Chapter Thirty

Summer 1485

Richard the king marched through the balmy days of May and June fulfilling his duty to defend his kingdom from the invader. Richard the man wafted through nightly mists of grief and bad dreams, sleeping fitfully and waking wearier than when he had put his head down the night before. His physician prescribed a potion of chamomile, hawthorn, and linden flowers, and it brought him some relief, although he wanted to ask the doctor if he had a cure for heartache.

At the end of May, he held his last council meeting in London and moved on to Windsor. Confident of an easy victory against any invasion, Richard had persuaded the merchants and Italian bankers in London to extend him loans to pay for a royal army. “Help me stamp out this arrogant canker once and for all,” he had persuaded them. “Henry will see who is rightful king of England.”

At the council meeting, he ordered Francis to depart for Southampton and organize its defenses; Jack Howard and his son, Thomas, were to return to East Anglia and await commissions of array; Brackenbury was to stay in London and keep it safe with the new artillery installed at the Tower; and his supporters, including Richard’s son-in-law in Wales, were told to remain vigilant.

“Only the northeast is doubtful,” Richard observed quietly to Chancellor John Russell. “Can I count on Stanley or will he and his brother risk splinters in their arses by sitting on the fence?”

Russell smiled at the imagery. “Lord Thomas has been a good member of your council and your trusted steward of the household, Your Grace, so why the concern now?”

“Because he and his brother—indeed his family—have always managed to end up on the winning side. If you notice, Thomas rarely makes an opinion contrary to the majority on the council. I also have good cause to be wary of his wife, as you know. It is impossible to believe he cannot be privy to any communication between her and her son.” Richard tapped his temple. “Nay, my lord bishop, I shall use my head this time and take Stanley and his son, Strange, with me to Nottingham. I want my eye on them.”

“Very wise, my liege,” Russell replied.

Nottingham.

The castle on the rock dragged his memory back to the awful day when he and Anne learned of Ned’s death. “My ‘castle of care,’” he said to Rob Percy, as they rode under the portcullis. Rob was one of only a few of his closest advisors, with Catesby and Ratcliffe, to accompany Richard.

“I am surprised you returned, Your Grace. And I am even more surprised you are come without an army. Is this wise?”

Richard smiled. “Thank God for your northern candor, Rob,” he said. “I get tired of flattering fawners. All is ready around the south and east coasts for any sightings of Richmond, and Neville has the fleet patrolling the French coast for a possible French flotilla. With commissions of array in every part of the country, I am thinking I can have an army assembled more quickly where it is needed rather than have all of it here and have to march to the other end of the country as a whole.”

Rob nodded his approval of the strategy. “Always thinking, aren’t you, Richard?” he teased, evoking similar conversations from their days at Middleham. “What about Stanley? Should he not be mustering on his estates, too?”

“Stanley stays with me for the time being,” was all Richard would say.

Richard had been watching Stanley grow more and more taciturn since learning the king wanted him to stay close. Stanley was no fool. The earl realized his loyalty was in question, but there came a day in late July when he could no longer remain obediently at Nottingham.

“It has been many months since I oversaw my affairs on my estates, Your Grace,” Stanley said, affecting a pinched grimace of pain “Besides, I have not been well of late. I beg your leave to return home where I can recoup my strength and prepare my own troops to support you.”

Richard stared long and hard at the fifty-year-old earl of Derby, his sharp features, wispy gray hair and drooping mustache and beard making him look like an aging weasel. Stanley attempted to hold Richard’s eyes, but his lie forced him to avert his gaze. Finally, Richard spoke. “I will let you go, my lord Derby, on the condition you leave Lord Strange with me.”

Stanley looked startled. “My son? What for, may I ask?”

“Insurance, my lord,” Richard told him coolly. “And you know very well why.”

Two men-at-arms stepped forward to flank Lord Strange, who seemed perplexed. “Insurance against what, Your Grace? Surely you do not question my loyalty or my father’s? We have served your family well.”

Richard inclined his head. “And so you have, George. Up until the autumn of ’eighty-four, I had no worries as to your family’s loyalty. As I say, ’tis merely insurance.”

