Chapter Twenty-Eight

Late Summer 1484

Despite Richard’s anger at his Maker, he tried once again to appease Him.

After burying Ned in the little chapel at Middleham, Richard and Anne wanted nothing more than to leave. The boy was imprinted on every inch of the great castle, and Anne expected him to come around a corner at any moment. So they traveled east with their court and spent July and August at Anne’s favorite castle on the cliffs of Scarborough.

What can I do to satisfy you, Lord? Richard asked his Maker for the thousandth time, morbid thoughts returning, as they always did, to the scene in King Henry’s Tower chamber. Henry, Henry… Then all at once he knew what he must do to help salve his soul: He must re-inter Henry’s bones in a more appropriate site than insignificant Chertsey Abbey, Edward’s choice of resting place. He would pay for a royal reburial in St. George’s Chapel, Windsor. The gentle Henry had seen many pilgrims come to pray at his grave over the years, and, after miracles were reported, there was even talk of sainthood. Perhaps Richard saw a chance to make amends, as well as placate those pilgrims.

“That chapel was his pride and joy until my brother won the crown and made it his own,” Richard told John Kendall as he dictated the order. “It is only fitting that Henry lie there. He was, after all, an anointed king and should be buried with all the respect due him.”

Although little Ned’s mother and father would never recover from losing him, they attempted to quarantine their grief in the privacy of their curtained tester bed. There, listening to the waves of the North Sea rhythmically rolling over the beach below them, they exchanged remembrances of their beloved child, alternately laughing and crying. Richard spent other nights drinking himself into a stupor, while Anne gave up eating all but what would minimally sustain her, the seamstresses toiling to alter her gowns. She would spend hours sitting on the grassy cliff edge staring out to sea, and when Richard became concerned she might throw herself off, he ordered that she be accompanied at all times by at least two of her ladies and a groom.

A king’s duty, however, could not be put aside, and first he needed to shore up his throne and name a new heir. The latter was an easy decision: he named his older sister Elizabeth of Suffolk’s son, John de la Pole, the young, vigorous and capable earl of Lincoln, and already Lord of the North; he was next in an unquestionable Yorkist line of descendants of English kings.

It was a tribute to Richard’s thoughtfulness at this unhappy time, that he remembered to pay attention to his remaining children—illegitimate though they were. The beautiful Katherine bade a tearful farewell to her father when she was escorted to her new home in South Wales that summer, where she became the bride of William Herbert. “He is one of my loyal supporters, Katherine, and we shall see you often, I am certain,” Richard told her. He took her chin in his fingers. “And I believe you were not displeased with my choice, am I right?” He laughed when he saw her blush. “Aye, poppet, you will soon forget me and embrace a new life.” He had winced when she clung to him and called him “her dearest Father.” They were only sixteen years apart in age and yet he felt many more years older.

Fourteen-year-old John, already captain of Calais, was knighted by his father during a visit to Scarborough with his lord, Lovell, who told Richard that John was quick-witted and an able soldier.

“He needs to curb his lust, however,” Francis had said with a grin, but Richard was not amused. “Give the boy a chance, my lord,” Francis teased. “Remember his mother? You were about the same age when you seduced Kate.”

“Was I?” Richard mused sadly, not rising to the bait. “It all seems so long ago now.” And in truth he did not seem like the same man who had loved so passionately and recklessly in his youth. He had sighed deeply and moved on to other issues. “I am glad you are here, Francis. I may have need of you before long. Those perfidious Scots are rattling their claymores again.”

During those long, hot days of summer Richard tried to fill his days with his royal duties, which included outfitting the fleet for a possible invasion from Scotland. He threw himself into preparations including adding new artillery to his inventory. Also fearing another attempt by Tudor to invade, Richard ordered cannons be mounted on the walls of the Tower of London to fend off a southern attack. Breton pirates were causing trouble in the Channel again, taking advantage of a new regime in England, and Richard sent a flotilla to worry them off the Breton coast. It seemed as though he was beset on all sides by conflict, not the least of which battled in his own mind. He knew he did not have Edward’s way with people, but the more he tried to please his subjects, the more they viewed him with suspicion. Even his personal intervention in a woman of York’s law suit against an unscrupulous relative could not erase the words “usurper” and “murderer” from tainting the twelve months of his reign and burrowing into his unhappy heart.

