlewoman, Rob, and Francis as witnesses, because Richard did not trust that George would not again interfere. He had persuaded Anne to wait for the dispensation—holy law was strict regarding consanguinity—as he told her gently: “When you know me better, you will understand I am loath to break God’s law.” The words had almost stuck in his throat. What a hypocrite you are, Richard. Break God’s law? Haven’t you spent these past months trying to bury the memory of regicide in the depths of your unhappy conscience? But once again he pushed the guilt away.

Anne had been disappointed to wait, but by April the vital piece of paper had arrived from Rome and the young couple had breathed a sigh of relief.

“With this ring, I thee wed,” Richard had said, placing the gold band on Anne’s finger. Her hand trembled and without a second thought, he had clasped it in both his and taken it to his lips. Her eyes sparkled as she finished the pledge and happily promised to love, honor and obey her husband from that day forth.

It was done, Richard thought now. Anne was the consort he deserved and a woman he would come to love. He had tried not to think of Kate as he gently broke Anne’s virginity on their wedding night, and her eagerness to please had touched him. Was it possible to love two women at the same time, he asked himself. It was a question for an intimate evening with Rob and a good claret sometime soon. He was glad Rob had chosen to stay in his household; he was now Richard’s most trusted councilor, and as soon as Francis could take care of business at Minster Lovell, the young nobleman had promised to join Richard’s council for as much time as his baronetcy allowed. Francis, for all his youth, was proving a valuable friend to Richard; in fact he and Rob were the only two of his gentlemen who knew of his growing affliction (he refused to call it a deformity, which he viewed as Satan-sent), besides his trusted squire, John Parr.

His back ached now after so many days in the saddle, but he endured the discomfort for fear of seeming weak. That first night with Anne in his big tester bed at Crosby Place, he had come to her fully clothed as she sat waiting for him, dressed in a simple shift, her long hair draped over her narrow shoulders. When John had helped him out of his tight, cleverly padded pourpoint and his hose, Richard, carrying two cups of malmsey, dismissed the squire and came to sit on the bed. Anne smiled at him over the sweet, herbed wine, and he had toasted his new wife.

“We can sit and sip for as long as you like, Anne. We have a lifetime of bedding each other, and I am in no hurry if you are not ready.” He had been more nervous than he wanted to admit, but he knew he must tell her about his back before she discovered it and might recoil. Her dismay at his reluctance made him realize she misunderstood him, so he hurried to explain. “Dear Anne, you shall be bedded tonight if you wish, but before you do, I need to reveal a secret.”

“I know about your mistress and your bastards, if that’s what you mean,” Anne interrupted, hurt clouding her face. “How could you speak of them now? I did not take you for a cruel man, Richard of Gloucester.”

Richard had almost choked on his wine. “You know?” he sputtered. Sweet Jesu, but this was not going well. He gathered his wits. “My dear, I am sorry that you have heard of my liaison from another and not me; I intended to wait for a more appropriate time to tell you. Certes, I would not be cruel enough to speak of it tonight. All I will say is that she is part of my past, but you are my present and my future. Please believe me.”

He had reached over and stroked her cheek, holding her eyes with his for a long moment before slowly drawing his shirt over his head. “My bigger secret is this,” he had confessed, turning his torso so that she might see the unsightly protrusion below his shoulder. He heard her soft gasp.

Swiveling back to face her, he had said. “I was afraid you would not marry me.” He lowered his eyes, expecting her to ask what sin of his was so dire that God had punished him thus. But Anne was silent for a moment and then she had thrown herself into his arms, saying: “Do you think you are the only one with a flaw in your body, my dear? It is you I love, not your back. None of us is perfect, Richard; my breasts are too small, and I have my father’s nose.” When Richard laughed, Anne had chided him. “Did you think I was such a whey-faced milksop that I would flee from you for this? You must learn to have faith in me, my dear. I am not Isabel; I am more my father’s daughter than she is. Trusting me with your secret only means I will love you all the more.”

Then they had embraced and caressed each other until Anne pulled away and removed her shift. “I want you to make love to me, Richard. I want you to truly be my husband.” She had put one of his hands on her breast and sighed when he fondled the pert nipple. The rest had been easy and natural.

How grateful he was as he now watched her canter away to be the first reach her beloved Middleham. He must not ever betray Anne’s trust, he vowed.

Riding into the familiar courtyard, Richard could not help but remember the happy years he had spent training as a knight under the castle’s hulking walls. How would he be greeted by Warwick’s servants? Were they still loyal to the earl? Would they reject and resent their new lord, especially as Richard had been Warwick’s enemy at Barnet? He sat straight in his saddle and rode up to the long steps leading to the great hall. Anne had already dismounted and was being fondly greeted by Middleham’s long-serving steward. Richard waited his turn. He was Anne’s husband now, and lord of Middleham, and yet he was unsure of his own welcome.