Stanley sighed. “I understand. It is my wife, is it not? Very well, I will take my leave and prove my loyalty to you by bringing a sizable force whenever you summon me.”

“I hope that you do, Thomas. Your son’s life depends upon it.”

Lord Strange suppressed a gasp, but Richard was gratified to see Stanley’s hand waver as he fumbled his hat to his head before bowing stiffly.

It was then that Richard called for the Great Seal to be brought to him from London and under it, he issued a proclamation calling all to resist the man Henry Tudor, earl of Richmond, who is descended of bastard blood and claims the royal estate of this realm where he has no interest, right or colour. It denounced all who would support him or other divers rebels and traitors.

Richard prayed he had won his people’s trust and that they would honor this decree. Unfortunately, the people were tired of war and even more tired of the barons who fought it, and they still did not entirely believe that Richard’s path to the crown had been innocently paved. His people were not privy to Richard’s inborn sense of duty, however. He would never betray England’s trust, although there were many who still could not trust him.

Perhaps an invasion would not come. That hopeful thought hovered in Richard’s mind as the first torrid days of August slunk by without news. He vacillated between wanting to give up the crown that should not have been his in the first place and the desire to prove that it was. In the latter mood, he prayed for battle with Richmond in which he would demonstrate his prowess as a military commander and dispense with the invader.

“I would rather die in battle as king of England than lose the crown and live,” he confided to Rob one day when he was being fitted for a new cuirass. Having assessed the increased curve in Richard’s back, Signore Vicente had tactfully suggested a few months earlier that Richard’s old armor had been irreparable after the Scottish campaign and that he needed to craft new harness. Richard now praised the faithful craftsman for his meticulous work, never suspecting the true reason for the beautiful new backplate. “It almost feels like a second skin,” Richard told the delighted man. “He is a genius,” Richard murmured to Rob as they left the armory and went to the training yard for their daily workout. “With this harness, I shall send Henry packing!”

“Pray God you will not have to, Richard,” Rob said, vehemently. “I would like to die from old age rather than a sword thrust,” and the two friends went, chuckling, to pick up their weapons.

When Richard finally learned of Henry of Richmond’s landing in South Wales, he was almost relieved: the long wait was over. Richard was well represented in Wales, thus he had no doubt the Tudor upstart would never make it across the Marches into England. Nevertheless, he sent out messages to all awaiting his command to array, and then he went hunting.

“I have done what needs doing to prepare,” Richard announced to his household. “It is the feast of the Assumption, and thus after honoring the Virgin, let us enjoy some sport at Bestwood while we wait further news, rather than wearing out the tiles here with our pacing. I warrant a brave stag will show more courage than Henry Tudor.”

His retainers gave a cheer—albeit half-hearted.

“It is not your lucky day, Lord Strange.” Richard’s voice dripped with sarcasm as he kept the young man on his knees. “It would seem your father has been taken ill of the sweating sickness. How curious that this new ailment seems to have arrived along with the invaders. Now, how do you suppose he contracted it?” Richard had been disgusted at Stanley’s lame excuse for why he was not already on his way to Leicester with his force. How stupid did Stanley think his king was?

“I would have gladly let you join your father, had he obeyed my command and sent me a force. Now, I am obliged to retain you further. This time I will have no doubt about my condition for his presence at Leicester. If he does not join my army, you will be sacrificed.”

George Strange assumed a stoic expression, but he gave a nod of understanding. “My father will not betray you, your grace, not while I am here.”

“For your sake, I hope you are right,” Richard said, and left the room. He had no doubt that Stanley—and his brother, William, who had apparently not stopped the invaders on their way through his territory in Wales—would play a waiting game. He had no tolerance left for anyone who bore the Stanley name.

Lord Strange attempted to escape that night and having been thwarted, the unfortunate heir to the vast Stanley estates found himself under heavy guard.