“What is it this time, my dear?” Anne asked wearily one evening. She wanted to support her husband, but her own need for strength always threatened to overwhelm her frail spirit. Anne’s apathy in the world around her had forced Richard to keep politics from her door. Should he bother her with the latest from Brittany? At first it had been good news; Richard’s action along the coast had resulted in a diplomatic victory as Duke Francis, fearing for his duchy’s security, agreed to hand over Henry Tudor and his fellow Lancastrian exiles. But then…

“I have received bad news, I am afraid, but you do not need to concern yourself, sweetheart.”

She smiled then, warming to the endearment. “I do need to hear. I pray you, tell me.”

He poured himself another goblet of wine, causing her to frown, but she had lost her energy to chastise him. “Very well. We had almost bagged Henry, but Duke Francis’s bootless minions were too slow to catch him before he crossed the border into France.” He crashed down his fist on the table, making Anne jump. “We have lost him, God damn their eyes and lazy arses! A few minutes would have changed everything.”

Richard could have uttered no truer words, for the capture of the Lancastrian claimant to the throne would have changed the course of English history.

“Do not fret so, Richard. We don’t have Louis to deal with anymore, and perhaps the new French king will be more reasonable. Offer to treat with him.” After a pause, she suddenly asked, “How did Richmond know Duke Francis was coming for him?”

Richard stared at her, impressed by her insight. Anne was right, someone must have leaked their plan. Someone must have betrayed him—again. He frowned as he pondered the probable culprit. “Stanley,” he said under his breath. “Stanley knew. He was at the council meeting. He must have told his scraggy wife, the Beaufort woman…” He paused, drumming his fingers on the chair arm, his expression darkening as he worked out the chain of events, “…and she told that traitor Morton in Flanders. He must have sent the message to her son.” He began twisting his ring. “Edward told me once that Thomas Stanley was a survivor in the game of polity. I see that now. If I did not need him on the council for his power in the northwest, I would confront him.” He put his head in his hands. “I’ll have to keep an eye on Stanley. I wonder who else is with him? Christ’s nails, can’t I trust anyone anymore?”

Anne went and knelt beside him. “Certainly you can. There’s Francis Lovell, Rob, Richard Ratcliffe, your lawyer friend Catesby, and what about dear Jack Howard and his son?” She pulled his hands away from his face and stroked his stubbly cheeks. “And for what ’tis worth, you have me. You will always have me.”

Richard kissed her hand tenderly. “Aye, I will always have you. You mean the world to me.”

Richard did win one victory for his efforts to safeguard the country that summer. The Scots were soundly defeated both on land and, commanded by Richard himself, at sea. King James III conceded defeat and, in a diplomatic ceremony in Nottingham’s castle, treated for a three-year truce.

“I don’t even like the man,” Richard grumbled to council as they watched the Scottish contingent file out of the great hall. “For all his flowery language of peace, I would not trust him as far as I could toss a caber.”

“I would not be surprised if half of his men sailed for France rather than support this treaty. He is not popular with either his lords or his subjects,” Thomas Stanley remarked, an edge to his voice, and even though he had not addressed Richard personally, Richard wondered if the equivocating earl of Derby was also referring to him.

By Christmas it was clear even to the most unobservant that Anne was dying, but Richard refused to accept it.

“She is still grieving, ’tis all,” he firmly told the doctor. “She needs some gaiety and an end to all these tinctures she is drowning in. What she needs is good mulled wine and yuletide reveling.”

He turned to his chamberlain, Francis. “This season will be the merriest yet. I command it,” he said. “My young nieces will cheer Anne. We will have mumming, my minstrels will play for dancing…” and he suddenly had an idea, “…and a masquerade,” he cried. “I attended one in Bruges during my exile with George. A masked pageant.”

