Chapter Twenty-Five

June 15–July 7, 1483

“Hastings is dead!” The cry rippled out from the Tower down the narrow lanes and alleys of the city and sent the citizens into the streets in alarm. They were used to seeing the genial Hastings alongside the king enjoying an ale at one tavern and a wench at another. “He was one of us,” an innkeeper told his neighbors as they hurried to the standard on the Chepe, where important announcements were made. “What has he done? Better be ready for trouble,” he said, picking up a stout stick. Others brought their tools and weapons with them, shooing children back indoors. They needed answers in these uncertain times. Questions were being asked as to why the queen remained in sanctuary and refused to let her younger son join his brother in the Tower. What was it about the protector that frightened the woman enough to choose to stay at the abbey in relative discomfort? Already he had postponed the much anticipated coronation twice in his six-week term as regent. The most suspicious of them whispered that the king’s uncle might have designs on the throne himself. “Just like his brother Clarence,” they said.

At the standard, a trumpeter silenced the rowdy crowd that was shaking staffs, knives, pikes, and fists. A herald rode forward and read the proclamation from the royal council: “In so much as William, Lord Hastings has been discovered plotting with her grace the queen and others of her affinity to destroy the lord protector and my lord Buckingham so as to rule our sovereign Edward and the king-dom at his own pleasure, the charge of treason warranted his immediate punishment. The said Hastings was also charged, with his co-conspirator and concubine Jane Shore, of bringing about the demise of the late King Edward through their immoral and licentious way of life. Therefore, Lord Hastings was executed in the Tower this day, the thirteenth day of June, by order of the lord protector, his grace the duke of Gloucester.”

The mayor ascended the Chepe Cross steps: “The government, our city, and the kingdom hav-ing thus been secured, you are required to return to your homes and put away your weapons.”

Apprentices, mercers, butchers and bakers, goodwives, weavers, tailors and wherrymen stood for a moment to absorb the extraordinary news before an excited buzz of conversation supplanted the silence as they dispersed. Most accepted the lord protector’s action as necessary—if sudden, but others of a more cynical nature had to ask, if the popular Lord Hastings could be despatched so swiftly, was anyone safe?

When Thomas Grey, marquess of Dorset, escaped from sanctuary the very next day, Richard was further convinced he had been right about the conspiracy.

“We must increase security at the Tower in case he tries to capture the king,” Richard told the council in the Star Chamber two days later. “After all, until I relieved him of the post when he went into sanctuary, he had been constable of the Tower and thus is well known there. He will be seeking to join with his mother’s followers, so we must find him quickly. My lord Buckingham, I shall count on you to spread a net throughout the city.”

Whether Richard noticed the subdued demeanor of the members was doubtful given his heightened anxiety. With Hastings executed and Stanley, Morton, and Rotherham still in custody, the rest of the council members feared for their own safety and so watched Richard warily.

Surely of all the items needing discussion that day the pre-contract was the most important, and yet Richard hesitated to give it voice. Of those present only Harry, Howard, and Ratcliffe knew of it, although rumors were surely rife, but those three were loyal, and Richard decided it must wait. Before he could proclaim the news publicly, he was determined to make sure he had custody of the king’s younger brother in case of any insurrection following the announcement. He spoke slowly and deliberately hoping to sound in control. But Richard was far from being in control. In fact, he decided, his labored speech might easily have been mistaken for inebriation. He explained why it had been necessary to put Hastings to death, and although there were murmurings and surreptitious glances, no one dared interrupt the protector. The time was ripe for Richard to make his move.

“Regarding the preparations for the coronation,” he continued, more naturally now, “it is my certain belief that Edward cannot be crowned until Richard of York is retrieved from his mother. He is heir to the throne and must be under my protection. With the escape of Dorset, we cannot afford to take any chances with the boy. I am afraid we shall have to resort to force if necessary.”

Several members nodded, but Francis was perturbed. “Force, my lord? In sanctuary?”

“The archbishop assured me that because the boy is not there of his own volition nor has he done anything wrong to warrant his being there, it is within our legal right to remove him. It is not the way I would prefer to proceed, but if we want a coronation, we must secure the heir.” Richard’s tired back had begun to force his head forward, but to his audience it merely looked like bullheadedness. They stayed silent. After what had happened to the respected Hastings, who could blame them? “Sir John, I trust you can arrange to accompany the archbishop with an armed escort. Now, if you will excuse me, gentlemen.”

Richard rose painfully from his chair, unwilling to answer possible questions about any rumors of the pre-contract. Later, he thought, I will tell them later. His discomfort was overriding his usual logic or he might have understood that the longer he waited, the more his detractors would view him as coveting the crown.

Fortunately, no one was surprised when he left the meeting early. It was true, Richard did not look well; he had hardly slept since the execution. He had taken to downing several cups of wine to help make him drowsy, but it just gave him headaches in the morning.

“I am haunted by bad dreams if I do manage to sleep. Ah, Anne, how I wish we could just ride home to Middleham,” he confessed later that night. “How I long for the life we had there, away from such turmoil.”

“Aye, and to see Ned,” Anne agreed. She rubbed willow-bark balm on Richard’s back and massaged his tense muscles. If the truth be told, she was frightened, but she would not let Richard see her fear. Katherine had told her of the whisperings among the servants: that the lord protector sought the crown for himself. “Make sure you tell them it is not true, Katherine. Your father just wants to safeguard the king and his realm from those who would do harm to both,” she had admonished the girl and then had tried to allay her own fears.

“What is next, my love?” Anne asked Richard now.

“Canterbury will be removing Richard of York tomorrow. I wish you would come with me when I take him to be with his brother. The boy will be afraid, and the way I look now, I don’t blame him. Edward greets me cordially enough—he is a very self-assured and intelligent boy—but not with any affection; he still pines for his Uncle Rivers. Perhaps you can change that, my dear. I would be grateful if you would try.”

