Chapter Twenty-Seven

Winter 1483

The old Richard was back.

At least that was how Francis and Rob perceived their friend and king following Richard’s decisive action to suppress the widespread rebellion. They had cheered when Richard had returned from the rooftop and declared: “First things first, I will rid the kingdom of its traitors and in particular my cousin, surely the most untrue creature living.”

He had issued a proclamation that denounced Buckingham as a rebel and traitor, ordered the Great Seal to be delivered to Richard in its white bag, and called his loyal subjects to arms. With two of his great lords, Northumberland, and Thomas, Lord Stanley, he moved to Leicester, where his troops were mustering, and pondered a move to defend London. When news came that Jack Howard had neutralized the East Anglian and southeast insurgency, he marched in the pouring rain to Coventry, intent on sweeping the southwest and Wales clean of rebels, including their leader, the perfidious duke of Buckingham. Others declaimed were Thomas, marquis of Dorset, the queen’s brother; the bishop of Salisbury; and one of the chief plotters, John Morton, bishop of Ely, who had ridden with Buckingham from Brecknock.

But two women were also colluders—two mothers in fact—each believing her son was the center of the rebel cause, so Richard learned. It was clear to him that Elizabeth must believe young Edward was alive, and he came to the swift decision that she did not deserve to hear the truth from him. Let her believe the boys had been sent away. Margaret Beaufort, on the other hand, must know they are dead from Morton and Buckingham, and so her cause was simple: to set her son Henry on the throne. For a moment, Richard felt sorry for the queen; the cleverer Beaufort woman had tricked Elizabeth into supporting Buckingham, promising that he would return the crown to young Edward. By this time, Richard was convinced Harry’s only goal was to take the crown for himself—his claim, in truth, was better than Tudor’s. “Batfowling scoundrel,” he muttered, “and bloody fool.”

A few days later, Richard issued another proclamation hoping to avoid as much bloodshed as possible: The crown promises to pardon any man who was duped into following that great rebel and traitor the duke of Buckingham, and the bishops of Salisbury and Ely, or the marquis of Dorset, whose damnable maintenance of vices make them traitors, adulterers and bawds.

Thomas Stanley chuckled. “I assume you are referring to the adulterer Dorset? Isn’t that language a little strong, my lord?”

Richard did not hesitate. “That is what he is, Lord Stanley,” he snapped. “Do not forget he was mentored by Hastings to lure my brother into debauchery, and he is bedding my brother’s whore. I would prefer my court to be safe for virtuous and God-fearing people once more.”

Northumberland suppressed a smile. While Richard was Lord of the North, the earl had become used to Richard’s moral preachings. Stanley could only grunt an assent; he was not about to argue with the king when he himself was already under suspicion by virtue of his wife’s involvement in the rebellion. It was as well Stanley had been with Richard since leaving Yorkshire and had mustered a goodly number of troops to Richard’s banner or he, too, might have been suspected of abetting Margaret Beaufort and John Morton.

“We march on the morrow, my lords, despite the foul weather,” Richard told them. “We should have news of where the bulk of their force is by then.”

Never was Richard more thankful for the disagreeable English weather than he was that October. Perhaps God had heard him on the Lincoln battlements. The rivers to the west swelled and overflowed to bog Buckingham’s reluctant, resentful troops in the mud, and storms in the Channel forced Henry Tudor’s small invading fleet back to Brittany. Unable to unify, the rebels scattered and fled. By the time Richard and his force reached Salisbury, the rebellion was over “with nary a drop of blood spilled,” as he proudly told Anne later. Much of the success was attributed to Richard’s leadership. He had acted quickly and decisively.

“I shall have only the captured leaders executed, all the rest, the commoners, are pardoned. Let them go back to their homes with my blessing,” Richard told his new constable, Sir Ralph Assheton. “It was always my brother’s custom to spare the commoners.”

Two days later, on All Hallow’s Eve, as news of the fate of the other rebel leaders filtered into Richard’s council chamber in the cathedral close and after ten executions had taken place, Francis barged into the room to announce: “Buckingham is taken, he is being led to gaol as I speak!”

Richard leaped out of his seat, elated. “Where was he found? Who can I reward?”

How glad was Richard to discover that Buckingham in his turn had been betrayed. “Now perhaps you know how it feels, Harry,” Richard muttered under his breath, “and how fitting it was done by a servant.” He turned to Assheton. “You will try him on the morrow and give me a report. I have no doubt his lordship will wet the axeman’s blade before this week is out.” This time, there would be no quibbling as to the king’s meaning.

Any mercy for his cousin Richard may have held in his heart was expunged when he heard that it had taken only the threat of torture to convince Harry to deliver up his fellow rebels. Richard felt relieved and disgusted. Harry begged his guards to take him to the king, and when Richard refused to see him, Harry then sent his cousin a pathetic, pleading letter.