The doctor’s bushy brows shot up in horror. “But her grace should not leave her bed, look you,” he said. “She is trop malade.”

“For pity’s sake, cease with the faux French, Doctor Gruffydd,” Richard snapped. “It does not suit you. Everyone knows you were born in Cardiff, look you.”

The man bowed and muttered an apology into his gray beard. Francis quietly shook his head, wishing Richard not be so brusque, but he understood the enormous strain his friend was under—and had been for six months now. He ushered the Welshman out and turned back to discuss the Christmas season. But when he saw despair in Richard’s slate eyes, he put his hand on his friend’s shoulder and squeezed it. “She will recover, I am certain of it.”

Desperate, and out of character, Richard grasped Francis to him and whispered, “Don’t let Him take Anne from me, too, Francis. Promise me.”

“Who?” Francis replied, taken aback. “Doctor Gruffydd? He is a good man, you know…”

“…not him,” Richard said, desperately. “Him,” and he pointed to heaven. “I am talking about God. He will not be content until he takes everyone from me.” He disengaged himself and sank into a chair.

“You think God is punishing you? For what? You have led a God-fearing life ever since I have known you.” Francis pulled up a stool. “Fate has been cruel, I grant you, but you are no better nor worse than the next man, and you are a damn fine king.”

Richard looked at his friend and wondered if he could finally reveal his guilt for Henry’s death to someone other than his confessor. Nay, why should I burden Francis? Instead, he said: “Not good enough it seems,” and changed the subject. “Now, let us plot some merry-making.”

For the days leading up to Advent and on to Christmas, politics, conflicts and talk of invasion were set aside while Westminster readied for the most joyful, lavish yuletide season ever witnessed. Even Richard was seen smiling and laughing as Anne and his nieces paraded their gowns and King Arthur-themed masquerade costumes for him to admire. Pink roses began to color Anne’s cheeks once more and Richard knew he had been right. He was also pleased to see the friendship that was developing between his wife and nineteen-year-old Bess. Not only was his niece lovely, but Richard was struck by Bess’s extraordinary gentleness and warmth, unlike her unruly sister, Cecily, who was perhaps even comelier but whose boldness reminded him poignantly of Kate.

His first love had begun to creep into his thoughts of late since Anne had begged him to keep to his own bed while she coughed her nights away. It did not help his natural achings that Bess went out of her way to please him, calling to him to try a sweetmeat or asking his opinion on a new headdress. Richard wanted his nieces to feel safe and welcome in his household and thus he indulged them, and he felt gratitude to Bess in particular for her kindness to Anne. Unaware that the young woman, very ready for love, had developed an infatuation for him, he was too caught up in trying to lighten the dark days of winter for Anne to anticipate the difficulties of such an attraction.

When the day of the pageant arrived, the excitement in the palace corridors was palpable. At great expense, thousands of candles helped light the reception chambers and magnificent great hall, and the cooks spent days concocting elaborate dishes to put before King Arthur and his court, which at Richard’s command had been transformed into Camelot. Richard had had his tailor craft a costume the silver sleeves and leggings of which, visible under a richly decorated long tunic, cleverly resembled armor. An ermine collar on his purple velvet cloak masked his higher shoulder, and as Arthur he wore a high gold crown made of parchment in the style depicted in tapestries.

After knocking on his robing-chamber door, Anne entered to admire his costume. “Do you mind, my lord? I could not wait to see my noble Arthur.”

At first, he was glad to see that his wife, all smiles and giggles, was entranced by her flowing gown, its sleeves brushing the floor. But as she tweaked a tuck here and a fold there in his costume and straightened his crown, Richard could not bear to hurt her by pointing out that white satin only accentuated her pallor, and the golden belt was pathetically clinging to her bony hips. With her already-graying hair pulled starkly into a long braid and crowned with white and red silk flowers, she resembled a ghostly wraith rather than a buxom, healthy Guinevere.

