Chapter Twenty

1475–1476

Usually a bucolic spot dotted with sheep, Barham Downs was now teeming with soldiers, horses, carts piled high with harness, artillery, and tents as far as the eye could see. Richard arrived with his army from the north, an army he had been mustering for several weeks now. He gazed south to the coastline and the silvery sea. On a clear day one could see the faint line on the horizon that was France.

Edward was going to war with Louis. Over what, Richard had not quite understood when he had received the command to bring troops to Kent to support an invasion of their long-time adversary. He had been pleased to have raised three hundred more men than Edward had demanded. Richard might not have admitted it, but it spoke highly of his popularity in the north country.

For close to three years, he had been content to carry out his administrative duties as Lord of the North, hear petitions, mete out justice and settle land disputes, as well as maintain good relations with the northern nobles and keep a watchful eye on the Scots. It may have been coincidence, but Richard’s good governance of the north paralleled his father’s ability to bring the rival Irish factions together during his lieutenancy in Ireland twenty years earlier. By only rarely moving among his castles of Middleham, Sheriff Hutton, Richmond, and Pontefract, Richard was able to be an attentive father and faithful husband. Young Ned was the joy of his parents’ life, a happy, energetic toddler beginning to babble his first words. Standing on the steps of Middleham, it was with reluctance that he bade his son and anxious wife farewell to go to war.

“Come back to us, Richard. Come back whole,” Anne whispered as he kissed her. “We shall pray for you hourly.” Eighteen-month-old Ned giggled as his father nuzzled his neck, and Rufus pinned back his ears and regarded Richard with soulful eyes.

“I shall be back soon,” he told them all, bending down one more time to pet his dog.

After seeing his men billeted on a decent patch of the grassy hillside, he went off in search of Edward’s contingent. The lack of the royal banner told Richard that the king must be housed in greater luxury elsewhere—no drafty tent for Edward, Richard thought scornfully. News of his brother’s continuing descent into hedonism had disappointed Richard greatly and made him ever more determined to steer a righteous path and follow his father’s example. Richard of York had been a capable Protector during Henry’s madness, and progressive, steady lieutenant governor of Ireland before Richard was born—those troublesome subjects still harboring goodwill towards anyone bearing the York name.

As he stepped between groups of soldiers seated or lying back on the chalky grass, some preparing a meagre meal or polishing a blade, he paused to greet a billman here or an archer there or admonish two that were brawling. “Keep your fighting spirit for those Frenchies,” he said, pulling them apart. When they recognized his White Boar on murrey and blue, their eyes widened and they fell on their knees. Richard grinned at them and gave them both a friendly cuff. “I know ’tis tedious waiting, but you’ll be glad you rested once we face the enemy.”

“That’s Gloucester! They say he be a good commander,” Richard heard one in the group say as he moved off. “Better him than his prick of a brother, they say. Clarence only cares for hisself.” It was only too true, but Richard was sorry to hear it from the yeomen.

“Lord Gloucester!” the booming voice of Jack Howard hailed him from farther up the hill, and he hurried down to meet Richard as fast as his stocky legs could carry him. “Well met, my lord. With your northern troops assembled, I can send word to the king that we are all mustered. Did you know he is sending me as envoy to treat with Louis first?”

Richard grasped his hand, glad to see his old friend, although Jack would always bring thoughts of Kate to mind. “You are just the man I wanted to see, Jack. Perhaps you can explain the logic behind this invasion—the king has failed to enlighten me.”

Jack laughed. “Invasion is a lofty word, in truth, although,” and he waved his arm in the direction of the coast, “the Conqueror undertook a successful one a few miles from here, did he not? My role is to persuade the Spider to give up what was ours by right (thanks to that same Conqueror). I shall leave on the morrow with Lord Stanley. But to answer your first question, we aimed to use our alliance with Charles of Burgundy to force Louis to return Normandy and Gascony to us. The king and council believe that, by mustering an invasion force and having Charles’s army ready to join us across the channel, Louis will give in.” He furrowed his brow and kicked at a stone. “However, we had not reckoned with the self-interest of our ally Charles. They do not call him le Téméraire for nothing. His rashness or boldness, or whatever it means, has led him to ignore our treaty obligations and lay siege to some no-account city for so many months that we cannot hope for the full army he promised.”

Richard was dumbfounded. “So without our ally’s support, how can we defeat France with these?” He indicated the English troops. “If Charles were not to be counted on, why muster our troops? Surely ’tis a futile campaign and Edward should abandon it.”