I appeal to your goodness, your mercy and your renowned sense of justice to spare my life, Cousin. I pray you remember our friendship, my invaluable support, and our many shared ventures on your path to the crown. Have you forgotten our shared blood? I beg of you to reconsider having my death stain your conscience…

That was enough reading for Richard. Damn you, Harry, murderer of children, he thought, if you believe I will count your traitorous death among my many sins, you are even more foolish than I now know you are. And he flung the letter into the fire.

The garrulous, vain and once-powerful duke of Buckingham was led to the scaffold the very next day. Visibly terrified and surrounded by jeering townspeople, he stumbled up the hastily constructed stairs to face the hooded executioner. Shivering in his fine lawn shirt against the cold November air, he fell on his knees to be shriven by the priest before gingerly placing his neck upon the block. His treasured glossy curls, always so meticulously coiffed, fell over his face, hiding his shameful tears. Then his nerves took hold of his body, and a guard had to steady him as the axe was swung high and swiftly brought down to end Henry Stafford’s faithless life.

Watching from a window, Richard did not flinch.

With the rebellion quelled, Richard turned to governing in earnest. He first sent out a summons to all the lords and commons to convene at Westminster for a session of Parliament in late January.

Returning to London in early December, it was clear to him from the reception he was given by the grateful citizens that he had been accepted wholeheartedly as king, especially as, with her complicity in the rebellion acknowledged, Londoners had lost all sympathy for Elizabeth Woodville.

Richard welcomed Anne to London for Christmas but was disappointed that Ned was not well enough to travel through the cold and snow.

“It is nothing serious, Richard,” Anne assured her husband as they snuggled together on her first night in London. “I would not have come if I thought our son were in any danger. He had the croup—he has had it before, but it takes a week or two to subside. Never fear, Mother will take good care of him.”

“Has he grown? Does he miss me? Can he hit the quintain squarely?”

Anne was amused. Richard was so full of questions, the way she remembered him from their childhood, that her heart glowed. She stared up at the beautiful canopy above the bed in the spacious firelit chamber at Westminster, the tapestry depicting a scene from the story of Ruth, and answered every one. Later, she whispered that she preferred Crosby Hall’s intimacy, but that “this is more comfortable than drafty Baynard’s.” She began to caress his chest and tease his nipple, which soon achieved the desired effect. “Never mind Ned,” she said seductively, sliding her petite body on top of his. “Have you missed me? Or have you found a mistress while I was away.”

Richard smiled and took her face in his hands. “If only I had had the time,” he said, feigning regret. “And even Jane Shore is no longer available. Oh! Would you believe she has conquered yet another willing fool—this time my own solicitor, Thomas Lyneham. He was supposed to prosecute her but he fell in love with her instead. They are to be married.”

Anne’s laughter roused Rufus, curled up on the Turkey carpet. He put his whiskered nose on the bed and wagged his tail.

“Lie down, Rufus,” Richard admonished him, and, chastened, the old dog padded away. “Now, my dearest wife, where were we?” He slipped Anne’s chemise over her head and pulled her to him. Soon the rediscovery of familiar urges and intimate places put all but pleasuring each other from their minds.

Their passion slaked, Anne lay content in Richard’s arms. She sighed pleasurably. “I love you, Richard,” she whispered. “The Virgin help me, but I love you more than God.”

Richard stiffened. “Do not say such things, dearest. You need not bring down His wrath on you as He has on me.”

Anne sat up and turned to him. “What now, Richard? What do you think you have done now to displease Him?” Richard would not meet her gaze and instead tried to pull her close again, but she resisted. “Can you not be happy for once? I pray you, tell me your troubles. How can I be a good consort if you can’t entrust your worries to me? If you won’t trust me, then I cannot be happy. ’Tis as simple as that.”

“’Tis not so simple, my precious wife,” Richard replied. He rolled awkwardly onto his right side and then to a seated pose next to hers. Their shadows in the candlelight flickered eerily on the curtain, and he flung it aside. She is right, we must trust each other, he suddenly decided. And so he confided in her the tragic tale of his nephews’ deaths at the hands of Buckingham.

Anne stared open-mouthed at her husband, and then she reached out and took his hand. “You have lived with this since July, Richard? How have you borne it, my love? ’Tis no wonder you are not sleeping and are afraid for your very soul.” Tears rolled down her cheeks as she imagined the plight of the two innocent boys. “’Tis monstrous, and Harry deserved to die.”

“You must swear to keep silent, Anne. Most believe they are sent far away to safety. Let them think that, and soon the lads will be forgotten—except by you and me, and a few close friends.” And he spoke their names.

“Poor Edward, poor Richard. Those boys had done nothing to deserve such a fate…other than being born royal,” Anne realized and shivered. Both knew they were thinking of Ned.

Richard then spent much of December dealing with the continued harassment of English shipping by the Breton fleet. With the capable Jack Howard as admiral of England commanding the English Navy, Brittany was quickly subdued, and Duke Francis eventually signed a new treaty with Richard, admitting his error in having supported Henry Tudor. Before Duke Francis could hand the young earl over to the English, however, Henry escaped and found refuge in France.