“Come in, come in, Bess,” Anne was calling as Richard kissed her hand. Excited, she told him, “We decided you should have two Guineveres to take you to the masque.” Going to the door, she pulled Elizabeth Woodville’s lovely daughter into the room, and Richard gasped. Bess may indeed have been clad in the identical gown, but there the similarity with Anne ended. Her regal carriage, glowing rosy skin, abundant red-gold hair cascading loose around her plump shoulders and voluptuous breasts all painfully emphasized who was to be queen of the night. She was the glorious sun to Anne’s pale, waning moon, and Richard, at a loss for words, could not prevent a frown.

“You don’t like it, Uncle?” Bess asked. “I did say to Aunt Anne that…” but she faltered.

Anne stood defiantly in front of the nervous young girl and chastised Richard. “It was my idea. If you are angry, be angry with me and not poor Bess, who falls over herself to please you.”

Richard’s gentlemen of the chamber, who had withdrawn to the other side of the room, stared at the odd scene. They were no doubt thinking about a rumor that Richard may have been eyeing his niece with something more than avuncular kindness. He would need a new wife, would he not, and one who could give him an heir?

Anne took her husband’s hands, her hollowed eyes brimming. “I knew I would not have the strength to dance with you, my love. I wanted you to have a surrogate Queen Guinevere. Please say you are not angry.”

Richard looked into her anxious, innocent face and realized suddenly what he had been denying. What a fool I am! She is dying, he thought. Sweet Jesu, how much he was going to miss his gentle, principled consort. He could not let her guess his fear, and his frown melted into a smile. “Certes, I am not angry with you or Bess. It was a thoughtful gesture, and I thank you.” He looked across at Bess, wishing she did not so resemble her beautiful mother. “If my niece does not have ideas above her station,” and he winked at her, “I shall be honored to be escorted by two such fair ladies.” Oblivious of his niece’s heightened flush, he lightly kissed Anne on the forehead. When they had donned their masks, he took both women by the hand. “Let us join our guests, my queens. Perhaps this Guinevere,” and he turned to Bess, who blushed again, “will find her Lancelot tonight.”

Anne’s happy laughter quickly turned to coughing. “Silly of me to get so excited,” she apologized, accepting a kerchief from her attendant. “It will pass.”

As the halcyon days of that yuletide season became a poignant memory and the harsh winter of 1485 turned to spring, Anne’s pallor became indistinguishable from her bedsheets. More and more often a crimson spot spoiled their pristine whiteness, telling the physicians that their royal patient was suffering from the same consumptive disease that had taken her sister. The doctors forbade Richard close contact with her as they believed the condition was contagious.

Missing his wife’s presence, Richard spent many of the dark winter evenings in conversation with his four nieces, including a newcomer to his household, Grace, one of Edward’s by-blows. In an extraordinary, and surprising, act of magnanimity for the usually selfish Elizabeth, she had agreed to take in the young woman, who was a little younger than Cecily. It was a promise I made to Edward on his deathbed, she had written to Richard, and with the income I am expected to live on, I must now ask your help in providing for her. Have no fear, she is as quiet as a mouse.

Before Anne had permanently taken to her bed, she had begged Richard to allow Grace to join her older cousins at court. “If I can take in your Katherine, then you can do right by Edward’s Grace. I pray you, do this for me. She will be a companion for young Cecily.” And as Richard could deny his beloved wife nothing at this point, he agreed.

Besides finding the girl no trouble to protect, it cannot be denied that Richard found solace in helping his brother’s children, perhaps to staunch the heinous whisperings that he must have killed his two young nephews. Wanting to be a benevolent uncle to his nieces, he failed to listen to his usual rational self and the quartet of councilors he trusted most, Francis, Rob, Ratcliffe and Howard, that he was causing gossip by being seen too often in close company with Bess. If he had heard their counsel, his moral self was so appalled by the thought of wooing his own flesh and blood, that he had dismissed the warning as ridiculous. Why must I always be misconstrued?