Thus, Anne was by Richard’s side two days later when the two brothers were reunited in the royal apartments at the Tower, and Edward thanked Richard graciously for arranging it.

“I hope they are looking after you well, my dear Edward,” Anne said, gliding forward and putting her arm around the boy, “and the food is to your liking?”

“Too much fish!” cried the rambunctious duke of York, riding his wooden hobby horse around the room. “It’s always fish, fish, fish!”

Anne and Richard glanced at each other and burst out laughing. And Edward joined in. “He must have driven my sisters mad in the abbey,” he whispered to Richard behind his hand. “Maybe I will not be thanking you at this time next week, Uncle.”

“There, you see,” Anne said as they walked towards their waiting mounts after the visit. “Edward is warming to you. And the way Richard hugged you when you lifted him up to say goodbye is a very good sign.”

“I hope you are right, Anne, because when I have to tell Edward he cannot be king, I do not want him to look on me as a monster.”

“Not if you choose your words kindly and truthfully. Imagine you are speaking to Ned.”

With the younger prince safely under his protection, Richard could procrastinate no longer and called another meeting of the full council to inform them of Stillington’s staggering news. He could almost feel Edward’s looming presence over him as he explained his brother’s misjudgment. For the first time since embarking on the difficult task of overseeing the government, Richard felt disloyal to his brother’s dying command to protect the crown for young Edward. His only consolation was that not telling the truth would betray his fellow Englishmen. He tried not to be judgmental, but he did despair of his brother’s foolishness. “When the prick goes hard, the brain goes soft,” Warwick had told him once when the earl was railing against Edward during those early days at Middleham. Edward’s brain had gone soft during much of his scant forty years, Richard lamented.

“My lord Bishop, I pray you tell your colleagues exactly what you told me.” Richard left the dais and approached Stillington, who had hoped to avoid directly addressing the council. The cleric’s right hand nervously grasped the large silver cross around his neck as if to ward off any verbal attacks, but Richard believed the gesture served to sanctify Stillington’s oath.

“So it would appear the children of the late king and his queen are bastards,” the bishop finished. As expressions of disbelief began to supersede the initial openmouthed reaction to the momentous news, he flushed and stepped back.

Again, suspicious glances were sent Richard’s way, but before any questions were asked of him or Stillington, He returned to sit down on the same throne his father had so unwisely touched in his bid for the crown all those years ago. “I leave it to you, gentlemen, to draw your conclusions.”

Pandemonium broke out around him as the twenty or so members each jockeyed for his opinion to be heard. Finally, Buckingham marched into the center of the room and cried, “For heaven’s sake, my lords, you are behaving like spoiled children. Let us debate the issue in more discreet tones as befits a royal council.”

If the moment had not been so tense, Richard might have smiled. His cousin’s bulk and loud voice could certainly claim attention, but then Harry could also woo a treasure from a reluctant merchant with his silver prose. Let Harry lead the debate, he thought, listening intently but saying nothing until Harry said: “It would seem we are all agreed that we do not have a king to crown. I propose we cancel the coronation.”

“I second that.” Richard had not meant to speak, but his exhaustion made him careless.

Seizing the moment, Buckingham went down on one knee to his cousin. “My Liege,” he cried, sweeping off his hat. A shocked silence followed, and Richard saw the accusation clearly in some of the members’ looks: Is he stealing the crown?

Horrified, Richard leaped up and pulled Buckingham to his feet. “You go too far, my lord Buckingham,” he countered. “We must first try and find more proof of this story. Perhaps my lord bishop misremembered…”

“…but he swore on your holy book of hours that it was true,” Jack Howard broke in, and Stillington nodded vehemently. “I witnessed it, my lords. I do not believe the bishop is lying.”

Buckingham murmured. “Leave this to me, Richard.” He turned to the company. “Let us allow the lord protector to go on his way while we have a conference to determine a course of action. Do you agree?”

“Agreed,” they chorused.

Grateful, Richard made his way to the door of the Star Chamber, where he turned and bowed. “May God help you make an honest decision, my lords. I am putting my trust in you. Now forgive me, it is my duty to inform the king…I mean Edward…that there will be no coronation.”

Instead of taking the royal barge straight to the Tower, Richard made a stop to prepare his mind for revealing the brutal truth and unfair consequences of the princes’ father’s indiscretion those many years ago. Whenever Richard felt helpless or needed to clear his head to solve a problem, he found solace in exercise. Over the years that his spine had begun to twist and push, he had dedicated a good portion of his daily training routine to strengthening his arms and shoulders to ensure he was fully capable of swinging his favorite weapon, the war hammer, to maximum effect. Determined to overcome his handicap, he never missed a day of vigorous training.

Richard had a personal combat instructor, another of the very few who knew of Richard’s physical condition, and Walter Woodman traveled with Richard’s household along with a personal armorer, an Italian master named Signore Vicente. A knight’s harness must fit its wearer’s body exactly or chafing would cause extreme discomfort during combat, and thus Vicente was now intimately familiar with his master’s body as was Richard’s tailor.

That morning upon leaving the council, Richard went to Baynard’s Castle where the enclosed tiltyard afforded him privacy while he trained with Walter. Duchess Cecily she had again made her favorite London residence available to her youngest son. Take advantage of its proximity to Westminster, the garrison, and its high walls, my son, she had written to him from her Berkhamsted retreat. You may need it. After the unrest over Hastings’ death, Richard had reluctantly moved Anne and their households to the Thames-side fortress. “’Tis for your own safety,” he had told a disgruntled Anne, who had grown to like the modern comforts of Crosby Place. “Just until we untangle the knotty problems threatening our monarchy, I promise. I would caution you to stay within Baynard’s walls until we do.”

