Chapter Seventeen

1470–71

For the second time in his eighteen years, Richard found himself an exile, staring glumly over a carrack’s gunwale at England’s receding shoreline on his way to Burgundy. How did it come to this? Over and over again, he had asked himself the same question during the three weeks between Warwick’s landing and the king’s inglorious flight. At the outset, Edward seemed to have been well received on his journey north, notably for his merciful treatment of the rebels (excepting the very worst offenders), and relative calm had returned to the northern regions of his kingdom.

However, Richard rued now, his brother had more than once ignored the intelligence from his brother-in-law, Charles the Bold, that Warwick was on the brink of invading. And he invaded. Moreover, despite hearing that Warwick and Clarence were on the march for London and had been joined by Oxford, Jasper Tudor, Shrewsbury, and Lord Stanley, Edward had still not moved—until it was too late. And then, when he did march south, he hesitated near Nottingham, looking for John Neville, Lord Montagu, to bring his force to join him. How could Edward not guess that his bad judgment regarding Montagu would provide this final ignominy, Richard wondered. For Montagu, still smarting from the loss of the Northumberland earldom, had turned his coat and become Edward’s enemy. It could have been another “I told you so” moment for Richard, but watching his brother visibly crumple in his saddle as the messenger breathlessly relayed the news, Richard had instead urged his horse beside Edward’s and laid a brotherly hand on the king’s shoulder.

“It was bound to happen, Ned,” Richard had said, “but for now, we need a plan.”

“Aye, we do,” said Will Hastings, who had ridden up on Edward’s other side. He was joined by the remaining lords in Edward’s party, and with their encouragement the king had made the only sensible decision. Just as his father had done at Ludlow ten years earlier, he had been forced to choose flight. “We must go if we are to gather our strength again and defeat Warwick and Margaret. We must sail to Flanders,” the king told the group. “Where is the nearest port from here?”

Anthony Woodville had spoken up then: “Bishop’s Lynn is close to my wife’s lands, and I am well known there.”

“What is that noise?” Richard recalled saying. His sharp young ears had heard something more ominous to the west of them. “Good Christ, can that be Montagu already? We must go.”

Always best in a crisis, Edward, made a quick decision. He shouted thanks to his soldiers and told them to return to their respective homes. He also dispatched a messenger to his queen at Westminster to tell her to take sanctuary in the abbey. He appeared composed, but his eyes had been alive with adventure when he wheeled his horse around to face east and led his party of nobles and squires in a gallop across the flat countryside of Lincolnshire to the North Sea. All they had to do was cross the treacherous body of water known as The Wash, which had swamped many a vessel and drowned many a sailor in its unusual tides over the centuries, and reach Lynn.

Richard frowned as he remembered watching helplessly when one of the small boats had indeed capsized as the Wash claimed yet more victims, dragged down by their mail. Bedraggled and exhausted, the small royal party had clambered aboard the two merchant ships turned over to the king at Lynn and almost immediately set sail with nothing but the clothes on their backs.

Richard turned to look at Edward now, standing alone in the bow of the larger of the two vessels and staring disconsolately at the unending sparkling waves that stretched on and on to meet the sky. How low he must feel, Richard mused. All that was missing was an attack by pirates!

The ships that appeared from nowhere were not pirates, but almost as dangerous.

“Easterlings!” the boy in the crow’s nest cried to his captain. “Off the starboard bow!”

“Hard to port!” the captain shouted. “We shall make for Holland and not Flanders.”

Edward walked unsteadily along the rolling deck to Richard. “God is not on my side this time,” he groused. “My trade policy towards the greedy Hansards has made them enemies of a sort. They have been attacking our ships to spite us. ’Twill be ironic if I am carried off as their prisoner to some godforsaken German hellhole after all this.”

Richard grinned. “In some perverse way, I hope they do catch us just to see the look of surprise when they realize who is on board. But, it seems our ships are lighter and faster. See the gap widens between us, praise God.”

“The optimist for once,” Edward said, putting his arm about his brother’s shoulder. “Sweet Jesu, but this has been a trial. Let us hope Duke Charles can give us all shelter in Bruges.”

The trial was not over, however, because upon reaching the flat sandy shore of Holland, the English ships’ entry into Alkmaar harbor was prevented by the low tide. Thwarted, it looked as though the pursuing Hansards would indeed capture them. But at last God smiled on the English king and gave them a rescuer. Louis de Gruthuyse, Duke Charles’s governor in Holland, happened to be visiting Alkmaar and upon hearing the English king was trapped off his shore, sent small boats to deliver him safely to dry land. It helped that the seigneur was the same man who had generously housed the young York princes, George and Richard, in Bruges ten years before. Richard was delighted to greet the elder statesman again, albeit with a measure of embarrassment that once more members of the York family needed a refuge, and further, they were penniless. Edward had only his fur-lined cloak with which to pay the ship’s captain. The wealthy Gruthuyse, however, gladly provided for his royal guests and offered to escort them to The Hague.

“Your sister, our beloved duchess Margaret, will repay me, I have no doubt,” he told the king, chuckling. “She and I have books in common, and I am sure there are one or two she would relinquish in exchange for my hospitality to you.”