“Bon débarras!” Richard told the council. “Good riddance.”

With rebellion dead along with its self-proclaimed figurehead—Buckingham never ceased thinking to the end that it was all about him—the court settled down to celebrate Richard’s first Christmas as king. He was determined to make it a merry one, and he chose to hold it at Baynard’s instead of at the vast palace of Westminster. Duchess Cecily had been invited to join them, but she claimed that a dislike of traveling in winter prevented her presence. To tell the truth, Richard was relieved he did not have to answer any awkward questions his mother would have asked.

Even though the death of his nephews haunted him daily, it surprised and saddened him that they seemed to have been forgotten elsewhere. No one spoke of them anymore; it was as though they had never existed, he thought. And, God help me, I am not about to remind them.

Two days before Twelfth Night, Richard received another surprise—this time one that pleased him.

He had chosen an eminently suitable husband for Katherine, and knowing Kate was staying with the Howards at their Stepney town house, he wanted her to meet their daughter’s bridegroom. Although it had been sporadic, Richard and Kate had exchanged a few letters about their children over the years. Their bond had turned into one of deep friendship, and he wanted to honor her now. He sent Rob Percy down the river to fetch Kate and then paced in his privy audience chamber awaiting her arrival.

Her lovely face fell when she saw him, and he was concerned. “Are you ill, Kate?”

She shook her head. “Nay, Richard, not I. But I see that you are. You appear to have had no sleep for several days.”

“Weeks, if truth be told,” Richard admitted. “I look that bad, do I?”

Kate nodded. “Do you have something important to tell me, Richard. You have never before summoned me. Has it to do with John or Katherine?”

Richard smiled. “Aye, but I think you will be pleased. I have found a husband for Katherine. William Herbert is the earl of Huntington and a loyal Yorkist.”

Kate’s eyes lit up. “An earl? Can this be true? My Katherine?” Then, in her inimitable frank fashion, she added, “but does he know she is a bast….?” and immediately clapped her hand over her mouth.

Richard chuckled. “Aye, he knows of her birth, Kate. But as he is an impoverished earl, he will be glad of the dowry I will bestow on my beloved only daughter. She is a beautiful and kind young woman, and we should be proud of her.”

“I am,” Kate replied, “and I always have been. She was created with much love.” She lowered her eyes to her hands, wondering if she had overstepped a line. Richard watched her absently turning the gold filigree ring he had given her the day they had parted. Suddenly looking up, her eyes met his, and as if he were reading her thoughts, Richard pulled out the écu on its leather cord. “Aye, I still wear it.” He hesitated, averting his troubled gaze. “Although I am not certain it has always brought me good fortune.”

Kate felt emboldened to go to him and take his hands, encouraging him to talk as they had done so many times during their affair. She gently removed his soft velvet hat and stroked his dark hair, noticing its flecks of grey. “What is it, Richard? What is worrying you? Tell me.”

Feeling her so close again and sensing her love for him, he broke his resolve and allowed her to lead him to the window seat. He could trust so few these days, but Kate he trusted with his life, and so, with difficulty, he disclosed the fate of the young princes to her.

Certainly Kate was not unmoved by the tragedy. “’Tis one of the most hideous tales I have ever heard,” she pronounced, but her concern was all for her beloved, and she guessed he did not need her sympathy; he needed her counsel. She took his hand. “Richard, you must not brood so,” she began. “Do not allow your enemies to see you so low. ’Twas not your fault. Lord Buckingham’s evil is not yours.”

Richard jerked up his head. “God knows I did not order their deaths, but because Harry did it for me, I must carry the guilt. Do you see?” He implored her to understand. “It will always be my fault.”

“Stop this, Richard!” Kate said, shaking him. “God knows you did not order their demise, you just said so. You must put it behind you. It is over, and you are king. Nothing will change that now, and so you must get on with the business of governing. Your people need you; they need to know what a good and just man you are.”

Despite his present self-loathing, Richard was desperate enough to listen. Kate’s advice was sound, and her passionate conviction that he was indeed a good man helped convince him. He patted her hand. “You are right, my rose. I do need to look to England’s welfare. Doing my duty has not been easy, I admit, but I have sworn an oath and I must fulfill that promise. I thank you for reminding me.” He smiled for the first time.

Kate smiled back. “That’s better,” and she changed the subject. “Indeed, ’tis I who should thank you for the mercy you showed my cousin Haute for his part in the rebellion. How can I ever show my gratitude?” She picked up his hand and kissed it.

“You have given me two beautiful children, Kate,” Richard said softly. “That is payment enough,” and gently releasing her hand, he rose to pace, heartened by their talk.

“Three…” Kate said without thinking. “Three children.”

The king stopped mid-pace and stared at her. “What are you saying?” He went to her. “Three? Tell me truly, was there…is there a third child?”