Despite his back pain, which seemed to have diminished after the fateful council meeting in the Tower, Richard spent an hour lifting weights and challenging Walter to quarterstaff combat. It was a hot day, and soon he felt the sweat trickling down his back and through his heavily padded jupon. Walter soon overpowered him, and Richard put up his staff and his hands. “Forgive me, Walt, I cannot concentrate today.” Blaming his performance on his back, he did not tell the goodman that he was anxious about the coming interview and still reeling from Hastings’ treason. He walked away to the changing area as Walt watched with consternation; he had never known Richard to lose to him with a quarterstaff. Did the duke ever sleep, he wondered. It would appear not, judging from the dark rings under his eyes.

Francis and Rob had also been watching and stood ready to help him out of his jupon, douse him with a bucket of water and towel him off. The inward curving from ribs to waist on Richard’s left side, starkly evident when he was naked, followed the rightward curve of his spine. Francis often wondered how Richard managed to best most of them in many of the martial skills required of a knight; he was weakest when not mounted and needing to make upward thrusts with a sword. It puzzled Francis why fatigue set in so much faster with Richard, who appeared fitter than most. Richard would complain that his lungs were constricted, and he would find himself fighting for breath. Much later, doctors would understand why this occurred, but Richard only understood it was just another punishment sent by God that he must overcome.

It never failed to astonish both of his most loyal retainers how uncomplaining their lord was about his affliction, although they worried Richard was relying on wine a little too much of late—to dull the back pain, they believed. Always contained in public, even his friends were unaware of the turmoil inside the protector.

As they waited for Richard on the wharf to ride the tide to the Tower, Rob remarked to Francis on the pitiful condition of Richard’s body. “He has great forbearance, it is true, but I notice how he draws his strength from those he loves best. His mother loves him in her own stiff way, although I doubt she has seen him unclad of late. Kate gave and now Anne gives him constant devotion. I hope he never doubts our devotion, and I believe we have served him with affection.”

“He knows he has our loyalty, Rob. I would follow such a man anywhere,” Francis declared. “It appalls me to hear people accuse him of seeking the throne from pride or ambition. He already has more power than he has ever asked for, has he not?”

Francis shrugged. “Unfortunately, there are those who will judge Richard based on their own jealous desires. For some, there is no such thing as too much power.”

“Talking about me again?” Richard startled them as they stood by the boat, their words drowned by the lapping waves. “Come, friends, let us get this over with.”

Once Richard began the difficult conversation, he found it easier than the anticipation of it. He sat between his nephews on the large tester bed, and it so reminded him of his quiet bedtime talks with Ned that he found his words coming more easily.

“I regret to have to bring you news that will affect your lives, my dears, but it is of such importance that you must only hear it from me. A long time ago, before your father met your mother, your father made a promise to wed another woman. The promise is called a pre-contract and is legal and binding in the eyes of the church. Unless the two people ask to be released from it, they are considered married. Your father broke that promise when he married your mother instead.”

He paused, upset that the younger boy, Richard, was already crying. He was the same age Richard had been when the dreadful news of York’s death had changed his life, so he did not blame the boy for shedding tears; as well their father’s recent death was still an open wound. Richard took out a linen kerchief and gently wiped the boy’s face allowing Edward to gather his thoughts.

Edward picked at his fingers. “What does this mean exactly?” he demanded. Why was this uncle always against him? Nothing good had happened to Edward ever since Uncle Richard had come into his life at Stony Stratford, and, at twelve, he was learning to be suspicious of people—even his own family.

Richard took a breath and answered as simply as he could. “It means your parents’ marriage was not legal, because your father was not free to marry. And for you boys, this is the upsetting part. One must be lawfully married in the eyes of the church before having children, or those children are not legitimate—legal. It does not mean your mother and father did not love you or each other, because they did,” he hastily added, “but it means you have no legal rights—including,” and he drew another deep breath before pronouncing, “your not being able to be king, Edward.”

Richard was expecting Edward’s anger. “How do I know you are not lying, Uncle?” the boy cried, jumping up from the bed and kicking over the pewter jakes. “You lied when you told me my uncle Rivers would be released. He hasn’t, has he? I don’t trust you. And I don’t want to be called ‘bastard.’ I want to be called king.” He rounded on Richard, his fists clenched and looking so like Edward, Richard’s stomach contracted. “Why are you lying to me? You swore to protect me and uphold my kingship not three weeks ago. Do you break your oaths so quickly? I had heard you were my father’s loyal brother, but now I am not so sure.”

Richard winced, but he let the boy vent. Edward had every right to do so; his father had betrayed him after all. He was quite eloquent for his age, and Richard sadly regretted the lad would not be king. Rivers had schooled him well in rhetoric and logical argument; he would have made his York family proud as king. But it was not to be.

“How I wish it was not so, Ned. I am so sorry,” Richard told the older boy standing stiffly by the window. He gave the smaller boy a squeeze and kissed the top of his golden head. Poor boys, one day king and heir and now reduced to bastardy.

“I understand your feelings, Ned, and you have every right to question me. But it is your father who was at fault, not I. It is he to whom you should address your anger.” Richard rose and went to Edward’s side, pretending he had not seen the few tears that had spilled down the lad’s cheeks. “I swear to you, that I am not lying in this. Everything I have done since your father’s death I have done in accordance with my oath to you for the good of England. I cannot break my promise to England that I will defend her crown to my dying breath, and I would break that pledge if I said nothing and allowed you to be crowned. Would you have me break my pledge, Ned?”

Edward hung his head. He understood. “Nay, I would not,” he murmured.

With the worst of the interview over, Richard went on to reassure his nephews that no matter their status, his and Aunt Anne’s affection for them would not change, and that whenever their mother chose to leave sanctuary, they would be able to live all together at Elizabeth’s family home in Grafton. “You will be welcomed at court, but I doubt your mother will want to be there.” He paused, watching them anxiously. It was a lot to absorb, he knew.