Thus, forced to accept Gruthuyse’s kind offer, Edward, Richard and others of the king’s closest adherents, spent the winter in The Hague in relative luxury, all the while plotting their return. The bad news from England those first weeks under the new Warwick-Henry regime told of riots in the cities and a much-angered merchant body in London. King Henry reigned, but Warwick ruled.

The exiles then learned of their attainders. Warwick now deemed that Edward was King Henry’s “greatest rebel and enemy, usurper, oppressor and destroyer of our said sovereign lord.”

“Such a hypocrite,” Edward had scoffed when he heard, and Richard had to agree; how had it all come to this?

Then, in November, came good news. After three daughters, Elizabeth Woodville had borne Edward’s son and heir in Westminster sanctuary. “At last,” Edward rejoiced and promptly spent the evening carousing with Hastings in the taverns of The Hague. This time, Richard happily joined in the celebrations.

As the tavern wench refilled their tankards, Richard tapped the side of it with his heavy signet ring, claiming Edward’s attention from the serving girl. “I have been saving something of my own to share at the right moment,” he said, “and this is as good a time as any. I have two children. A daughter, Katherine, and my son, John, was born last March.”

Had Richard been in possession of an apple at that moment, he could have easily stopped Edward’s open mouth with it. “You had not guessed? I know you suspected I had a paramour, Ned. You even asked me about Kate the night she sang at Margaret’s farewell banquet. You were right, she is my love.”

Edward closed his mouth and shook his head, his long locks swinging freely. “You sly fox, and, I might add, hypocrite; my lord of Warwick has nothing on you, brother. All those homilies about my wanton ways, and you sit here calmly telling me you have sired two bastards already at eighteen?” He chuckled and then he laughed. “And there I was thinking you were a sanctimonious prick. Why have you not sought my permission to wed? At least I wed Elizabeth so I could bed her.”

Richard had the grace to look sheepish. “Kate is the daughter of a Kentish farmer—although her mother is vaguely related to the Hautes—the Richard Haute who owns Ightham Mote. She knew when we first…er…when…well, you know,” he tailed off awkwardly. “She knows ’tis impossible, and that I must take a wife one day who befits my rank. But unlike you, Ned, I have been loyal to only her.”

Edward let out a low whistle. “Then I admire you, little brother. To have found a paramour as lovely as your Kate—remember her, Will? She of the long russet hair who sang like an angel. Nicely done, Richard. I envy you.”

Richard shot back, “Why should you? I thought Elizabeth was your love and your wife. ’Tis why I have a hard time understanding why you…er…why you wander.” Richard wondered if he had gone too far, but Edward was in his cups and in a benevolent mood.

“To each his own needs and desires,” Edward said, raising his cup and scanning the room. “Now where has that little baggage gone.”

Richard gave up and gave in to his own cup of wine.

“This is good news, Ned. You can be sure Meg had a hand in it,” Richard surmised, when the brothers had been given leave to meet with Duke Charles in Aire. Formerly a staunch Lancastrian supporter, the duke had been forced to change his allegiance now his enemy Louis was hand in glove with Lancastrians against him. “I am looking forward to seeing our sister again tomorrow, are you not?”

Edward harrumphed. “She can be a force, I have to confess, but aye, ’twill be good to witness Meg in her new role. And I shall expect an impassioned plea from her on behalf of George. Poor George, he must be much disillusioned by all of Warwick’s false promises.”

It was Richard’s turn to harrumph. “Poor George indeed!” he spat. “He is not a charming child anymore, Ned. He grew up getting his own way so many times, he never learned how to handle disappointment well. I will wager he is knowing it now. He is his own worst enemy.”

“Careful, little brother,” Edward warned. “Your jealous side is showing.”

Although Edward came from the meeting with an agreement from Charles to fund his return to England with men and ships, it took another six weeks to ready his little flotilla. Unfortunately, a storm blew the ships off course, separating them. When the mortified master of their ship informed Richard they were making for a little-known spot named Ravenspur, Richard’s grin astonished the captain. “Just like Bolingbroke!” he cried. “We are landing in the same spot as the fourth Henry did when he came to depose his cousin Richard back in…” he frowned trying to remember the date.

“1399,” John Parr reminded him as the captain looked blank. “’Tis a good sign, my lord.”

“Sweet Virgin, I hope you are right,” Richard replied, scanning the horizon. “Although where Ned and the others are now, is anyone’s guess, God help us.”

As luck would have it, all of Edward’s commanders were separated in the storm, but his little army of five hundred, now on foot, were joined the very next day by Richard, Rivers, and Hastings with their companies. Just as Henry of Bolingbroke had experienced, no welcoming peasantry greeted them as they began to march into the heart of Yorkshire, and in fact the town of Kingston on Hull refused entry to the former king. It was when Edward chose to use exactly the same ruse as that distant cousin that he gradually began to win people to his side.

“I come not to claim the crown,” he cried at each market cross, “but to claim what is rightfully mine: the duchy of York.” And he would proclaim in a loud, clear voice: “I am King Henry’s loyal subject. God save the king.”

How short men’s memories were, Richard thought, for just like Bolingbroke, the ruse worked. And thanks to the grateful earl of Northumberland’s northern influence, the path to York was cleared and he began to gather men. However, York was the only city that opened its gates, and then allowed only Edward himself to enter, insisting the army remain a safe distance away. “As long as you are simply reclaiming your duchy,” the mayor told Edward, “you—and a few of your lords—are welcome.”