Suddenly the bailey was filled with cheering yeomen—guards, armorers, blacksmiths, farriers, potters, fletchers, cooks, almoners, pantlers, and others who support the daily living of a massive castle like Middleham. Two strapping young men ran forward and touched their forelocks. “We be glad to see you, my lord,” one said to Richard, “do ye know us?”

Richard recognized the grooms immediately. “Tom! Jake! I am right glad to see you,” he cried, expecting one of them to take his reins. Instead, coming to help him dismount was old Blackbeard himself, the master of henchmen, his lopsided grin revealing empty spaces in his gums.

“My lord of Gloucester, welcome!” Master Lacey cried, taking the reins. Then, surprised at seeing Rob and Francis close behind, he could not help but laugh. “My three worsest students,” he teased them all. “Have ye come back for more training? By all the saints, I done my bestest.”

The trio joined him in merry laughter, and Richard knew his worries had been for naught. “You were right, Anne,” he murmured, seeing her eyes brimming. “This is where we belong and where we shall, God willing, stay.”

“Aye, Richard.” She stood on tiptoe and whispered, “And have our first child.”

Richard turned his happy shout of “God be praised” into “God bless you all,” as he lifted Anne’s hand to the sky.

Nothing could console Anne when, three months into her pregnancy, she lost the child. There seemed no reason for the loss except that perhaps her despondency during the past two desperate years had led her to become malnourished.

“Some bracing Yorkshire air, nourishing Wensleydale cheese, and plentiful game will soon put flesh on those bones,” the physician told her after an examination. “There is no reason you will not be with child again soon, your grace.” His prediction, however, was stalled until the following March, when a wicked north wind forced even stoic Yorkshiremen and women to spend more time than usual huddled beneath blankets. Thus Richard and Anne’s little son was not the only babe to come into the world at yuletide that year.

All through the summer months, Richard went back and forth to Nottingham, where Edward was holding court and where Richard and George still disputed their respective claims. George was angry when Edward decided to restore the coveted Beauchamp inheritance to the duchess of Warwick, depriving Isabel and Anne of it for as long as their mother lived. Imagine if you will, George’s fury when Richard, in decisive preemption, sent his retainer James Tyrell to Beaulieu Abbey to take Countess Anne from sanctuary and convey her to Middleham. Mother and daughter were happily reunited, and grateful for his protection and for installing her at her favorite residence, Anne Beauchamp chose to turn over her entire inheritance to Richard and Anne—with Edward’s blessing.

It was clear to any with an interest in the matter, that the king had favored his brother Richard, and it was no wonder there were rumors that George of Clarence was stocking arms and would soon declare war on his younger brother.

The happy result of the wait for their firstborn was that Anne had her mother by her side as she labored on Christmas Eve. “This will be a special child. A Christmas child,” Richard told her before being shooed from the birthing chamber. “I shall pray for his safe delivery for as many hours as you must labor, my dear Anne, and I shall think of a suitable name.”

Anne smiled weakly at him and then waved him away. “He will not be called Jesus, despite your love of Him,” she stated firmly. “Now go, before the midwife chases you out.”

Richard had not known those times when Kate had gone into labor for her two children, and thus he had not yet felt the terrible anxiety and guilt that a man experiences during his wife’s travail. He knelt in Middleham’s little chapel until his knees told him to take some exercise around the ramparts. He had prayed hard, Do not blame Anne for my guilt, dear Lord, and in Your gracious mercy see her safely delivered of her child—our child, he corrected. He gingerly made his way along the castle wall, watching for icy patches on the walkway, and once, when nearing the tower that housed Anne’s apartments, he heard her muffled screams. Shuddering, he gazed over the snow-covered meadows south of the castle feeling completely helpless. In the distance stood his one-time favorite sanctuary, the bare trees exposing the ruins to the elements, and, after a moment’s hesitation, decided he needed to be there now.

Donning his heavy, fur-lined cloak and whistling to his new wolfhound pup Rufus, so named for the reddish tinge to his coat, Richard trudged purposefully through the ankle-deep crusty snow. The unexpected noise startled two hares, who loped off as fast as their long legs could propel them from the excited hound, whose own overgrown legs skidded on the slippery surface. Richard had purposely waited before choosing another dog; none could have bested his first dog, but Rufus’s grandsire was Captain and, like Traveller, had been born at Fotheringhay. Traveller would have known exactly where Richard was headed, but Rufus approached the old stones only when Richard began clambering over them, and then he bravely made his mark. Several ungraceful attempts later to follow Richard higher, the dog eventually gave up, taking shelter under a crumbling arch.