Edward stared out onto the green where, less than a week ago, Will Hastings had lost his head. Dear God, Richard thought horrified, had the boy witnessed the execution? He would have to ask the usher. But he did not have to, Edward’s quick young mind had gone there, too.

“Why did my father’s best friend lose his head?” Edward asked in a dull monotone. “Was it he who told you of the pre-contract? My Uncle Rivers called him immoral and a bad influence. My Uncle Rivers did not like Hastings. Did you?”

Richard was flabbergasted by the boy’s adult questions. He struggled to give the lad a good explanation of his decision about Hastings, but first he suggested that little Richard go and ask Lord Lovell for a ride on his horse. The boy did not hesitate and ran off.

“It was not a question of whether or not I liked Hastings, Ned. It was a question of high treason. He was a faithful friend to your father, ’tis true, but sometimes lying for one’s friends has larger consequences. There was more to the decision than that, however, but I will tell you all when you are older, and we have put this behind us.” Richard would not add to the boy’s burden now by implicating his mother in the plotting.

“I watched him die, you know,” Edward said, quietly. “He was very brave.”

Richard groaned inwardly. “If it is any consolation, Ned, I have honored Lord Hastings’ wish to be buried at Windsor near your father.”

“It is,” the boy replied, sadly. “They were such great friends.” He turned his back on Richard, and, with dignity, he said, “I would have you leave me now, my lord. I wish to be alone.”

“You must take the crown, Cousin,” Harry of Buckingham insisted at the next privy council meeting. “It is your right and the kingdom needs a king.”

How Richard had dreaded this moment. In truth, he had anticipated it, but he still was not prepared to think about wearing the crown. Anything he said now was likely to be whispered outside these walls and misinterpreted. Indeed, anything he did from now on would be recorded for posterity, and the burden was heavy.

He looked around at the expectant faces of the men he hoped he could trust and wondered if they thought he had planned it all. He decided to bury any speculations without delay. Rising, he announced, “I swear to you that I have never sought nor do I now seek the throne.” He paused, letting the faces register surprise or guilt. He was suddenly aware that he must sound exactly as his father had sounded when York had vehemently denied seeking the throne. Dear God, is this a case of the sins of the father…? Nay,’tis nothing of the sort, merely an extraordinary coincidence, he told himself. Putting those thoughts aside, he continued, “Those of you who know me well—Cousin Buckingham, Lord Howard, Sir Francis—can tell you this is true. Sweet Jesu,” he sighed, “how much simpler for all of us had my brother’s secret died with him.” The lords then heard a sincere desperation in his question: “Gentle lords and friends, is there no other way to solve this?”

Seeing Richard’s disquiet, Jack Howard stepped forward and laid a fatherly hand on Richard’s arm. “Who else is there, my lord? With the boys declared bastards, and Clarence’s son attainted through his father’s treason, you are next in the York line and the rightful heir.”

“If you don’t want it, I’ll take it,” Buckingham quipped, but the jest flopped as flat as a cow’s turd, and the faces on the other councilors registered horror at his poor timing. Less shocked, Richard nevertheless glared at him. Sometimes he despaired of Harry’s judgment, and certainly his lack of tact. Had Edward been right not to give their cousin a position on his council? But Richard’s moment of doubt passed, and he let the gaffe go, unaware that later he would live to regret it.

“I will consider accepting the crown but only if I have Parliament’s and the people’s blessing. This must not look like a coup d’état, my lords. If I do my duty, it must be seen as England’s choice not mine. And it must be a peaceful solution, do you understand?” Remember my father, he was tempted to say. “If you are agreed we can discuss ways to bring this to a satisfactory conclusion.” He sensed the only reluctance coming from Archbishop Rotherham, but Richard did not blame him; he was a churchman who had sworn an oath to uphold young Edward’s claim—as had Richard himself. He changed the subject.

“I must report on further mischief by Thomas Grey, marquess of Dorset. I have intelligence that he is still at large and plots to ‘rescue’ his half-brothers from the Tower and assassinate me, to which end he has been in secret communication with his imprisoned brother and uncle in Yorkshire. As I would prefer not to part with my life as yet, we must find him, my lords.” Taking a deep breath, he again courted controversy. “And now, if you indeed wish me as king, then I would have the right to end Rivers’ and Richard Grey’s continued treason, would I not?”

There was a gasp from the clerics Rotherham, Bourchier and Russell, but Stillington merely nodded. Certes, Richard knew he could count on Stillington to support him now, if the man wanted to keep his position on the council. Henry Percy, earl of Northumberland, and no lover of Woodvilles, was the first to say, “Aye,” and the others followed.

Richard hid his relief, but he would not rest easy until he knew his enemies were dispatched. He was sorry Earl Rivers had tried to trick him at Northampton for he had always admired the handsome, erudite Anthony, as had Edward, but a traitor must be punished; Richard did not see the man as anything else. And so once again, Sir Richard Ratcliffe was sent north, but this time to give the order to execute the oldest brother and youngest son of the queen.

Despite the unknown whereabouts of Elizabeth’s first-born, Richard slept soundly that night for the first time in weeks.

Bastard slips shall ne’er take root, was the theme of that Sunday’s sermon at Paul’s Cross outside the Gothic cathedral in the heart of the city. Coached by the duke of Buckingham, Father Shaa, brother of the mayor, delivered an oration to a huge crowd that hung on every word of the scholarly cleric’s declaration that of the three adult sons of Richard, duke of York, the one most deserving of inheriting the crown was his youngest, the lord protector. Extolling Richard’s virtues, Ralph Shaa also pointed out that when King Edward had married Elizabeth Woodville, he had failed to disclose a previous contract with another.