Richard was dazzled by his brother’s talent for seducing an audience. He knew he would never be an orator like Edward nor have the physical stature to impress, but he watched and learned. So regal did Edward appear to the crowds curiously watching him ride through the gate, they did not question the three-ostrich-feather emblem of the prince of Wales he wore as heir apparent.

“Will that not enflame them, Ned?” Richard had asked.

“King Henry promised that a York would follow him to the throne that day in the Star Chamber, did he not?” Edward had replied. “You were there. Father is dead, and if I am no longer king, then I am still heir to the throne—still prince of Wales.”

Richard had laughed outright. “But we are all attainted, Edward. You have no claim to anything.”

Edward grinned. “Wait and see, little brother. I will have them eating out of my hand.”

And he did. A few hours later, Edward’s army was permitted to enter the city and avail themselves of a decent meal and beds for the night.

“Long live King Henry!” Edward cried as he stood outside the mighty minster and addressed the crowd before attending mass. “I am here solely to reclaim my duchy of York. Who will join me?”

By the time Edward marched on Nottingham, he had a veritable army in his wake.

Drawing near to Coventry a few days later, where Edward knew his adversary Warwick was trapped in its castle, he stood up in his stirrups and addressed his troops. “I am now convinced King Henry and his mouthpiece, Richard Neville, earl of Warwick, are not fit to rule our fair land,” he cried. “Let it be known far and wide that I, Edward of York, now challenge the earl to come out and fight me man to man for the right to rule.” Shouting above the cheering, he added: “I shall seek to reclaim the throne of England!”

Not surprisingly, Warwick stubbornly refused to take up the challenge.

“He is waiting for Clarence,” a spy from the castle told Edward. “He expects the duke to join him with his army from the west.”

“George,” Richard said under his breath. “I was wondering where he was.”

“And how close is my brother?” Edward demanded.

The nervous man simpered. “The last I heard, he was at Banbury,

Your Grace.”

Edward gave the man a coin and dismissed him. To Richard, Hastings, Rivers, and three other commanders, he ordered: “To horse, and arm yourselves. You will ride with me.”

Richard rode up alongside his brother a mile distant from the army, the raised visor on his helmet revealing anxious eyes.

“What are we doing, Ned? We are but eight against an army we know not how large.”

“Never underestimate the element of surprise, Richard,” Edward said, a gleam in his eye. “Did you not learn that during your henchman days at Middleham? George may know we are at Coventry and think he can pin us between his army and whatever force Warwick has inside the castle. I would wager a jewel from my stolen crown that he will not be expecting me alone.” He chuckled, scratching his nose. “Still puzzled? Then I will enlighten you. Despite his association with Warwick, George, as we have surmised, must be deeply disillusioned with the earl by now. I am hoping that by appealing to him in this way he will see that we—you and I—still think on him as our brother, as family. I think he will not raise his sword against us when we have no army at our back.”

Richard gave a low whistle of understanding. “You hope to use him, but will you forgive him? Will he even believe that?”

“His vanity will believe it, my dear Dickon. You, on the other hand, have never needed flattery for me to win you to my side.”

Richard grinned. “But it helps,” he said. Hearing his childhood name so warmly spoken had nevertheless touched Richard deeply. George wasn’t the only one Edward could charm.

And what further awed Richard was that Edward’s plan worked brilliantly. As soon as he saw the small group led by Edward and Richard, George slipped out of his saddle and in front of his troops knelt in front of his brothers and begged forgiveness. Had Richard been in Edward’s place, he would have been less inclined to grant it, but then he had seen Edward be merciful time and time again with his enemies not to mention George—sometimes to his cost—and knew it was in his nature to be so. He admired Edward for it, but he did not always agree. He would have found a way for George to pay for his treason; he did not think he would be merciful.

With his arm around both brothers, a much relieved Edward grinned. “On to London, boys! Oh, won’t Mother be pleased.”

Despite the turmoil the fleeing Edward had left behind in London the previous year, the capital city gave the Yorkist king a triumphant welcome. Henry was safely back in the Tower, the saintly, frail monarch deprived of his crown for the second time. Ever the conciliator, he had shown no rancor when Edward met with him at the archbishop of York’s episcopal palace, where Henry had been the guest of the archbishop, George Neville. “My cousin of York,” he had said to Edward, “you are very welcome. I know that in your hands my life will not be in danger.”

Although the words had disarmed him, Edward had no choice but to confine Henry in the Tower alongside the archbishop and several other lords and bishops. As the reinstated constable, Richard saw to it that the deposed king was made comfortable in his new quarters.

“You have grown into a fine young man,” Henry told him as Richard turned to leave the chamber. “I trust your Latin has improved.”

Richard could not forbear to smile. “Thanks to your treasured gift, my lord, it has,” he said. “As well, my time at the law courts forced me to apply myself.” He bowed. “Usque ad alteram diem.”

“Amen,” the weary Henry replied. “I pray there is another day.”

If Edward had been careless enough to lose his crown the previous September, he was not about to allow Warwick to outwit him again. Richard marveled at how his brother could be indolent, profligate, and imprudent one day and resolute, valiant, and in control the next. Crises fueled Edward’s natural leadership skills; routine bored him into inaction.