“What? And infuriate the people of England? The poor bastards had to find money they did not have in the first place to fund this war. Can you imagine the fury if we return empty-handed having never fired an arrow? They won’t be refunded, you know. The king has enough disaffection on his hands now; he was counting on reclaiming the French crown to warm Englishmen’s hearts. Nay, we have to go.”

Richard nodded although now this expedition seemed like mere folly to him. “There are still those who remember Agincourt and the honor King Harry brought back to England. In truth, it was a blow to my father’s pride when Somerset lost France—he spent many a year in Normandy holding it safe for Henry.” He was always hoping his own chivalry both in war and at the council table measured up to his father’s high standards. In his wishful thinking, he wanted to believe Edward, too, was living up to it with this venture. “’Tis a worthy cause, I warrant—and if Charles is there, albeit with a smaller force, it is attainable.”

“He will be there,” Jack assured him, “and we have St. Pol’s and Brittany’s support as well. Edward’s plan is that Louis will be squeezed between the borders of Burgundy and Brittany.”

Richard pondered all this as he watched the many ships bobbing like toys in the faraway bay. His own ship The Mayflower was anchored somewhere in the flotilla, he knew. He had held the position of admiral of England since his tenth birthday, even before Edward made him Constable of England. It meant he drew income from the posts, and when he came of age at sixteen, he had been presiding over both courts whenever possible.

Jack Howard was used to the young duke’s way of sizing up a situation and waited patiently. Finally Richard asked: “Why is Edward wanting you to treat with Louis? What is he expecting to achieve? Let us set sail and get the business done—or is my brother afraid?”

“King Edward is afraid of nothing, Your Grace,” Jack assured him. “I was with him at Towton, Barnet and Tewkesbury, and in truth he is a fearless fighter. If I may speak frankly,” he paused to get Richard’s nod, “his weakness is indolence and too great a taste for fine living. He now prefers governing from a throne…” he refrained from adding “or a bed,” “than from the back of a horse.”

Richard shook his head. “I am sorry to hear you say this, but I, too, have worried. He did not learn it from our father. Let us hope he proves us wrong, and we will soon engage the French in our rightful cause.”

He walked off troubled by Edward’s decision. What could he do? Edward was king by God’s grace, and his word was thus the law.

Knowing how scornful Richard was that he was negotiating with Louis rather than fighting, Edward left his brother out of the group of high ranking nobles to meet the French king at Picquigny. The scene had not been pretty, and for once George had gained Edward’s favor by being the first to step forward and join his brother in the decision to pull out of France—provided Louis gave them incentive.

“Where is our honor?” Richard had demanded of those gathered at the council meeting in Amiens in mid-August. He could hardly contain his disgust. “Where is England’s honor in this? We have sat upon our backsides since crossing to Calais two months ago. Two months! And not a shot fired nor an arrow loosed. I am ashamed, and,” he dared to add, “our father would have been ashamed.”

Edward glowered at his brother, drumming his fingers on the arms of his chair, while his commanders and fellow lords uncomfortably observed the stand off. George stood so close to Edward he must have felt the heat of anger coming from Edward’s rigid body. He awaited the predicted eruption with glee though not a muscle of his face revealed any emotion at all. Here was his chance to supplant sanctimonious Richard in the eyes of the king.

“Does anyone else stand with Gloucester?” Edward growled. A few men shuffled their feet, and three stepped forward, but as none was of great account, Edward waved them off. “The majority wins,” he announced, rising. Richard’s strong stance had surprised Edward, but due to the high opinion Edward had of his brother’s honor, he attempted to appease Richard. “Without Charles’s help and now that St. Pol has once again turned his coat from us, we are at a disadvantage. Our spies have reported how Louis has ravaged the countryside from Paris to Picardy to keep us from resupplying our troops. With hungry soldiers, how are we expected to defeat the superior French army, brother? Besides, I have it on good authority that Louis would prefer not to fight and will even give us all pensions to leave.”

“Pay us? Pay us!” Richard was outraged. “Pay whom, may I ask? Pay the soldiers who have languished here since June earning a pittance when they could have been at home working their farms and feeding their families? By wasting so much time, you have eaten through the hated benevolences you taxed them to fund this so-called invasion. You have even denied them the chance to reap the usual spoils of victory. What of them, Your Grace, and you, my lords?” he turned in a circle accusing all those who stood with Edward. “How can you look your men in the eye and send them home empty-handed while you line your pockets with French crowns?”