The ensuing buzz among the spectators had to be silenced by a loud drum roll. At the side of the cathedral, seated on his horse and next to Buckingham, Richard scanned the crowd with apprehension, knowing Londoners eyed him with suspicion. How would the people react? Would there be a mandate for him to take the crown, or a bloody insurgence? He had been against Harry’s bold suggestion from the start to make a public announcement of Edward’s infidelity, of his betrayal of a vow, and worse his keeping this damning secret his whole life, jeopardizing his heirs and the country. Nay, Richard had told Harry, it was too humiliating to broadcast, but, sweet Mother of God, it was happening. He barely listened to the learned father explain Richard’s right to the throne, extol his upright nature, his piety and morality. He wanted it to stop.

“He is the true son of his noble father, Richard of York,” Father Shaa droned on, “whose direct descent from Edward the Third has never been questioned. The lord protector is the spitting image of him. Not so his brother and our former sovereign Edward, whose mother herself once acknowledged he was not York’s son, and thus did he doubly stain the throne with bastardy.”

Richard held up his hand to stop the man’s lies to little effect. The crowd, titillated by the idea that Edward might have been a bastard, turned restless and angry, and to his intense shame he could not summon up the courage to defend his proud mother. He hissed at Harry: “I suppose I have you to thank for this? Publicly insulting my mother was not anything we discussed. I am leaving.”

As he gentled his horse around, he caught sight of Kate in the crowd, standing with Margaret Howard and staring straight at him. Why was she there, he wondered as his heart lurched. Her eyes were full of compassion, but, thoroughly disgusted with himself now, he could not bear to accept even a modicum of goodwill, and, turning his back on her and the still-blathering preacher, he made for Baynard’s.

The castle yard was empty; everyone had been given leave to hear the sermon, and so he spent the next half hour stabling his horse to work off his frustration. How humiliating to be under his mother’s roof and hear the defamation of her ringing in his ears. Thank the sweet Virgin, she is at Berkhamsted, he thought. It was no work for a duke, but mucking out the manure and piss-soaked straw seemed to him to be exactly what he deserved at that moment. I am no better than shit, he decided, noticing his fine leather boots were ruined. The task may have served as a penance, but it also put him in the mood to confront his presumptuous cousin.

“Never plan any public action without consulting me first,” he railed at the astonished Buckingham, after having downed two cups of wine. “I assume I have you to thank that my noble mother was slandered. How dare you! How are we going to undo that wrong?”

Buckingham shrugged. “You worry too much, Richard. You do not seem to understand, it doesn’t matter. Alea iacta est—the die is cast, and you will be king. If you had stayed you might have seen how Shaa turned the crowd around so skillfully—‘England needs a man not a boy’ he told them. They were moved to shout your name. The people want you as their king.”

“Harry, you are exasperating,” Richard growled. “I never know when you are lying. Besides, how many times have I told you, I really do not want to be king.”

“God’s bones, Richard, why so reluctant? You will not be alone, Cousin,” Harry said eagerly. “You will have me at your right hand advising you. Together we shall be invincible.”

“I’ll have a whole council to advise me, Harry. So what do you propose to do next? I will accept nothing without the consent of Parliament, and we postponed that session when we cancelled the coronation.” He picked up his square velvet hat, and went to the door. “As you are so keen, you deal with it. I shall go and find Anne.”

“You do that, Richard. Leave everything to me,” Harry reassured him. There were skeptics who would not have credited Buckingham with a plan, but it seemed Harry had it all worked out. “I am doing this for you, Cousin—all for you.”

“For me? I have told you before I never wanted this. I am doing my duty for England, and that is all,” Richard snapped and turned away.

But nothing could deter greedy Henry Stafford now with so much power within his grasp.

In fact, Buckingham comported himself brilliantly for the next three days, giving elegant voice to Richard’s claim to the throne and the country’s need for an adult leader. “’Tis never wise for a king to leave a boy as his heir,” was the main thrust of his argument after touting Richard’s legitimate claim. He well knew that the bastardy story had preceded him, and he doubted only a few of the dignitaries of, first, the lords, then the Guildhall and finally Parliament—or rather, a large enough gathering of that body to warrant it being deemed Parliament—had not already heard the news. Those present tasked with chronicling events for posterity would say that the duke of Buckingham’s words were so well and eloquently uttered, and with so angelic a countenance, that no one had ever heard such an oration before nor did they question its sincerity. One scribe even mentioned that the duke was able to talk at great length without taking pause to spit. Buckingham was in the ascendant and even began to refer to himself a kingmaker. “Like my lord of Warwick,” he boasted to Francis, who ominously retorted, “Let us hope you, too, don’t turn your coat like he did.”

It was as well that Richard stayed away; he would not have sanctioned the zest with which Buckingham denounced Edward’s numerous indiscretions and his disregard of duty. No matter how exaggerated the lords and commons had found Buckingham’s claims, however, the outcome was inevitable: Richard was their unanimous choice for king.

The days dragged by for Richard, and Anne attempted to calm and comfort him. At night, he took solace in wine, and yet he still could not sleep. He spent time with his inner council and had even invited several to stay at Baynard’s, including Jack Howard and his wife, to facilitate frequent meetings. He was getting used to the fact he might be king, and he noticed how much more his councilors deferred to him.

One evening, after a walk around the ramparts with Anne to enjoy the balmy June air and the late summer light, Anne related a difficult meeting she had had that afternoon. She tried not to sound accusatory, but she could not hide her hurt. “Did you know your erstwhile leman was staying here with Margaret Howard?”

“Kate?” Richard stopped and turned to her. And then he remembered seeing Kate at St. Paul’s. “I did not know she was at Baynard’s, I swear. ’Tis true I told Jack that he and Margaret were welcome to stay, but I knew nothing of Kate’s presence.” He frowned. By God, this was awkward. Why, he might have run into her himself. He would speak to Jack directly.