There was no inaction now, Richard confided to Rob as they rode out of London the day before Easter. Richard’s White Boar adorned the murrey-and-blue standard that stood stiff from its bearer’s staff and marked the duke of Gloucester’s troops in the long procession. “’Tis said Warwick, Montagu, Oxford and the rest have a force of twenty thousand and are at St. Alban’s. Even with the arrival of many of our supporters in the last two days, we cannot be more than nine thousand. And within a day, here we are marching to do battle,” he said proudly. “But then, Ned does believe in the element of surprise. He hopes Warwick will expect us to stay put in the city for the Easter celebrations, and he would be wrong. That would be the old Ned.”

Rob tried to relieve an itch under his layers of protective clothing and squirmed in his saddle. “Won’t Warwick be astonished. But his grace, your brother, is right. Had we stayed in the city, a force that large would overrun London and leave us fleeing yet again.”

Richard agreed. “Only this time, George would come with us, not against us,” he said, nodding his head to where George rode alone nearby. George had hardly spoken to Richard since returning to the family fold, and Duchess Cecily, who was in residence at Baynard’s and had welcomed her boys home, had spent many an hour with her wayward son, lecturing and praying.

“Have pity on him, Richard. It was a lot of pride he had to swallow,” Rob counseled.

Richard shook his head. “I cannot pity him. He rebelled against his king—his own brother.” Then he chuckled. “But I don’t envy him all those hours of tongue-lashing from our lady mother.”

At that moment, Edward himself left the head of his troops and cantered back to Richard.

“My lord of Gloucester,” Edward called so the men who marched under the White Boar could hear. “If we engage tomorrow, you are to command the van. You have more than earned the honor. I pray you, make our father proud.”

Richard flushed first with pride and then felt something more akin to fear. Leading the vanguard meant engaging the enemy first and setting the stage for the rest of the fighting. His own acceptance of the command was drowned out by the rousing cheers from his men—many of them veterans from Richard’s forays into Wales—who chanted “A Gloucester, à Gloucester!”

Rob reached over and slapped him on the back. “’Tis well deserved, my lord.”

Edward saluted his brother, wheeled his horse around and cantered back to his place. Richard could not help but glance at George, whose humiliation at being passed over for his younger brother showed in his ramrod posture and steely eyes fixed on the road ahead. A small part of Richard felt a modicum of pity; most of him felt justified.

Richard was not alone among Edward’s commanders who thought the king had taken leave of his senses, but Hastings was the only one who braved the question: “Advance in the dark?”

Edward’s spies had revealed Warwick was on a ridge straddled across the Great North Road half a mile from the village of Barnet. Clearly, Warwick was ready for Edward, but, expecting the Yorkist army to rest the night in the town and advance at first light, he was unaware that Edward’s nine thousand men were creeping forward in the dark and silently settling down right under the earl’s nose. There would be no campfires for the Yorkists that night.

The morning mist rising with the soldiers at dawn was a mixed blessing on that Easter Day. Assuming Edward would be advancing from the village but not being able to see through the brume, Warwick began to fire off his cannons and other artillery in the direction of St. Alban’s. The missiles sailed over Edward’s army, already close, and harmlessly exploded too far. From the other side, Edward’s all-important archers were not given leave to fire for fear of hitting their own men, so close together were the armies in so dense a fog.

Richard could barely see as far as his sword point and was thus dismayed to realize his van first needed to wade through marshy ground at the foot of the rise to attack. It was not the last time a bog was to play a part in his life in the winning or losing of a battle. On this day, it was the making of his name as a soldier; he fought valiantly and his troops held the line for Edward, which was no easy task.

In the dark the night before, however, Edward had overestimated the position of Warwick’s left flank, under the duke of Exeter. He had positioned Richard too far right, so that Richard’s men were advancing up the hill without Exeter facing them and thus leaving the Yorkists with no one to attack. Peering through the murky miasma, Richard could hear the cries of Exeter’s soldiers to his left, and realizing what had occurred rallied his own men to swing around and attack the side of Exeter’s force. Squelching through the mud, he raised his sword and shouted, “à York, à York!” so many times, his lungs hurt. He began thrusting at the men who came out of the mist to attack him.

Both armies had made the decision to fight on foot, which meant hand-to-hand combat was slow and exhausting. Time and again, Richard cried out to his men to follow him and with superhuman strength, he never gave in to the larger and more organized force that Exeter was commanding. At one point, as he sliced a man’s gullet with one expert move, he remembered that Exeter was his brother-in-law—a vicious brute who had abused Richard’s sister, Anne, before they were estranged. He looked for the standard of the three royal lions passant, near which Henry Holland would most likely be, but in the fog he could only see the enemy within his sword arm and so he kept swinging.

Rob was close by as was one of Richard’s Welsh retainers, John Milewater, both covered in blood and breathing hard. An enormous yeoman, his leather helmet lost and his eyes filled with blood-lust came charging at the lanky John with an axe, sliced off the man’s arm and then split his skull in two. Richard groaned as memories of Piers Taggett flashed into his mind, and giving a shout of anger he lifted his sword with two hands and brought it down on the surprised assailant’s head, spilling brains onto the bloodied mud.