As his reaction was sheer loving surprise, Kate continued, “Aye, I bore you another son six months after your marriage to Anne, and he is named for you. Please do not be angry with me.” Flustered by his silence, she plunged on. “You were not to know you got me with child on our last night together, and I chose not to tell you because I knew you had promised God you would go to Anne with our affair at an end. I could not burden you with having to lie to her.”

Richard sat down hard in his chair. He had another child—another son. “Does Johnny know? Katherine? They have…they have never said aught about another brother. All…all these years and nary a word…sweet mother of God…”

Kate chuckled at his stunned stuttering. “Dickon was born in secret at my family home in Kent. The children did not know. As you must recall, my husband died before John was born, but his family believed our two children were their grandchildren. They never knew the truth about us, and they had been too kind for me to visit this scandal on them—that this child could not have been George’s. I traveled to Kent before my belly gave me away, stayed until I gave birth, and my brother John and his wife agreed to raise our son as their own.” She sighed. “He does not know me, and only my brothers and the Howards know of him.”

Richard was speechless. Kate had given up her child to protect him. He could not conceive of such selflessness. It took him a moment before he spoke. “Jack Howard knows how to keep a secret, in truth. I am profoundly sorry for your sacrifice, Kate. What can I do to help the boy? Tell me.”

“He is better off thinking he is a Bywood. I, too, have felt guilt that I have never even seen him since he was a baby, but I have sent what money I could. Lately, I arranged with my brother Geoffrey, who is now the schoolmaster in Ightham, to teach Dickon his lessons, although,” and she smiled, “it would seem he prefers woodcarving to Latin. The boy is very happy, truly he is.”

“Dickon,” Richard repeated, a soft smile on his mouth. “’Twas my name as a child. He is in Kent you say? Then I must do what I can for him.” He could almost feel his spirits lift. “Can I see him? Is it possible?” He saw her frown. “I promise not to reveal myself to him.”

Kate hesitated, but seeing how Richard’s eyes had lost some of their sadness and his face its careworn expression, she could not refuse him. “You swear Dickon will not know you as his father.”

“I swear.”

“Then I will write and warn Geoff to expect you.”

Dickon was another secret Richard kept from Anne. He was consumed with curiosity about the boy in Kent, and he soon found an excuse to travel to Thomas à Becket’s shrine at Canterbury to ask the saint to bless his first session of Parliament. En route, he bore off towards the village of Ightham, where Kate had spent some of her childhood. He went alone with only a groom in attendance as he did not want to attract attention. Even so, his clothes spoke of wealth, which brought the villagers out to stare when he asked the way to the schoolmaster’s residence.

Although Geoffrey Bywood had been very young during Richard and Kate’s liaison, he knew immediately who the man was who slipped off his horse to the frozen ground outside the modest cottage where Geoff lived with his young wife. He began to kneel, but Richard murmured that he did not want to arouse suspicion. “Call me Master Broome,” Richard told him, liking the simplistic translation of Plantagenet. “I do not want Dickon to be afraid. Say I am a merchant who has heard of his skill with a knife and might perhaps buy one of his woodcarvings.”

“Come inside, Your Gra…Master Broome. You must be cold,” Geoff said, ushering the king into the cozy but plainly furnished kitchen parlor, where the family spent most of their day. Through the door into the adjacent schoolroom, Richard saw an orderly row of desks empty of pupils at that hour. A roaring fire drew Richard to warm his hands as Jane Bywood entered. Richard observed she was taken aback by their visitor, and he silently admired Geoff for keeping Kate’s secret.

“Dickon!” Geoff called up to the second floor, reached by a sturdy open staircase. “We have a guest. I pray you come down, and bring some of your carvings.”

Richard’s heart beat a little faster as he heard his son’s footsteps hurrying to the stairs. He could not remember being so nervous when he had met Johnny. Would the boy look like himself at ten? Would he be short and thin like Ned or stocky like John? He was therefore, surprised to see a mirror image of Katherine at the same age descend the stairs. An almost girlish face peered over the banister: freckles smattered over a small nose; a generous mouth; and a mop of thick auburn hair that reminded Richard of Kate’s magnificent mane. The familiarity immediately put Richard at his ease.

“Dickon, please greet our guest the way you have been taught. Master Broome has ridden here especially to see some of your work,” Geoff said sternly.

Dickon gave an awkward bow and stared openmouthed at the man by the fireplace. Despite trying to dress quietly, Richard’s deep-blue surcoat bordered in fur, his long leather boots, and beringed fingers, dazzled the young country boy. “G…God’s greeting, sir,” Dickon managed to stammer. “I am Richard Bywood, if it please you, but I like to be called Dickon.”

It gave Richard a start to see the boy close and recognize his own serious, dark-grey eyes looking back at him. He smiled. “Then Dickon it shall be. Why don’t you show me what you have made, Dickon?”

He winked at Geoff, who drew Jane into the schoolroom to leave father and son alone.