“It seems Katherine asked her mother to come to the small solar, and I cannot blame her for that. I went in there unannounced and was confronted with mother and daughter talking and laughing. It was…uncomfortable,” Anne said, staring over the wall towards London Bridge farther down the river. “Both Mistress Haute and I were civil with each other, but I let her know that I did not believe you would condone such an ill-judged visit—and in my own solar.” She paused. “I want to know that I can trust you, with her being so close…”

Richard took her hands. “I swear you have no need to worry, my dear. When it comes to trust, I well know how hard it is to be betrayed by someone who swears to it, but I would hope by now you know that I love you and would never be unfaithful.”

Anne smiled. “That is enough for me, my dear.”

Richard pulled her to him. “Sincerely, I am sorry for your discomfort, Anne, and you are right that Katherine should have known better, but you are wrong that I would have denied the girl a chance to see her mother. I am certain Kate still pines for her children, and I am sure you can sympathize with her need.” Despite being distressed for her, he felt the necessity to explain. “I cannot deny having loved both of you, can I?” And he let go of her to entreat her with his eyes.

Anne shook her head and drew his hand to her lips.

Richard grinned. “I cannot forbear to ask, were there no kind words spoken between you?”

“I invited her to sit, and we made conversation—for the sake of Katherine.” She gave a reluctant smile. “I know now where Katherine gets her unruly tongue. And yes, at the end, when I succumbed to my usual coughing, Mistress Haute gave me the receipt for a posset to ease it. She seemed concerned,” she had to admit.

“Then I am glad of that, Anne.” He kissed her. “I have wondered at her bitterness. It wasn’t easy for her to give up her children.” He did not add, and me. “Come, let us go inside. I fear our peaceful hours together now will be few and far between, and I cherish them too much.”

The very next day, Richard was proved right for his peace was shattered.

He was unprepared for the numbers of men who pushed their way through Baynard’s gates and thronged the courtyard. Buckingham had informed Parliament that Richard must be persuaded to take the crown, and that the protector would only have the decision from the members themselves. It appeared the duke’s gift of persuasion was boundless.

“As God is my witness, I did not ask for this nor do I want it,” Richard told Anne, watching the scene below them from a window. “But I am going to have to accept it, am I not? For England.”

For once, Anne could not mask her own nervousness. She was visibly pale. “I think so, Richard, but I am afraid.” He drew her close and kissed the top of her head. Filled with misgiving, he had spent the best part of the night in the private chapel on his knees praying for guidance. He often avoided speaking directly to God now; the Virgin had a kind face and was easier to address. During these past few weeks, Richard had shunned their bed, so bad were his dreams. When the great bell at Bow Church had rung for prime, he had gone to break his fast no more able to accept the inevitable than the night before.

“I must go and greet them, Anne. Will you come with me?”

Anne shook her head. “It is you they want, not me. Go now, and hold your head high,” she told him, trying to make him smile. “You are Cecily Neville’s son after all.” She pushed him towards the door leading to a platformed stair descending to the courtyard. Far from reassuring him, her kind comment took Richard back two dozen years to another terrifying moment in his life when his mother had made him and George walk through a scene of carnage and jeering soldiers to the Ludlow market cross. Strangely, he felt Cecily’s presence with him at that moment, and remembering her courage, he unlatched the door and stepped into the sunshine.

“Richard of Gloucester!” Harry cried loudly, holding a roll of parchment in his hand. “Come forth and be recognized.”

Richard approached the railing on the platform and held on to it like a lifeline. He scanned the upturned faces and recognized many from the weeks of meetings at Westminster, but many more were merely curious citizens who had pushed their way into Baynard’s yard. His gaze settled on Buckingham, whose bright blue hat, golden curls and angelic smile reminded Richard of an oversized cherub. “I am here, my lord Buckingham. At your service,” he said, surprised his voice sounded so strong. “To what do I owe the honor of these distinguished visitors?” Harry was grinning now, and Richard began to feel a little ashamed of the way Harry had planned this theater.

“My lords, members of the council, members of the commons, citizens of London and all present shall bear witness that this day Parliament petitions that the most mighty Prince Richard, the lord protector and duke of Gloucester, take to himself, as is his right, the crown of England.” He read on from the parchment, a more formal version of Father Shaa’s sermon, and ended by going down on one knee to declare: “Beyond this we consider that you are the undoubted son and heir of Richard, late duke of York, truly inheritor to the crown and royal dignity of England.”

Despite his apprehension, Richard found himself moved to tears by the thunderous accolade he received at that moment. As the cries died down, Buckingham held up his hand for silence. “My lord of Gloucester, will you accept the crown?”

The crowd held its collective breath as Richard removed his hat and held it against his heart. He could still refuse, he told himself, and hesitated. But then, as he gazed down upon his cousin and the expectant faces of the onlookers, they melted into an earlier time in that very courtyard—a day when he had seen his father for the last time. He clearly saw his father walking towards him saying, “Now there is someone with fighting spirit.” The memory faded instantly but the words had inspired him, and his voice rang out over the people: “I accept your petition. I will be your king, and I do it as my duty to my country.” Do I have enough spirit for you now, Father? he thought, gazing skyward.

Anne came forward to join him, and they stood side by side thrilling to the shouts of, “God save the king! God save King Richard!”

“You are a good man, Richard, and you will make a good king,” Anne whispered.

“Only with God’s blessing,” Richard answered. He was uncertain he could count on it.

In the dimly lit crypt, Richard knelt at the altar rail and contemplated the crucified Jesus, ghoulishly fashioned with hollowed eyes, a shrunken bloodied face, and a cadaverous body. His hands and feet were a gruesome pulp, cruelly caused by the crude, oversized nails.

“Richard of Gloucester,” a voice spoke to him from the figure, “do you know me?”

As Richard watched in horror, the skeletal form disengaged from the cross and moved towards him. Richard shut his eyes and sank lower on his knees, praying hard.