Richard’s army began the move to Leicester, where he had ordered his commanders to meet him to do battle with Richmond and his followers. Although men joined his ranks, it would seem that England was tired of war and weary of watching the crown move from Lancaster to York and back again, because by the time he reached Leicester, Richard had far fewer troops than had fought for Edward at Barnet.

Richard rode alone at the head of the column, listening to the jangling and clanking of an army on the move and was suddenly catapulted back to that day in Ludlow when he had first heard the sound. He could hear his father’s voice clearly ordering the flight of the Yorkist lords in the middle of the night rather than face defeat by the royal army. He grunted at the irony that another Richard of York was readying to do battle with another Henry of Lancaster, but this time, the roles were reversed: York wore the crown and Lancaster mounted the challenge.

With Northumberland trusted to bring several thousand to swell Richard’s force, and Stanley another five thousand or so, Richard hoped that this Henry would turn tail and run, but a dark cloud of treachery hung over Richard as he contemplated the recent intelligence that Northumberland had failed to muster any men in York, citing plague as an excuse. York was Richard’s stronghold, and thus he had managed to impress upon the mayor the urgency of his need for loyal men. At the last minute, York had done its best to answer the call. There was, thus, a niggling doubt in Richard’s mind about Henry Percy, earl of Northumberland, and an even larger doubt about Thomas and William Stanley. He knew between the two brothers there were four thousand men at somebody’s disposal; his gut told him he could not count on their being at his.

Richard entered Leicester by the Gallowsgate on Friday, the nineteenth day of August, and was greeted by cheering citizens and throngs of soldiers from all parts of the country shouting his name. The sight gave him tremendous confidence, and he began to believe his crown was secure. He reined in his great white courser along the route to the castle to address his faithful followers.

“I thank you from my heart for this welcome, good people of Leicester. I well remember my warm reception here after my crowning. It is good to know I have your loyalty in the face of the invader, and, as loyalty is my watchword, I give you my word I will beat him back into the sea from whence he came and keep our kingdom safe. It is my sacred duty.”

“God save King Richard! God save the king!” rang from the rooftops as Richard proceeded through the narrow streets to the castle overlooking the River Soar. Waiting for him were those he trusted most, and he slid off White Syrie’s back to greet his heir, earl of Lincoln, Francis Lovell, Jack Howard, Robert Brackenbury, Lord Ferrers, and his own son, John, the lad’s eyes shining with pride.

After thanking them all for heeding his call to arms, Richard led the way inside the castle to be briefed. As they crossed the great hall to the smaller audience chamber, Richard drew Francis aside. “I have a favor to ask,” he said. “I would be grateful if you kept my son out of the fighting this time. He is only fifteen, and although eager to prove himself, he is too young for battle. Besides, his mother would never forgive me if aught happened to him.” Francis grinned and agreed.

Jack Howard opened the strategy meeting by ruefully admitting: “Richmond has gathered a goodly number on his way, our scouts report. More than we anticipated. They are two days’ march from here, led by Oxford.”

“Where is Northumberland?” Richard asked.

“On the road south, I am informed,” young John of Lincoln replied, eagerly, “with more than five thousand.”

Was he the only one who questioned Percy’s loyalty, Richard wondered, but he nodded. “That is good news. And what of my lord Stanley?” He hoped he sounded nonchalant.

Silence.

“God damn him to Hell!” Richard shouted and his fist hit the table. “Not even a word?” Jack slowly shook his gray head.

Always able to calm Richard, Francis Lovell stepped forward. “It is not to say he won’t be here, Your Grace. We should not count him out—yet, although we know his brother did not hinder Richmond in Wales.”

“Such perfidy,” Richard muttered and turned to John Kendall. “The charts, John. Let us look at our battlefield options.”

A few minutes later, the lords were gathered, heads bent poring over the map, when Rob Percy entered the room and whispered in Richard’s ear.

“Excuse me, my lords,” Richard said, and exited with Rob, who gave him the thick envelope, bowed and left.

Instantly recognizing Kate’s untidy lettering, he frowned; he had no time for anything but the upcoming fight. Curious, however, he opened the crudely sealed parchment and Kate’s little gold ring fell into his palm. What this time, he wondered.