The boy displayed half a dozen exquisitely carved figures of animals of the forest for Richard to peruse. “Do you like them, sir?” Dickon asked eagerly.

“I like them very much, Dickon. Would you permit me to buy one?” He picked up a fox and could almost swear the animal’s brush tail was real. “Because you have red hair, like a fox, this one would remind me of you. How much would you like for it?”

Dickon’s mouth opened and closed. “I d…don’t know, Master Broome. How much will you give me for it?”

Richard laughed. “Good answer, Dickon. Remember, everything worthwhile is deserving of negotiation, and this little fellow is certainly worth it. How about a penny? Oh, I see that is not enough. I apologize, then would a groat suffice?” And he reached into the pouch at his belt and drew out the silver coin.

Dickon’s eyes glowed. “I thank you, sir,” he said, holding the money in the palm of his hand as though it were gold. “I am saving up for more tools. You see, I want to be a mason when I grow up. Do you think that is possible, sir?”

“If you want something badly enough—and you work hard, pray to God every day, and obey your uncle—anything is possible.” He tucked the fox inside his shirt and chuckled. “I shall give this to my son, Johnny. ’Tis said he behaves like a fox in a hen house when he is around the young…not that you would understand, young Dickon,” he hurriedly added.

“Fiddle faddle!” Dickon retorted, grinning and for a moment forgetting Richard was a guest. “Of course I know.”

Richard was so unnerved to hear Kate’s favorite expression, he rose and picked up his cloak.

Dickon blanched, suspecting he had upset the grand visitor. “I b…beg your pardon, sir. Did I say something to offend you? My father always said my tongue would get me into trouble one day.”

Just like your mother, Dickon, Richard thought, amused. His heart ached for Kate at that moment, but reaching out and chucking the boy under the chin, he said kindly, “I am not offended, Dickon. Far from it. You have lightened my day. Now run along while I talk to your uncle.”

Geoff was astonished by the generous stipend Richard promised to send every year to help with the boy’s board, lodging, and education. “See to it that he finds a good mason to apprentice with, Master Bywood. The boy has a true gift.”

Richard rode on to Canterbury, his mind going over the extraordinary encounter. He did not blame Kate for keeping knowledge of the boy from him. After the turmoil of his own life as a royal prince, he envied Dickon his simple life. If only he, too, could have been an ordinary man. He patted the fox hidden in his jacket and marveled that he and Kate had produced such a prodigy. Had the lad been forced into the royal household, his talent would have been stifled. He decided to honor Kate’s wish that he not interfere in the boy’s upbringing except for the monthly stipend. How he wished he could have put his arms about the innocent lad just for a moment—his own flesh and blood.

Suddenly, his thoughts were all of Ned. His unruly hair, his lopsided smile and cheerful nature. He realized then how very much he loved and missed his heir and vowed to send for him as soon as the snow was off the northern moors.

Richard’s only Parliament opened on a frosty day in late January with a lengthy oration from England’s chancellor, John Russell, bishop of Lincoln, who proudly praised the body politic that was Parliament but that, under Edward, had lost its way. “Like the lost tenth coin of the woman in Christ’s parable, we look to our new sovereign to cleanse our house and recover what was lost: good governance and fairness for all people.”

Seated on his throne, Richard observed the depleted ranks of barons and bishops ranged around the bright walls of the Painted Chamber, with the commons crowded in on benches in the center of the room. His family’s war with Lancaster had certainly taken its toll on the nobility, he realized. He was not naive enough, however, to guess the failure of some to attend was a lack of support for his claiming the throne. As well, some of the dead nobles’ heirs were still in swaddling clothes, but it was a poor showing of the lords indeed. No matter, he was determined to enact the reforms that he and his council had labored over for weeks.

But first there was old business.

In a move guaranteed to please the new king, William Catesby had been appointed speaker of the house by the commons. He began by reading a document entitled Titulus Regius, an act of settlement or formal ratification of Richard’s right to rule by the three estates of the realm: the lords spiritual, temporal, and the commons. With Richard’s insistence that any one of his subjects should be able understand the document, it set out in English many of the justifications for Richard’s crowning that Buckingham’s proclamation had made the previous June at Baynard’s.

As Catesby’s somewhat nasal reading went on, Richard, anxious to get beyond this part of the proceedings, wondered what the many members staring motionless at the floor were thinking. He knew many men had questions as to his own motives and actions and what had happened to the two boys, and he had heard the malicious monikers. He looked calm, but he felt far from it. Every day he feared that the tide could turn on the shifting sands of men’s loyalties and at any time someone might leap up and shout “usurper” or “murderer.” He knew rumors abounded about another possible Tudor attempt to invade and claim the crown; such unease haunted him day and night. Richard had to consolidate control, and he hoped to God this Parliament would ratify his right to rule.