“Stop there, Richard!” Edward commanded. “You will abide by our decision, and you will sign the treaty with Louis. As your king, I command it.”

Richard’s gray eyes glittered black as he bowed to his brother. “I will do as you wish, my lord, but I want it known I will have no part in Louis’ peace pension,” and he backed from the room.

Not a few of the men who watched him go admired the determined duke, one of them being Will Hastings, who was to receive the largest pension from Louis after the king. Will attributed Richard’s refusal to the high-minded principles of youth; the older and more jaded one became, the more pragmatism wins the day, Will thought ruefully. But he pocketed the pension anyway.

Richard, however, left the meeting with bitterness for his brother’s lack of moral courage. The glorious, golden brother of his childhood had once again disillusioned Richard, and for the first time in days, that heavy disappointment in his heart caused his crooked back to ache and his shoulders to sag under its weight. He wished he could be spirited back to his Middleham solar, his wife quietly sewing next to him, and his adored young son bouncing on his knee.

He could hear the raucous results of Louis’s generosity to Edward’s commanders emanating from the Amiens’ alehouses, but he was in no mood for celebrating that night. He would take his pride, discontent, and his empty pockets back to his own rooms and confide in Rob and Francis. He would not even trust Jack with his frustration, for he knew even the ethical Lord Howard had accepted the French bribe.

“Devil take him,” he muttered as he made his way through the dark, muddy streets to his quarters. “Devil take ’em all.”

No one was surprised at Richard’s absence among the richly arrayed nobles who accompanied King Edward to the staged meeting of the two kings upon a bridge at Picquigny.

King Louis, having heard of Richard’s rejection of any monetary payment in the peace contract, and knowing how well regarded the young man was among his peers, invited him to dine a few days later. With the treaty a fait accompli, and his temper having cooled, Richard thought it churlish to refuse. When Louis presented him gifts of two horses and some silver plate “as a courtesy to the king of England’s youngest brother,” Richard’s usual scruples did not prevent him from accepting them. They were merely gifts, he rationalized, not a pension.

By Richard’s high principles of chivalry, the invasion of France was not Edward’s finest hour. History, however, would applaud Edward’s choice to negotiate and commend him for preventing a costly campaign that he may or may not have won. His bravado had upheld England’s hunger to humble France, and he had come away with a sizable pension that would eliminate the need to tax his people further—although the common soldier returned to England empty-handed but for the usual daily wage. The invasion did, however, prove to be the last time Edward would ride at the head of an English army.

Richard left France beginning to question the long-held belief that a king was all-powerful on the Ladder of Being, as decreed by God. In this case, Edward was plainly wrong, he had concluded.

On the long journey back to Yorkshire, Richard had time to spend in quiet solitude having dismissed his troops to their homes. He knew they were resentful returning without the rewards known as the spoils of war, but Richard knew they did not blame him. Nonetheless he felt responsible for their loss and bitter towards Edward.

Anne was overjoyed to see her husband home so soon, “and without a scratch for a change!” she cried, clasping him to her. “I must thank Edward the next time I see him.” She was nearly as excited at Rufus, who attempted to leap into his master’s arms with the exuberance of a pup.

Richard responded to Anne’s questions with platitudes. Not wanting to burden her with details, he often kept matters of policy to himself. His habit of protecting her led him to misjudge her ability to grasp complicated issues. He should have remembered lessons learned in childhood from Constance and his mother and given Anne credit. But keeping his domestic life tranquil and simple was a panacea for his many complex duties as Lord of the North.

Thoughts of his other children now interfered with his domestic bliss, and a few days after his homecoming that autumn, he chose to open his heart to Anne. “I swore to you then and I swear to you now, I came to you free of Kate, Anne. But I cannot neglect my responsibility to those two children I sired with her. I promised Kate that I would provide for them. My sister, Lizzie, has agreed to welcome Katherine at Wingfield. She has such a big brood she will not notice another, I suspect.” He watched Anne’s soft brown eyes lower to her lap, where her hands were clasped tightly, and he let the idea sink in before broaching the more delicate subject of John.

“I know it pains you to talk about my children, but I must be honest with you. These children will never come between us, Anne, you do believe that don’t you?” He was cheered to see her nod. “But they are mine, and as such are also of Plantagenet blood. I must do right by them. ’Tis a matter of honor.” He paused, watching her nod. Now for the hard part, he thought. “I would very much like my son John to come and live here, if you could see it in your heart to take him in. He will soon be ready to be a page, and once he is old enough to be sent to learn his knightly skills, Francis Lovell has offered to mentor him just as your father did me.”