For three hours the battle raged, and Richard’s line never broke. He had no idea what was happening elsewhere in the field, but suddenly he heard angry shouts of, “Treason! Treason!” and wondered which side was committing it. At that moment, Edward’s messenger managed to find Richard and gave him the king’s command to hold on as the battle was turning in their favor. Momentarily distracted, he failed to notice the billman to his left, who wielded his deadly hooked pole with enough power to cut through Richard’s mail and heavy padded gambeson and into the flesh of his left arm. He cried out in pain, but pivoting with his sword sweeping sideways in a wide arc and with such force that he almost sliced the unfortunate man’s torso from his legs.

“You all right, Richard?” he heard Rob call. “Aye, ’tis a scratch,” he lied, feeling the blood dripping out of his sleeve. “Sweet Jesu, I am tired. How much longer can we hold?”

And as though the Almighty had heard his plea, a cry went up from the enemy’s ranks, “Montagu is fallen! Warwick flees!” and trampling over their dead comrades and throwing down their weapons, the Lancastrian soldiers took flight. A shout of triumph erupted from the center of the melée, and Richard heard the words in his heart of hearts he had dreaded hearing. “Warwick is slain!” You could have avoided this, cousin, he thought grimly. But then he recognized his brother’s jubilant voice: “The battle is won, lads! God is with us!” and all thoughts of Warwick were put aside as he and his exhausted soldiers took up Edward’s cheer.

Richard, too, praised his men: “Thanks to you, the battle’s won. Thanks to God for taking our side.” He walked slowly through their ranks, a smile here and a slap on the back there, asking his men to hold their dead comrades in their prayers, and sending up an ave for John Milewater and the others he had lost that day. And then he sought medical help for his own flesh wound. Where is Constance when I need her?

It was on the march back to London that Richard asked Edward: “And what of Warwick, Ned. How did he fall?”

Edward’s face was stern. “I had given the order to take the earl, not murder him,” he growled. “Some enthusiastic lads took matters into their own hands when they saw him running for his horse and brought him down. They disobeyed my order and will be punished, I can assure you. I was too late to save him, and when I did arrive on the scene, the man was already stripped naked.”

Richard was silent. For some reason, he was imagining Anne Neville’s sadness upon hearing of her beloved father’s death. “Did they have to despoil him? Such an undignified end for such a noble man.” He shuddered, praying his own misshapen body would never suffer that ignominy.

“He was a traitor, Richard!” Edward snapped. “Had I caught him, he would have been publicly executed.” He wiped his sweaty face with the back of his hand and looked surprised when it came away scarlet. “We must be thankful George was not among them, or I would have been faced with condemning him as well.”

Richard glanced back over his shoulder to where a weary George was riding with his own cronies further back in the cavalcade. He frowned. “Knowing you as I do, Ned, I feel sure he would have found forgiveness from you yet again. Certes, you must be a better man than I, because I know I would not have forgiven him. Of all of mankind’s failings, surely disloyalty is the most abhorrent.”

Richard, weakened from his wound and bone-tired, was never so glad to see anyone in his whole life as he was to see Kate, who was anxiously leaning out over the second story balustrade in Baynard’s inner courtyard. He had smuggled her and his two children into the castle a day or two before the battle when his mother was at prayer. Their reunion had been sweet, and made all the sweeter for the presence of little Katherine and one-year-old John. He had not seen his son since the child’s birth, and his delight in the lad was heartwarming for Kate. He had not been able to stop dandling the child and marveling. John, unlike Katherine, who resembled her mother, had Richard’s own chin, gray eyes, and straight dark hair, although the boy had Farmer Bywood’s solid build.

“A Bywood and a Plantagenet,” Kate had remarked. “Good solid stock, I would say.”

Now collapsing onto the soft feather bed after Kate had lovingly removed his blood- and sweat-stained clothing, he wished she were truly his wife and helpmeet. Kate inspected the wound and sent her servant, Molly, to fetch her traveling supply of potions together with a needle and silk thread. He winced as she expertly sewed up the ugly gash. “You told me you hated sewing, my love,” he teased, “and that you are the worst seamstress, yet this looks to be skillfully done.”

“Fiddle-faddle!” Kate retorted, as she dipped her finger in a mustard-colored ointment. “Now hold still, this will hurt.”

Richard fell asleep almost before Kate had finished, but when he awoke much later and the castle still slept, he was overjoyed to find Kate snuggled against him. She felt him stirring and was immediately awake.

“How many men died at Barnet?” she whispered. “Was there anyone I knew…” She had been afraid to ask earlier in case she recognized names. “…Jack Howard? My father-in-law?”

“All in all more than one thousand fell,” Richard said, his heart heavy from all the carnage. “But Jack Howard lives to fight another day. I promise to enquire about Martin Haute for you.”

He rolled onto his back and stared into the darkness, Kate tucked in the crook of his arm. His mind could not help but return to Warwick. “Poor Anne,” he whispered. He felt Kate stiffen.

“Why spoil our time together, Richard,” she complained. Anne Neville’s name had come up before in their infrequent meetings, and Richard had admitted that for some time he had considered making Warwick’s daughter his wife. “Why must you always mention her name? You know how much it hurts me.”

At once contrite, Richard turned on his side and pulled Kate to him, careful to protect his arm. “I have always been honest with you, Kate. You know that my duty is to wed…”

“I know, I know—‘someone of my rank.’ But it does not hurt any the less to know that one day you will have to give me up.” A note of pleading came into her voice. “You would not have to, in truth, even if you were married.”