However, all was proceeding smoothly, and he breathed more easily as he heard the final statement of the important document read:

And over this, that, at the request, and by the assent and authority abovesaid be it ordained, enacted and established that the said crown and royal dignity of this realm, and the inheritance of the same, and other things thereunto within the same realm or without it, united, annexed, and now appertaining, rest and abide in the person of our said sovereign lord the King, during his life, and, after his decease, in his heirs of his body begotten.”

Catesby then moved on to the bills of attainder for the autumn rebellion. Buckingham, Dorset, John Morton and more than ninety others were attainted, and all of Margaret Beaufort’s estates were confiscated and, rashly Richard thought, put in the hands of her husband, Lord Stanley.

Last but not least, the bill addressed Queen Elizabeth. As soon as Richard had been informed that a secret marriage contract between Henry Tudor and Elizabeth’s oldest daughter, Bess, had taken place at Rennes—on Christmas Day of all days—Richard had lost all patience with her. “It means Elizabeth must now believe her sons are no longer alive,” he deduced, grimacing as he talked with Francis. “She is seeking another way to regain power.”

“Now you have lost me,” Francis answered. “Why should betrothing young Bess to Henry help…. Christ’s bones! I see,” he cried, slapping his forehead. “If Henry does invade and capture the crown, then Bess will be queen of England! By all that is holy, the Grey Mare’s a canny one.” He paused and then blurted: “But why does that mean she believes her boys are dead?”

“Because, muttonhead, if Henry does become king and goes through with the marriage, he will not agree to wed a bastard and have her crowned,” Richard explained. “He would have to legitimize her and…”

“…I have it!” Francis interrupted, excited. “It would make all of Elizabeth’s children legitimate and thus, if young Edward were still alive, he would be the legitimate king!”

Richard nodded. “Ergo, Elizabeth must believe the boys are dead.”

Attempting to cheer Richard, Francis had said, “But their plan has only an outside chance of succeeding. Tudor cannot have the support he needs to overthrow you—not while he has spent the last decade abroad and you are here, the anointed—and chosen—king of England.”

But Richard, in a dark mood and doubting God’s favor, had harrumphed. “Anything can happen—as I well know. Poor Bess, I warrant she had no choice in the matter. A sweet child with a witch for a mother.”

And thus, as punishment for her part in siding with the exiled Henry Tudor, Elizabeth—like Margaret Beaufort—had all her lands and titles stripped from her, relegating her to plain Dame Grey.

“’Tis fortunate for both of them that England does not execute traitors of the fair sex,” Francis remarked, “for both of them deserve it.”

The most important business to be debated in the three-week parliamentary session were the laws and reforms Richard was proposing. Thanks to his stint in the law courts and his many years meting out justice as constable of England, no one could question Richard’s ability to draw up fair and just reform, even though he must have angered some barons and merchants in the process.

The first act, however, was enthusiastically received as Catesby read: “The king, mindful that the commons of this his realm have been enslaved by intolerable charges and exactions as the result of new and unlawful inventions and inordinate covetousness, contrary to the law of this realm, and in particular by a new imposition called a benevolence…” He looked up and saw astonishment and approval on many faces. King Edward had imposed these so-called benevolences upon his people, which was nothing short of robbing the poor to feed the king’s coffers for possible use in war. Richard remembered how unpopular the collection of them was for the foolish French campaign. Unlike borrowing from bankers or the rich merchants, Edward had impoverished his subjects and pocketed a pension from King Louis into the bargain. Richard was determined to end the practice.

As Anne told him, after he had outlined his reforms to her one quiet afternoon spent in her solar, “You will be remembered for protecting the poor and the powerless. Surely many of these acts—how many are there, fifteen?—will end the many injustices inflicted on commoners that you have talked of. I am so very proud of you, my dear.” Richard was grateful for her support, but he knew he would lose favor with those corrupt officials who had benefited from these taxes. He just hoped the commoners would thank him.

Certainly, they would benefit from another reform he was proposing in the jury selection process, in which he insisted that a man must now be judged by property owners of upstanding character who were respected and invested in the community and not by just any vagrant, paid lackey, or warm body brought in to stack the jury. This law, it turned out, would stand for centuries.

Later in the session, Richard was to receive approbation for a statute that had been in his mind for several years—ever since he had encountered the distraught woman in St. Alban’s on his way to London. The law had said her husband’s property could be forfeit as soon as he was taken into custody yet was not formally indicted of a crime. Richard’s new law decreed that bail be made available to someone in custody before being indicted, in the same way that a man ready to face trial might be. If a man were innocent, he could return home knowing his property was intact.

The final decision he made after all the new bills were ratified was that they be written down in English so all, from high to low, would understand.

Richard hoped God was taking notice. Am I atoning for killing a king—who was a good man but a bad ruler? It was the only way he thought might appease the Almighty now.

In the middle of March and after many assurances that she would not be punished further for her part in the rebellion and could return to Grafton, Dame Elizabeth Grey agreed to leave sanctuary with her daughters.