The voice commanded: “Look at me! Do you know me now?”

Richard dared to look again and gasped. The face was King Henry’s, and the bony finger, so often telling a rosary, pointed straight at Richard. “Aye, you do know me. See these bruises? They are from your fingers, the fingers that murdered an anointed king. And now you will be king? Why, you are not fit to wear my crown!”

Terrified, Richard rose and tried to make his feet move backwards, but someone was standing right behind him. He swiveled and came face to face with Will Hastings, whose bloodless lips pulled over his teeth into a grisly grin. “Aye, you might as well have held the axe, Richard Plantagenet, for you alone did murder me. Was it to take the crown?”

This time Richard lifted his hand out to ward off the specter. “I did it for England, my lord, I swear,” he pleaded. “Leave me be, both of you.”

“Are you trying to usurp my son’s throne, Brother?” Edward’s resonant voice accused as the larger-than-life figure of the late king glided towards Richard on ghostly legs. “You betrayed me and my son! Usurper!”

“Nay! Nay! I did not!” Richard shouted. “God knows, I did not!”

“Richard! Richard! You are having a bad dream,” Anne’s voice broke through his nightmare, and he sat up in bed with a start his nightshirt drenched in sweat. “Hush, my love, ’tis but a bad dream. All is well, I am here.”

Richard was trembling. He fingered the cross and écu coin around his neck, hoping both charms would protect him from such hellish images as he had just seen. He had never been able to tell his wife about his part in King Henry’s death. It was hard enough for him to own, much less expect his wife to understand or forgive. It must be his burden alone. “I dreamed I was accused of stealing the crown,” he admitted. “Jesu, ’twas frightful. Should I refuse it even now, tell me truly?”

Anne slipped out of bed and opened the heavy shutter to reveal the dawn breaking. She hoped the light would chase away the dark demons of the night and of his dreams. She watched as Richard poured himself some wine and walked towards the daybreak, taking deeps breaths of cooling air. “There, that’s better, isn’t it?” She stroked his perspiring brow, noticing even more furrows than had been there before the news of Edward’s death had changed their lives. “You have been working too hard and have so many responsibilities, ’tis no wonder you have nightmares. I will ask the doctor for a physic to help you sleep. We do not want to see the haggard shadow of a king mount the stairs to be anointed at his coronation, now do we?”

Richard attempted a smile, and gave himself up to her comforting arms. “I don’t know what I would do without you, Anne. I do not deserve such devotion.”

“Pish-tush,” Anne scoffed. He wanted to laugh but could not; at that moment he thought he could never laugh again.

After Parliament set the date for the coronation as Sunday, the sixth of July, Richard went about his duties in a daze. He saw himself sign petitions and proclamations with his new signature Ricardus Rex; he assigned roles for the coronation; he conferred the dukedom of Norfolk on Jack Howard, and titled his son, Thomas, earl of Surrey; he bestowed honors on others who had supported him; and spent an hour with his nephews. Through it all, he was numb, barely discerning young Edward’s reserve.

The one ceremony which brought him back to reality was the taking of the royal oath in Westminster Hall. He was fully aware of the enormity of the occasion and forced himself to appear kingly and robed in royal purple. He had witnessed Edward take his oath in 1461, and Richard felt a proud connection to his brother. Solemnly seated on the marble King’s Bench, Richard was now officially named England’s chief justice. After swearing the oath, he addressed the crowded hall:

“To all my judges and lawyers, I command you all to justly and duly administer the law without delay or favor. And to you, my lords,” he addressed the barons present, “I require you, following the coronation, to return to your own estates and counties and make certain they are well governed and the people treated fairly and without extortion. It is my wish that my subjects know I am on the side of the law, and no matter if a man is rich or poor, he will receive justice.”

The murmur of approval softened Richard’s expression a little. So far, he had heard no jeers, and he began to believe he might be acceptable to the people as their king. Then he called Jack Howard to his side. “Go into the sanctuary and summon Sir John Fogge to come to me here,” he commanded. Jack looked askance for it was well known Fogge, a former Lancastrian, was Elizabeth’s closest advisor and had been on young Edward’s council in Ludlow. He had insisted on accompanying the queen into sanctuary within the first week of her fleeing there. “Tell Sir John he need have no fear of me, but that I wish to see him.”

A buzz of curious conversation greeted Jack’s departure and filled the silence while Richard waited. Within ten minutes, the portly Sir John, looking puzzled and wearing a somewhat moth-eaten surcote, shuffled into the hall with Howard at his elbow. He bowed stiffly and gave Richard a haughty stare. “My lord?” he said, refusing to address the king as “Your Grace.”

Jack was attempting to have the old man kneel, but Richard stayed him, rose from the chair and welcomed the Woodville favorite with a, “God’s greeting to you, Sir John.” Turning the astonished knight to face the crowd, he said: “You are free to go to your home and family without fear of reprisal. I would ask, however, that when you bid farewell to my brother’s widow, you will take my promise that should she, too, decide to leave the abbey, she will be welcome at my court.” Richard could no longer address Elizabeth as queen, now that her marriage had been deemed unlawful, but it would be a long time before he would demean her with her old title of Dame Grey. He may never have trusted the woman, but he believed she had been ignorant of the Butler pre-contract. That was all on Edward’s head.

Richard accepted Sir John’s surprised, conciliatory thanks. But immediately he wondered whether God could be appeased as easily? Richard could not say, but he hoped for some atonement.

Francis and Rob praised the Fogge conciliation as a brilliant signal to those dubious about Richard’s election. He was beginning his reign on a generous high note. “I pray some of his tension slackens now,” Francis muttered to Rob. “He has been tied tighter than the gordian knot of late.”

Rob grunted an assent. “He threw a cup at a lackey yesterday and glared at me when I upbraided him. And he drinks too much.”