Richard sighed. “You know me well by now, sweet Kate. You know that cannot be.”

“Aye. Your morality will not allow a mistress, will it? Sweet Jesu, sometimes I wish you were not so God-fearing!” She stroked his cheek and sighed. Then she giggled. “We shall just have to make the most of our times together, won’t we? And thank the Almighty for sending Edouard to wed Anne, which will delay our parting—at least until someone else acceptable comes along.”

Richard pulled her close. “Until then, my dearest rose.”

Every scrap of clothing Richard wore was thick with the dust kicked up by four thousand men marching at double quick time in pursuit of the enemy. This time it was the Yorkists’ original enemy, Margaret of Anjou and her commanders, Somerset, Lord Wenlock, the earl of Devon, and her son, Edouard.

“My crown is not safe unless we prevent the She-wolf joining forces with Tudor in Wales,” Edward had said to his own commanders upon hearing the news that Queen Margaret had landed in the west country and was gathering men to her banner in that Lancastrian part of the kingdom. He sent out commissions of array to fifteen counties, and by the time his army marched out of Windsor on the twenty-fourth day of April, he had amassed a considerable force. History would show that Edward acted decisively and with intelligence in his bid to thwart Margaret’s effort to reclaim the crown for her husband and son.

By this time, Edward’s troops would have followed their magnificent leader into the regions of Hades, and at the wicked pace up and down the Cotswold Hills, they had an inkling of what those hellfires must be like. Both armies raced against time—Margaret to cross the Severn somewhere and find safety in Wales, and Edward to stop her. Although on horseback, Richard often chose to dismount and march alongside his tired and thirsty men. Rob teased his friend: “Why must you show yourself no better than they? The common folk probably think you are as foolish as I do.”

On the evening of the third day of May, after a grueling thirty-six miles, the royal army camped a few miles south of where the Lancastrians had taken up a defensive position near Tewkesbury. The only way to cross the Severn was a ford that was tantalizingly close.

“Gloucester, you will command the van,” Edward told his brother, as they studied his battle strategy. He once again excluded George, who pretended nonchalance. “George you will ride with my center, and Lord Hastings has the right flank. Aye, we are tired, but the enemy is more so—my spies tell me they have marched relentlessly for a full day and a night. And thanks to my commanding the constable of Gloucester to refuse them entry, they have had no supplies since Bristol. We shall have the edge.” He drummed his fingers on the table, making the small pieces of wood representing his divisions jump up and down. “You know our aim: we must remove the threat to the crown permanently. We must kill or take Edouard of Lancaster or there will never be peace.” He leveled his gaze at each of them in turn until they nodded. “Now get some sleep,” he ordered.

Richard and George left the tent together. “You know I could command as well as you, don’t you?” George said.

Arrogant prick, Richard thought. “Aye, I do not doubt you think that, George, but you have no one to blame but yourself, and I cannot pity you. Do you blame Edward for wanting to keep you close? To me you are no less a traitor than Warwick.” He strode off to his own tent.

George glared after his younger brother. “Runt,” he muttered, “and a deformed runt at that.”

The battle of Tewkesbury, with the magnificent abbey standing sentinel a half mile away, was a decisive but bloody climax to the quarrel between cousins. Edward’s four thousand Yorkist soldiers crushed Lancastrian Henry’s five thousand commanded by the duke of Somerset.

Once again, Edward owed much of the triumph to his youngest brother, Richard, whose force at first was taken by surprise by Somerset. But Richard held on valiantly, thanks to some two hundred spearmen concealed in a copse to his left, who at his command suddenly emerged from cover and scattered Somerset’s right flank. As the fleeing Lancastrians raced for sanctuary in the abbey, George and some of his men caught and killed young Edouard, giving George something to crow about and earning Edward’s gratitude.

“He whimpered like a pup,” George told the group gathered around Edward when the fighting was over. “He cried for his mother, poor baby. I killed him in revenge for Edmund.”

“Good for you, George,” Edward said. “But now, we must find Somerset.”

Richard caught George’s eye and acknowledged the revenge with a respectful nod before following the king and others in a search for the Lancastrian leaders. Most had taken sanctuary, but Edward, uncaring of his mortal soul, had them dragged out of the church and put in chains. This time Somerset and his cronies could expect no mercy from Edward, who had pardoned them for previous rebelling. Subsequently the next day, Richard, as constable of England, together with the earl marshal, Norfolk, tried them all for treason and had them executed in the town square. Richard stayed to watch, his heart hard, as one by one the heads rolled. “They should be shown no mercy,” he told Edward. “Not this time.”

His victory complete and his throne secure, Edward could afford to be magnanimous. He prohibited the rebels’ bodies to be quartered and exhibited in public places as was customary but instead had them buried in the churchyard. In deference to his rank, their prince, Edouard, was entombed in the abbey’s nave.

“This business is not finished until we find Margaret,” Edward declared, “but we go north from here. There is more trouble brewing.”