“I am sorry for you, Elizabeth, but you cannot deny you deserved it,” Anne said to her sister-in-law the day before Elizabeth was to finally quit sanctuary. “You gave Richard no choice. It was treason, Dame Grey. If you had been a man, you would have lost your head.”

“Pish!” Elizabeth said dismissively as she contemplated the new queen. Anne was a good match for the under-sized, misshapen Richard, she thought. Small, attractive, but not beautiful, Anne had always appeared a bit childish to the older woman—wishy-washy even. However, her new power had given Warwick’s daughter confidence; confidence enough to scoff at Elizabeth’s new loss of prestige. Elizabeth shrugged. “Believe what you want.”

“’Tis not a question of believing,” Anne insisted, “it is a question of knowing you plotted with the Beaufort woman and that odious bishop to put Henry of Richmond on the throne. You even agreed to betroth your daughter, Edward’s beloved Bess, to that Lancastrian upstart.”

“Do you blame me? He promises to legitimize my poor children,” Elizabeth shot back. “I do what I can for them. Is that not what we mothers all do? And, may I point out, Henry Tudor is no parvenu; he is the Lancastrian heir to the throne.” She sat back, a smug smile on her face. She doubted Anne knew yet, as they bickered here, that another attempt at invasion was being planned for the spring. Elizabeth would take her daughters home to Grafton Manor, the only residence left to her now, and await the event. With help from the French and those exiles gathered with Henry—including her son, Dorset—she had no doubt Richard would be deposed in short order. She wished she had proof he had killed her boys, but all she knew was they were no longer alive. Her son, Dorset, had heard it from the now-executed Buckingham. Hearsay is all it is now, she lamented.

Anne regarded the still-lovely widow with a mixture of sympathy and disdain. Anne was not a woman to hate easily, and Elizabeth had never done anything to hurt her. But she knew she had the upper hand and was emboldened to state: “Edward would never have condoned such an unholy alliance, and you know it. Where is your loyalty?”

“Pah! You speak of loyalty in the same breath as my philandering, lying husband—oh, no, I am forgetting, he was not my husband, was he?” Elizabeth’s claws were showing, and she needed to control them before Richard changed his mind about allowing her to leave. Because she could, Elizabeth chose to bring tears to her blue eyes. “How would you feel if Richard had lied about loving you all these years? That he had secretly loved someone else so well he had pre-contracted with her?” She was so self-absorbed, she failed to see Anne wince. “And now I am left with nothing to offer my six daughters. Can you not see, Anne? I had to at least help Bess to a future. And what about my boys…my poor bastards…” she broke off, dabbing at her eyes, “I have lost my boys…”

“Aye, you have my heartfelt sympathy for them, Elizabeth,” Anne broke in not unkindly. Best not to travel that path, she thought. “but you must look to your daughters now.” She could not blame Elizabeth for wanting what was best for her children. Would she not do the same for Ned? She softened her tone. “As I said, I am sorry for you, but I am here to tell you that Bess and Cecily are welcome at our court, and Richard has promised me that he will find suitable matches for them—and your other daughters when they are of age, if you will allow him to help you.” She looked across the refectory where the two older girls sat quietly sewing and pitied the boredom they must have endured shut in a cloister for almost a year. “I must commend you, they are exquisite.”

Elizabeth inclined her head at the compliment. She knew this was not a suggestion from Richard but a command. Richard would need to keep Bess close in case Henry Tudor spirited her away, married her, and used her to shore up Yorkist support.

Elizabeth rose. “Pray tell the king I will consider his kind request,” she said. “If that is all, then I shall wish you a good morning.” She made to leave, but seeing Anne’s raised eyebrow, she asked, “I beg your pardon, did you have anything else to say?”

“Only that one does not usually rise before the queen and dismiss her,” Anne said evenly. The quick flush of embarrassment on Elizabeth’s face gave Anne immense satisfaction.

But Elizabeth’s bravado only lasted long enough for her to concede that Richard’s offer to protect her daughters was both generous and a relief. The dreary life in sanctuary was grinding her resolve down, and once accepting that there was no chance her boys would suddenly reappear, she gave her girls permission to leave. She grunted her reluctant admiration as she read a transcript of Richard’s oath taken in front of the lords: I, Richard….promise and swear that if the daughters of Elizabeth Grey, late calling herself queen of England… She paused to mutter before moving on, “but I was anointed queen,” …will come to me out of the sanctuary and be guided, ruled and conduct themselves after me, then I shall see that they shall be in surety of their lives, have them honestly and courteously treated…and to have all things requisite and necessary for their exhibitions and findings as my kinswomen…. The next sentence finally broke Elizabeth’s reserve: I shall arrange marriage for them to gentlemen well born, and give every one lands and tenements… Elizabeth sighed. “Where would I now, as disgraced Dame Grey, look to find husbands for my beautiful girls,” she moaned to her last faithful lady. “As innocents, they deserve nothing less than what Richard offers.”