On his usual perch that bitter winter day, where Richard had always felt close to God, he had never felt so distant from the Almighty. The bleak, pristine-white landscape, the winter quiet and the wide gray sky reminded Richard how vast the universe was that God watched over and how small and insignificant he was. And yet he knew God saw into every single heart and observed every living creature. Richard had no doubt that his heart was of special interest to his Maker and was why he had been punished with a crooked spine. The burden of his great sin weighed heavily on him, and he pulled his cloak tighter. He nevertheless bravely begged the Almighty to bless his union, bless the child that would come into the world on such an auspicious day, and watch over his beloved wife in childbed. Dare he even hope that the loss of their first attempt might have been atonement enough for Henry’s death? He chose to believe it today, and murmured his thanks for his good wife and the child she bore. So, for a few pleasant moments he allowed himself to bask in his blessings.

But he could not banish the darker thoughts that crowded his brain every day. He had established himself as Lord of the North with relative ease, and had won praise for his generosity, not only for protecting his mother-in-law but for taking in as his ward the son of the traitor, Montagu. He was proudest of his rapprochement with the unpredictable lord of the borderlands, Henry Percy, the earl of Northumberland. With the two of them working in tandem to keep the peace in Edward’s northern territories, the often rebellious natives had gladly settled into a period of calm.

Richard still questioned some of Edward’s policies—especially the power the king had afforded his wife’s ambitious family, the Woodvilles, even superseding Richard’s jurisdiction in Wales. Elizabeth and her brother, earl Rivers, had taken over Ludlow Castle to establish the household of young Edward, prince of Wales. The prestigious position of governor of the prince was also given to Rivers, which Richard had the foresight to recognize was a dangerous move. Richard determined to tell his brother about the hostility the rest of the peerage felt towards the queen’s family, for it seemed Edward was oblivious and firmly under his wife’s thumb.

Puzzled why Elizabeth would put up with Edward’s infidelities, Richard harrumphed loudly, startling Rufus. He slapped his forehead. “Of course,” he muttered, “she lets him have what he wants in exchange for what she wants. And she wants power. How stupid of me.”

Frowning, his thoughts turned, as they always did, to the division in his family. Why did George persist in provoking Edward? And now it would seem Richard himself had become an object of George’s enmity, for during those summer and autumn months he had been laying up arms. Would George actually try to do him harm? Or his foolish brother might again be thinking of colluding with Lancastrians against Edward. No one, not even Richard, dared voice the treasonous insinuations, but he did not doubt the possibility. Rumors had even circulated that George’s name was associated with a failed invasion by the Lancastrian earl of Oxford in September, although nothing was proven. Even so, Richard pondered, did the foolhardy George still believe he could unseat his brother and take the crown?

Richard shook his head. How could he make George see the futility of his ambition and bring him back to the family fold? He was forced to acknowledge he actually did not want to; he could care less what happened to George. He sighed deeply, feeling helpless and angry at the same time; besides, he did not dare to ask God for any more favors at this point.

The loud wail of a shawm shattered the silence, and Rufus barked. For an instant Richard thought it came from heaven, and he crossed himself. The logical instinct was to reach for his sword, but certes, he had left without it. Was there an advancing army? Was it George? Nay, you fool, he realized happily, it must mean the babe has come.

He scrambled down from the ruin and ran as fast as the snowy ruts allowed him back through the postern gate, up the Round Tower’s steps to Anne’s chambers. He was met by his mother-in-law, wreathed in smiles. “Where have you been, Richard? Your son was born an hour ago, and you were nowhere to be found. I had to sound the alarm! But rest easy. Mother and child are well, and Anne was very brave.”

Richard let out a whoop, gave Countess Anne a smacking kiss, and barely knocked on his wife’s door before bursting in. A moment later he held his little son, swaddled up to the chin, and marveled at the perfection of the child, who stared placidly up at his father. Richard swore later that the baby had smiled. “He knows me,” Richard enthused, “and, I cannot believe this, but he looks like…someone, I could swear.”

Anne chuckled wearily. “Let me help you, my dear. He took his time, seemed quite content to come into this world, charmed everyone, and took to the breast like a duck to water.” There was a glint in her eye. “I, too, was reminded of someone.”

Richard laughed out loud. “Edward! He reminds you of Edward.”

“And so, with your blessing, we shall name him for his royal uncle,” Anne declared, and addressing her son, added, “How do you like it, Edward of Middleham?”

There, snuggling into the richly hung tester bed, the fire crackling in the hearth, Richard held his wife and son. He had never been happier, but he did not dare to hope God had smiled on him.