Richard wearily climbed back into the saddle and joined Edward on the road to Coventry. He was not so much thinking about Margaret as wondering what had become of Anne, who was last known to be in the deposed queen’s company. It had occurred to him the night before, as he lay under the stars unable to sleep, that she was now a widow and free to remarry. Despite her childish peskiness at times, he remembered her fondly. They had liked each other then, but would she want him now? Had she loved Edouard in the end? He even wondered if she might be with child. He had sat up then with a “nay!” on his lips. She was not even fourteen, he recalled, so surely the marriage could not have been consummated. And yet…I was only fifteen when Kate conceived our very first time.…Then he had a more disturbing thought about Anne’s possible pregnancy: Her child would be the Lancastrian heir and mean Edward’s hard-fought victory at Tewkesbury would have been for naught. He wondered if Ned had contemplated such an unpropitious circumstance, and if so, would the child even be allowed to enter a Yorkist world. In truth, he thought not. Time alone would tell.

Richard would never forget the triumphant entry into London on the twenty-first day of May, for Edward had given Richard the supreme honor of leading the procession. Londoners were greatly relieved that Edward’s victory at Tewkesbury had also put paid to the recent Lancastrian attacks on their city. With news that northern dissent had also dissolved with the intervention of the earl of Northumberland, there was nothing or no one now to stand in Edward’s way of reclaiming his throne. Tower-bound King Henry had no one to rescue him now.

With Richard rode William Herbert, earl of Pembroke, who had also distinguished himself at Tewkesbury. The two men were about the same age, and Herbert would become a staunch supporter of Richard’s in the years to come. The roar of the crowd as they emerged from under the Bishopsgate caused their horses to shy and the pair exchanged surprised grins at the cheering throngs.

The colorful cavalcade was pelted with flowers—mostly white roses—and the air was filled with clarions and trumpets and the ear-stopping roar of “God save the king,” almost drowning out the pealing of hundreds of church bells. Riding in full armor upon a colossal gray courser and carrying a vicious war hammer, Edward’s majesty was almost mythical. It was as though Thor himself had come amongst them, although no one still believed in the old pagan gods.

Somewhere behind his brothers, George sulked, once again eclipsed by Richard at the head of the procession, and his resentment grew.

It was then Richard saw Kate at the front of the crowd, John clinging to her neck, and Molly holding Katherine by the hand. The little girl was jumping up and down with excitement, and his heart leaped at the sight of his little family. Kate took John’s hand and waved at Richard, who grinned back at her.

“Who is that?” Herbert asked. “She seems to know you.”

“She is an acquaintance of Margaret Howard’s ’tis all. I met her at Tendring,” Richard said with a shrug. A pang of guilt assailed him as he watched Kate. Could he not even acknowledge her or his children to William, who probably had a mistress of his own? He grimaced. What a coward!

But his guilt had more to do with his all-consuming thoughts about Anne Neville at the present moment, which he knew would hurt Kate far more than pretending to Pembroke she meant nothing to him. Once Margaret of Anjou and Anne had been captured following the battle, Richard had been relieved to discover that Anne and Edouard’s marriage had not been consummated. Not only would there be no rival heir, but Anne was free to marry again and would need a husband. Richard was now determined to woo and win her. Soon, his time with Kate would come to a close.

Without warning, there was a change in the crowd’s mood, and jeering replaced the cheering. “It must be for the She-Wolf,” Richard muttered, sorry that he had not prevailed to have Anne ride separately from the erstwhile queen. How shrewd of Edward to include Margaret in the procession, he thought. I warrant she wishes the carriage curtain sides were rolled down. He also wondered if George were wishing himself far away from his former ally. What would have been his fate had he continued to throw in his lot with Margaret of Anjou?

“I wonder if she will be allowed to reside with Henry in the Tower,” Richard mused aloud. “She needs to be locked up on a remote island somewhere and the key thrown in the sea. As for poor Henry, he will never be a danger to anyone as long as Margaret is under lock and key.”

“I do not pity the man,” Herbert said. “He was good for nothing.”

Richard nodded. “He should have been a monk. He told me so himself. My wish for him is that he may while away the rest of his days in prayer.”

“Amen to that,” Earl William replied, smirking.

“Are you certain, Your Grace?” Richard tried to steady his voice, but he knew it wavered. “You are commanding me to order regicide—and indeed to commit my soul to the devil.”

Edward glared at him, his mouth set in a tight, straight line, his fingers gripping the arms of his throne. “You are constable of England, are you not, my lord of Gloucester? I seem to remember your having no qualms about accepting that honor.”

“I am, Your Grace,” Richard replied, quickly organizing his thoughts, “but I understood my duty is to bring the accused to trial and, upon that person being found guilty, to mete out an appropriate punishment. May I ask the nature of Henry’s crime, and how long will I have for a fair trial?”

It was a bold rebuttal to Edward’s appalling command to rid England of Henry and the Lancastrian line. Richard could not believe his brother’s request, and although the others in the small, secret council nodded, they would not lift their eyes from the floor. Even Archbishop Bourchier did not condemn the order. What a lickspittle, Richard thought angrily, and a hypocrite. He looked at George to see if he perhaps would stand up to their brother, but of course George had every reason to acquiesce. Nay, George was not going to risk provoking the king again. Richard’s only hope was Will Hastings, but he seemed to have found a wayward thread on his elegant sleeve and was busy trying to break it off. Besides, Will had possibly suggested the outrageous solution. Richard was on his own. How he pitied the former king. He had been saddened by the grief Henry had expressed upon learning of his only child’s death. In truth, what does he have to live for, Richard thought now.