Richard also extended Elizabeth an adequate annual stipend, which would allow her to return to live quietly at her manor of Grafton if—and the written declaration made it clear—Richard never heard any reports of duplicity or disloyalty from her.

Being a schemer, Elizabeth looked for a motive behind Richard’s seeming generosity. The only feasible reason was that he intended to keep a close eye on Bess in case Henry Tudor decided to snatch her and make good on his Christmas promise. But, she sadly admitted to herself, Henry had had ample time and an easier opportunity to carry out an abduction from sanctuary and had made no attempt in that direction.

“It is the best I can do for you, my dears,” she told her five older daughters. She had decided the baby, Brigid, would stay with her.

Thus, with the glimmer of hope that one day Bess would be queen, Dame Elizabeth Grey conceded defeat. She emerged from the abbey a suffocating year after seeking its sanctuary. She would have been mortified to see how quickly her daughters embraced life at Richard’s court.

By mid-April, Richard’s fear of an invasion from across the channel compelled him to move north to Nottingham Castle, an impressive stronghold perched on a promontory, centrally located and giving him a commanding view to the south and west. Underneath, and dug into the bared sandstone hillside, ran a labyrinth of tunnels up into the castle, useful for an escaping royal in times past.

“How I envy you your return to Yorkshire, my love,” Richard said, kneeling to remove Anne’s tiny green slippers. After being readied for bed by their servants, taking off Anne’s shoes and stockings had become a tender task Richard had long ago insisted should be his. The intimate gesture often led to lovemaking that Anne looked forward to whenever they shared a bed.

“I am glad you will soon be with Ned,” Richard continued, stroking her thin calves as she caressed his bent head. “Do you realize it has been six months since I saw him, more’s the pity. ’Tis too long. I pray every day that whatever ailed him this winter will see him healthy now spring is here, and he can soon join us.”

“Mother says he is growing, so I am not concerned. Perhaps the sea air in Scarborough will do him good. I will take him there when it is warmer.” She yawned, pushed her husband away and got into the comfortable downy bed. “I confess I cannot keep my…” She did not finish as they heard unexpected sounds of an arrival in the courtyard.

“Who can that be at this hour?” Richard muttered, going to the window. His nerves always on edge, he assumed the worst: Henry Tudor, earl of Richmond, had landed.

But the news was far worse.

Francis Lovell knocked on the door requesting immediate entry a few minutes later. Anne slipped on her bedrobe while Richard flung open the door. Francis and a muddied messenger in Richard’s own livery stepped into the room and went down on their knees.

“What is it?” Richard demanded, noting Francis’s pallor. “Is it Richmond?”

Francis rose and glanced at Anne in the bed. Her eyes spoke of concern but not fear, he noted, and he took a protective step towards her. The messenger, astonished to find himself in front of a king clad only in his nightwear, looked up and cleared his throat. “I…I have a message for you, your grace, from…from Middleham,” he stammered and handed Richard a letter. Clammy fingers wrapped themselves around Richard’s heart as he tore open the letter and read the few devastating lines from his steward at Middleham.

Anne flew to his side. “What is it, Richard? Is it Ned? Sweet Virgin, is it Ned?”

The floor was moving beneath him, and Richard was no longer able to stand. “Oh God,” he groaned, falling to his knees and reaching for Anne. “My dearest wife, brace yourself.” He pulled her close and held her face between his hands. “Our little Ned is gone. He’s dead!”

Anne screamed, “How? When? Tell me!” A vile taste invaded her mouth, and she puked the bile onto the blue and white tiles, smattering Richard’s nightshirt.

Richard tenderly wiped her mouth with the towel Francis had found for him, and when Anne insisted again, he told her: “It seems he took ill of a fever a few days ago and nothing could be done to cool the heat in his blood.” He watched her tears fall, and cradling her to him, he, too, began to heave with sobs. “He is dead, Anne, our precious son is dead.”

Francis touched the messenger on the arm and jerked his head towards the door. The man, open-mouthed at the openly weeping royal couple, gladly got to his feet and preceded Francis out. Francis gently closed the door on the tragic scene, allowing husband and wife the privacy to grieve.

Richard lifted Anne onto the bed, spread the coverlet over her shaking body and drew the heavy curtains around her. Trembling, he knelt at his portable altar and found a prayer for the death of a child in Henry’s holy book. As he stared unseeing at the page, his anger built, until he snapped the book shut and flung it away. “I see You are not keeping Your end of the bargain, are You?” he accused the Almighty, his voice shaking. “Or will You not be satisfied until You have taken everything from me?” Another heart-wrenching sob from Anne gave fuel to his ire. “Never mind me. What about Anne? What has she ever done to displease You?” and he raised his fist and shook it at the painted crucifix on the altar. “She has done nothing, I tell you, nothing at all!”

As Anne drenched her pillow, Richard knelt by the bed and, holding her hand in his, he gave his own pitiable blessing to his beloved son. He left God out of it.