“At least he still listens to us,” Francis said. “Instead of widening his circle now that he is more comfortable with the council, it seems he has closed it. I just wish he could see what we see wrong with my lord of Buckingham.”

“Softly, Francis,” Rob murmured. “The pompous fool may hear you, and with his undue influence on Richard, we could be sent home with our tails between our legs.”

In their eyes there was no end to Buckingham’s rise, and they feared Richard was unable to refuse the glory-seeking duke the honor of assembling the coronation procession, which was by heraldic right the duke of Norfolk’s purview. It was a slap in the face to Jack Howard, newly named to that dukedom, but Jack had amiably stepped aside. What other protocols was Richard willing to ignore to satisfy Buckingham’s ambitions?

If there were doubters about Richard’s path to the throne, it did not affect the huge numbers of visitors who poured through the city gates to enjoy the coronation festivities. Inns were even renting out stable stalls, makeshift camps were set up outside the city walls, and arguments broke out in the hundreds of taverns between well-aled customers, who had nothing to do but amuse themselves the days before the event. Richard was glad that the northern army he had sent for in a panic earlier in the month had eventually arrived, with Northumberland at its two-thousand-strong head.

Despite the Londoners’ distrust of anyone north of the Trent, they tolerated the army’s presence in Moorfields that ensured a trouble-free coronation. Who knew if the Woodvilles might attempt to disrupt the ceremony or even take the opportunity to steal into the Tower and abscond with the two boys? For this reason, Richard ordered his nephews be moved from the king’s apartments into the queen’s rooms in the well-guarded Lanthorne Tower and forbade their servants from allowing them to sport in public on the Tower Green. “At least until after London has emptied again,” Richard commanded, “’Tis too risky. Out of sight, out of mind, I can but hope.”

He and Anne went again to see the boys before the coronation, and this time both youths were ill at ease. Their guardian told Richard that the lads had received a few visitors, “including the Lady Stanley, my lord. Lord Edward said she came bearing loving messages from their mother, the queen, but I noticed a change in the lad’s demeanor following her visit. He became angry with one of the gentlemen of the chamber and demanded to be taken back to his former lodgings.”

Richard soon discovered why Edward had reacted so to Margaret Beaufort’s visit. The boy confronted Richard, boldly. “Lady Stanley and my lady mother have heard you plan to send us away. She also warned us you may want to do us harm. Would you do us harm, uncle?”

Richard was appalled. “Do you harm? Why would I want to do that, pray?” Richard asked, gently holding him by the shoulders. “Fate has taken an unfortunate turn for you and Richard, but as soon as your mother leaves sanctuary with your sisters, I will return you to her side. This I promise.”

On the day prior to the crowning, as had every king since the Conqueror before him, Richard journeyed with his court from the Tower to Westminster in a spectacular procession. Somewhere along the road through the city, he was suddenly reminded of the boyish fantasy he had had all those years ago as he rode to Edward’s coronation. No longer a fantasy, it was indeed he who was riding to the great abbey to be crowned, and he reverently crossed himself.

Anne was seated in a litter carried front and back by two beautiful white palfreys, and all of her and Richard’s henchmen wore scarlet satin with white cloth-of-gold mantles as they rode beside the royal couple. Behind them the cavalcade stretched for half a mile, buoyed by trumpets, shawms, sackbuts and tabors as the crowds thronging the route showered flowers and cheers upon the glittering column of riders.

Instructed by Anne to remember to smile and wave, Richard was complying with effort. A little girl bravely ran out among the horses and reached up to him with a nosegay of meadowsweet and cornflowers. Genuinely touched, he bent down and said: “I thank you kindly, sweeting, but I would like my lady to have them. I pray, will you give them to her?” Flushed with pleasure from getting a word from the king, she scampered back to Anne’s litter with her gift. Anne took the bouquet with a smile, inhaled the sweet scent, and then asked one of the henchmen to lift the little girl into the litter beside her. The spontaneous gesture was greeted with a roar of approval from the Londoners. On turning to see what the fuss was about, Richard once again praised the Virgin and her mother, Saint Anne, for having given him the consummate consort.

Putting one bare foot in front of the other, Richard trod the cold, ancient flagstones of Westminster Abbey almost in a trance. Flanked by two bishops, he could see the archbishop of Canterbury and other clerics awaiting him and Anne at the end of a long tunnel of dazzlingly arrayed guests. Unlike the poor showing of nobles at Edward’s coronation, Richard’s was attended by every one in the realm, with the exception of those few who were minors. He heard the sublime voices of the choir raised in the Te Deum as if indeed they were far away in heaven, but the only thoughts crowding his brain were of how much he did not deserve this supreme honor. Aye, despite the many times he had bared his soul to his confessor and done penance for it, nothing could take away his dread of hellfire for committing a mortal sin; the guilt of Henry’s death would always suffocate him.

But there was no turning back. So he kept his eye on Bourchier and somehow reached the high altar, upon which were laid the ampulla filled with anointing oil and its accompanying spoon. As soon as Anne’s procession reached the steps, she joined her husband in kneeling on cushions, where they bowed their heads in private prayers. Anne managed to entwine her fingers in his as Cardinal Bourchier addressed the congregation.

“Sirs, I here present unto you King Richard your undoubted king: Wherefore all you who are come this day to do your homage and service, Are you willing to do the same?” Richard was startled by the shout of “God save the king” from a thousand throats. He rose to acknowledge his people’s affirmation and take the coronation oath, which, at his insistence, was in English for the first time.

It was not until he was seated in St. Edward’s beautifully gilded throne with the heavy crown placed on his head that Richard truly appreciated the sanctity of his new role. “Dear God, save the king,” he pleaded, watching Anne being anointed beside him. “I pray You protect my family, and I promise to wear this crown with all honor and do my duty.”