“There will be no trial, Richard,” Edward answered. “As constable you have the right to administer punishment without one. You will arrange to end Henry’s life in the kindest and most discreet way possible. I want no signs of violence upon the body, do you understand. It must look like natural causes. Use money from the privy purse if you have to, but you will do it tonight.” He rose from the chair and towered over his brother. “I am the one whose soul may see hellfire, not you. You have but to obey an order from your king—the Lord’s anointed. For the peace of the kingdom, I must sometimes act in God’s place.” Then putting his hand on Richard’s arm, he said, “Come, let us pray together for you to have strength to do was is right for England.”

“I don’t need your prayers,” Richard snapped, shaking off the unwanted hand. “Save them for yourself, Your Grace.”

It was with heavy legs and an equally heavy heart that Richard climbed the spiral staircase to Henry’s apartment in the Tower. Richard had had no trouble finding an assassin within the Tower dungeons to carry out Edward’s bidding, and with a promise of freedom and a few guineas, the unsavory-looking man was now keeping a respectful distance behind his savior.

Upon seeing Richard, the guard outside King Henry’s room unlocked the door and bowed. “Wait downstairs for me,” Richard commanded, taking the flambeau from its sconce, and the turnkey gladly sauntered off, hardly giving the other man a glance.

The former king was housed in a large, well furnished room and was lying in the bed, a black velvet blanket covering his thin frame. He almost looks like a corpse already, poor man, Richard thought, ashamed. Could his prayer have been answered so soon? He had spent the past hour on his knees in the Tower’s chapel trying to think of a way out of this dreaded responsibility, and begging God to simply strike Henry down with some natural cause.

Henry’s eyes flew open at the light and locked on to Richard’s troubled ones. As Richard secured the torch, Henry suddenly saw the ruffian in Richard’s shadow. The man was clutching a cushion from the only chair, and the king blanched. “So is that the way of it?” he asked so quietly he unnerved the already-tense Richard. “I am a nuisance and must be eliminated. Is that it?”

Richard could not lie. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I am but my brother’s messenger,” he murmured. “If I had my way, you would be allowed to end your days in a monastery. I hope you believe…”

“Enough talk!” the assassin hissed and lunged at the bed, shoving the drowsy king back down and pushing the cushion onto Henry’s face. It was a clumsy attempt at suffocation, and Richard had cringed when he had instructed the convict in the manner of the murder. “No wounds,” he said. “We shall hope he is asleep and you can smother him quickly.” He could not believe he was subjecting gentle Henry to his own worst nightmare, and the bile rose sourly. He stepped back and turned his face away. He wanted to run, or at least leave the room and the murderer to his business, but he knew he must not. He must witness this heinous, unnatural execution.

But it seemed Henry would not exit this life as weakly as he had lived it. His body, now desperately awake, took on superhuman strength and began flailing wildly and clawing at the pillow and his killer. Richard knew exactly what Henry was experiencing and involuntarily gasped for air.

“Good Christ Almighty!” the hoodlum cried, fighting off the terrified king’s blows and scratches. “You told me he’d be asleep and weak.” He tried in vain to hold the cushion in place. “Hold still, you feeble-minded bastard!”

Richard could bear the scene no longer. What a hideous way to die, he raged inside. Henry did not deserve to be so ignominiously treated, and with great force he grabbed the felon by the scruff of his neck and threw him out of the room, slamming the door shut. “You have your freedom,” Richard shouted, “now go to hell.”

He could hear the man trip and stumble down the stairs as he turned to face Henry, who was now on his knees, eyes turned to heaven. Only his torn chemise, shallow breathing, and disheveled, lank hair gave proof to what had just happened. What impressed Richard most was Henry’s calm: he had his rosary between his fingers and was telling the black beads as though nothing had happened.

It was in that quiet but ghastly instant Richard knew what only he must do—and, moreover, quickly and cleanly. He moved behind Henry and put his hands on the king’s shoulders. Only then did Henry tremble.

“Lord God Almighty, take me to Your bosom quickly,” the condemned man whispered, “for I have no wish to live in a world without my kingdom, queen or son. And forgive this man his transgression as I forgive him.”

With tears very close, Richard took Henry’s head between his hands, the head that had once worn the crown of England, and snapped the thin neck with surprising ease. “Good man that you were, may you now rest in peace.”

He laid the king’s body gently on the bed and covered it in the blanket. Then he prostrated himself on the floor, tears wetting the cold stone, and prayed for his own soul.

The story that was put about in the days and weeks to come was that when King Henry, sixth of that name and last of the Lancastrian Plantagenets, heard of the disaster at Tewkesbury, he died of a broken heart in his Tower prison.

Richard did not understand until much later why he had decided to do Edward’s bidding himself, but at the time he only knew he could not have lived with himself had the murder of saintly Henry been carried out by that criminal in such a dishonorable manner. He felt ashamed he had given so rash a command, and a mantle of guilt settled permanently on his heart. ’Twas badly done, Richard, he told himself.

Only his confessor ever knew of his sin.

He would never forget the deadly sound that had put an end to the strife between the cousins and given England a dozen years of peace. He knew it would haunt him for the rest of his life.

As he buried his face in Traveller’s comforting neck after the awful deed, he had let go of his self-control and wept. All vestiges of his youth and belief in a merciful world had died in one sickening crack.