I must see you, Richard. I beg of you, do not deny me, although I know you are occupied. I am staying with Master Roger Wygston on Church Lane. I await your summons. Yours truly always, Kate.

Richard folded the paper and smiled to himself. Aye, you have always been true to me, Kate. But what, in Christ’s name, are you doing in Leicester?

“Get out!” Richard’s voice carried into the great hall, where several of his friends exchanged meaningful looks. His raised voice was becoming an all-too familiar sound as Richard’s knights went about their business, some checking their weapons and armor or giving instructions to their squires, and others writing letters to their wives.

Into the hubbub walked John of Gloucester escorting his widowed mother to see his father. Kate hesitated on hearing Richard’s repeated “Get out!” as a clerk escaped from the audience chamber on the run, clutching his bonnet.

“Fear not, Mother, he will see you,” John reassured her, “although your news will not make him any less quarrelsome.”

“Kate! Kate Haute!” Jack’s warm baritone made her turn only to find herself in a fatherly embrace. “So, my bold girl, you made it here safely,” Jack said, releasing her. “I was not pleased you left Tendring with only two escorts at such a dangerous time, but then Margaret and I have known you so long, why should I be surprised at anything you do, Kate. I do not envy you having to face,” and he jerked his head towards the audience chamber, “him. Sadly, he is not the cheerful young man I remember. Your news can’t wait, I suppose? Nay, it cannot,” he agreed as she shook her head.

“Keep yourself safe, Jack Howard,” Kate said, kissing his cheek. “Margaret is waiting impatiently for you to come home. And then, no more fighting.”

Jack forced a laugh. “I promise you, this is the last time, my dear Kate.”

John boldly knocked on the door and ushered Kate through to the untidy office. Richard swiveled round, a frown creasing his face, but when he saw Kate, deep in her curtsey, he bent and raised her to her feet, his frown erased.

“I think I shall have to claim this ring now,” he said, holding it out to her. “God’s greeting, lady. You are a sight for this soldier’s tired eyes.”

“And greetings to you, too, my lord,” she replied, replacing the love token on her finger. “Forgive my untimely visit, but this could not wait.”

He drew her to a bench, and they sat down. “What is it, Kate? You’ve been crying.” And then he knew.

“Is it Katherine? Is she ill? I heard she was with child. Has she lost it? Speak, please.”

Kate nodded. “Aye, it is our daughter, Richard. I am so sorry to tell you that she died in my arms a week ago.” She waited for a reaction, but Richard just stared at her, unseeing, his crowded brain and empty heart unable to process more ill tidings. “I could not merely write to you of this, could I? I had to come in person.” She took his hands. “She was so precious to you, I know, and I could not bear to have you hear the dreadful news on your own or from someone else. Selfishly, too, I needed to share my grief with you.”

Richard clutched at Kate’s hands, and his throat constricted. He wanted to weep for his beautiful daughter, but it seemed he had no more tears. Kate gently opened his hands and put into them a folded strip of velvet containing a long lock of shining auburn hair tied in black ribbon.

Richard gazed at the glossy tress and touched it reverently. “Ah, my sweet Katherine! Never was a father prouder of his poppet.” He looked up at the mother of his beloved child and asked, “How did she die?”

“’Twas the sweating sickness. She came to visit me from Wales and apparently she brought it with her…”

“Aye,” Richard interrupted harshly,” I know all about the sweating sickness that Richmond’s mercenaries carried with them. Now I have even more reason to run the bastard through.” He looked down at the auburn tress and carefully folded it back in the material, tucking it into his doublet.

“Wear it for luck when you fight, Richard. Katherine will keep you safe.”

She moved closer and rested her head on his shoulder, and there they sat for a few quiet moments mourning together until, with growing fury, Richard pushed her aside, picked up his crown and flung it at the crucifix on the wall. Fearful, Kate rose and backed away.

“Richard…Richard I beg of you…Contain yourself! What has happened to my gentle Richard?”