“I will go in, Doctor Gryffud,” Richard insisted, pushing the good doctor aside. “Never fear, I will not go close, but my wife will not die alone.”

He crept to the end of Anne’s bed, rendered vast by the skeletal figure lying in the center, her once-brown hair a snarled confusion of gray on her damp pillow. Anne had always been so meticulous about her appearance that seeing her thus disturbed him greatly. He turned to find one of her women, but they were huddled in a corner, weeping and afraid to go near her. He snatched a comb from the table of potions and bowls, and, fearlessly sat down beside Anne and began to gently untangle her hair. She did not move. He thought she was unaware of his presence, when her skeletal hand fluttered above the coverlet and found his leg. He stared at it aghast. How could skin be so transparent? He dared not touch it but was comforted that she knew he was there.

“My dearest Anne,” he whispered, tears he had kept in check for these past weeks slipping down his cheeks. “They would not let me see you. Pray forgive me for my cowardice. I should have come sooner.”

Her sunken cheeks, eyes deep in their dark sockets, and parched lips drawn away unnaturally from her gums gave the impression of a skull already, and he could no longer see the dear face he had lovingly kissed only a few months before. The first memory of her standing in Isabel’s shadow returned to him. Aye, she had always been there in his life, quietly loving him. Even knowing about Kate, she had loved him. “I am sorry I did not see you, sweetheart,” he confessed and wondered when was it that she had stepped out of Kate’s shadow and into his view and his heart? He could not remember now; it seemed forever ago. He thought of the years Anne had suffered from his selfishness: his youthful adoration of Isabel; then his affair with Kate; Anne’s many miscarriages—his desire perhaps the culprit—although Anne had never accused him of those. Indeed, hers was a life of untimely loss: her father, her only sister, her only child, and finally and cruelly, her own life. This birdlike creature had borne them all so stoically. Richard was in awe of her spirit.

He continued combing her long, fine hair and spoke to her. “Ah, Anne, you promised you would never leave me. You have not deserved such suffering, and yet you suffer. What, pray God, has brought us here? Oh, my dear, how do you expect me to go on living without you and our beloved Ned? You were always so good, so true, and so wise. Dear God in Heaven, what will I do without you?”

Richard broke down then and, gently gathering her precious body to him as though he could transfer his strength to her, he willed her to live.

Roused by her husband’s grief, Anne managed to say, “D…don’t cry, my love I c…can’t bear to hear you cry. You have been my strength, my rock, my love…” Her little speech gave way to a spasm of coughing, and Richard reached for a kerchief. Carefully wiping her mouth, he was appalled by the scarlet stain that spread over it. She closed her eyes, exhausted.

“Do not try and talk, Anne. I will not leave you again, and I pray to the sweet Virgin Mary that you will find her loving arms when mine can no longer hold you…” He forced himself then to summon the chaplain to perform the last rites. It was no good hoping, no good praying any longer. There would be no miracle—it was the ides of March after all—and his wife would die.

Dawn was just breaking on that cold day when a strange orange light set the roofs of London aglow. Citizens crossed themselves as they emerged from their doorways and glanced up at the heavens. As the sun rose high in the sky, a black orb began to slide across its golden surface and a shadow fell over the earth just as, at the palace of Westminster, the light of Richard’s life also began to slide away. He murmured the non nobis, Domine, as he felt the soul slip from Anne’s frail body, and all of London was plunged into semi-darkness. It is a sign, he marveled and bowed his head. Sweet Jesu, receive her soul, and I pray You do not forsake me now, for I am truly alone.

Kind hands gentled him away from Anne’s still form, and, as Anne’s women prepared her body for burial, he allowed himself to be led from the darkened room to his own chambers. There, Bess was waiting to greet him with soothing words and comforting arms. He saw his son John among the other councilors watching him anxiously, and Richard reached out a hand to him behind Bess’s back.

Taking the hand, the young man said, “Courage, Father. We are here to give you courage. The queen would have wanted that, and England needs you.”

Richard nodded. “Thank you, John.” But privately he thought, England can wait.