“What happened?” he spat back at her. “What happened?” He picked up the dented circlet and shook it at her. “This happened! This crown has brought nothing but death. First Ned, then Anne, now Katherine.” His heart was cold stone, and his back ached. He kneaded his shoulder with his thumbs. “Now I know I am cursed. God has marked me, and I am finished trying to appease him.” Confronting the emaciated Jesus whose hollowed, agonized eyes bored into him from the cross. Richard snarled, “Look not on me thus. I, too, have sacrificed and suffered. I suppose You will not be satisfied until I am dead? I wish Richmond would walk in here this minute and put an end to me.” He gave a harsh laugh. “Then I could join Lucifer in the flames of hell, where I belong.”

Kate dared to touch him then, but he flung her aside, needing to be alone.

“You are not cursed, Richard.” Desperate, she tried again. “You are a loyal and dutiful servant of God—and England. God cannot…He will not forsake you.” She boldly ran on, “You have a son who adores you and looks to you as an example. He is right outside. Be strong for him. He will not forsake you, and neither will I. Someday Dickon, too, will know the truth, and be proud. You cannot go into battle from such a dark place in your heart. It only tempts Fate.” She wrung her hands. “Damn my rashness. I should not have added to your burdens by coming here. I should have waited until after your victory. Forgive me, my love! I beg of you, forgive me.”

With supreme effort Richard pulled himself together and turned to her, his torment plain. “Nay, ’tis you that should forgive me,” he said, carefully placing the crown on the table. He took her hands in his, unable to resist her pleading eyes. “Know this, Kate Haute, that you have always owned a piece of my heart.” He reached inside his undershirt and pulled out the écu. “You see, you are always with me, God help me. And every time I saw Katherine or John, you were with me.” He replaced the coin and patted his heart. “You and Katherine will ride with me on the morrow, and thus protected, I cannot lose.” He paused. Despite his words, he suddenly felt fear, and, cursing, he turned away to hide it. She should not have come, and yet he hated his weakness for needing her.

With his back to her, he gently but firmly said, “Now please go. I have more pressing matters to attend to.” He felt cruel, but she, too, had been cruel coming with such news on the eve of what would more than likely be the most important day of his life. “Go!”

Kate swallowed a sob and left without a word. He sank down on the bench, pulled out his daughter’s strand of hair and finally allowed tears of sorrow to darken its green velvet covering.

Richard tried to concentrate on billeting and the mustering of troops that continued to arrive, but thoughts of Katherine clouded his mind. By the time he had laid his head uneasily on his pillow at the Blue Boar Inn, he could not remember any of the orders he had given nor what his scouts had told him. (It did not help that he had consumed an entire gallon of claret, hoping the ruby elixir would work as a sleeping draught.) Was Henry two days or one away from the royal army? How many did they say the earl had brought with him? Where was Stanley? And had Northumberland come? Instead of conjuring those crucial answers given him by manly voices, he heard Katherine’s sunny laughter and oft-repeated, “Don’t you know, ’tis you I love best, Father?” When he closed his eyes, he saw so vividly her jaunty smile and toss of the head that the image made him open them quickly to confirm she was not real. Soon Katherine’s face dissolved into Kate’s youthful one, and his mind returned to a day by a stream where, naked, he and Kate had frolicked in the icy water and conceived John. He banished the vision, immediately remorseful for the unkind way he had dismissed his erstwhile mistress that day.

Before the wine did its soporific work, he put out his hand to feel Anne next to him and touching nothing but a cold sheet, he turned in that direction, willing her come to him. “I think it will not be long before I shall join you and Ned, dear Anne,” he murmured. “I pray that through your goodness you have interceded for me with God Almighty, and He will welcome me to Heaven.”

A sudden shocking thought occurred to him and he abruptly sat up. “King Henry!” he moaned into the darkness. Christ’s pity, Anne, he thought, you must now know my fearful secret, and I beg of you to understand that I performed the execution myself out of respect for the harmless, saintly man. Edward commanded it, and therefore it would have been done—one way or another. Better I than some paid, sadistic henchman.

Tucking his body around the pillow, he held it as if Anne were giving him comfort. Finally he slept.