Anne continued staring at her lap, idly turning Richard’s betrothal ring. In a very small voice, she said: “I knew this day would come, Richard, and I cannot refuse your request. It would hang like a veil between us. Eventually, we would grow distant. I could not bear that, my love. Thus, I consent to your sending for your son. Besides,” and she looked up, tears close, “Ned needs a brother as I do not seem to be fruitful.”

Richard went down on his knees and gathered her to him. “You see why I love you, my dear. You have the most generous heart, and I thank you with all of mine.” He kissed her sweetly on the lips, and wiped away her tears with his thumbs. “I shall wait until the spring to do it, when John will be five, but for now we need speak no more of it.”

Anne stroked his hair and smiled, her eyes now full of passion. Thus encouraged, Richard picked her up as though light as goose down and carried her to their bed.

“Perhaps tonight will bear us fruit,” he said, teasing her nipple. “At least we’ll enjoy trying.”

After such an uneasy conversation, Richard was relieved to hear a seductive chuckle.

The mile-long cortège snaked its way at a snail’s pace throughout the midlands’ countryside the following summer. King Edward had finally decided to honor the remains of his father and brother, killed at Wakefield and buried at Pontefract, by reinterring them in the church of All Saints at the house of York’s principal seat of Fotheringhay.

The funeral carriage began its ninety-mile journey at Pontefract on Monday, the twenty-second day of July and ended a week later, stopping each night at a designated church where the coffins would be carried into the sanctuary, accompanied by a local procession of town elders and churchmen.

Showing that Edward had lost none of his regard for his youngest brother, despite their disagreement in France, the king had chosen Richard to act as chief mourner. Cloaked and hooded in black velvet, he followed immediately behind the unwieldy funeral vehicle in which an effigy of the deceased duke could be seen by the bystanders through the struts of the carriage. The seven horses pulling it were draped to their hooves in embroidered caparisons bearing Edward’s sunne in splendour badge, the white rose of York, and the royal arms. Behind Richard rode three bishops, abbots, and many of the northern barons. Far ahead of the clumsy carriage, the slow beat of tabors and loud bleat of trumpets preceded heralds and pursuivants carrying York’s arms, all announcing the procession’s arrival in several towns from Doncaster to Stamford and finally, to Fotheringhay.

Riding alone, Richard had had many hours to ruminate on aspects of his life, his family, and his sins. He spoke directly to God on occasion, acknowledging his imperfections and taking full responsibility for King Henry’s death. On some days he was unapproachable, even by his friends riding behind him. It was somewhere between Grantham and Stamford when his conscience began to ease, and he believed the Almighty’s grace might allow him to move on with his life. Feeling some redemption, he resisted looking for Kate among the silent spectators in Stamford, even though he had asked her to meet him there. God must know his motive was honorable, he hoped.

A most magnificent hearse awaited the duke of York’s coffin inside All Saints at Fotheringhay, whose candelabra atop intricately carved and gilded wooden towers almost reached the church beams. Twelve servants who had served Richard of York placed his coffin and effigy on the black velvet cloth in the center of the extravagant monument. Painted on the underside of the hearse’s ceiling was the figure of Christ seated on a rainbow; the eyes of Richard of York’s effigy could therefore stare heavenward and see his savior. Edward, dressed in a blue velvet mourning gown as befitted the king, was waiting with George to receive the coffins along with chanting monks and nine bishops. Edmund of Rutland’s hearse was also elaborate and was in place in the Lady Chapel, where the young earl’s remains would be buried.

Edward sat apart from the other mourners, the most important of whom had the honor to flank York’s hearse for the duration of the mass, including the dukes of Clarence, Gloucester and Suffolk, Lord Hastings, and four earls. Soon the church was full to stifling from the hundreds of candles and scores of sweating worshippers on that hot July day. Outside in the village and crowding into the castle bailey were two thousand participants in the reburial ceremonies. Edward was to feed them all and many received alms monies in remembrance of his father.

Sixty-year-old Duchess Cecily, regal in mourning gray, was given a seat in an alcove to the side of her husband’s hearse, and Gresilde Boyvile, perspiring profusely herself, was fanning her mistress with a rush fan. No one could blame the bishop of Lincoln for hurrying the placebo and dirige that sweltering afternoon, knowing the next day held the prospect of three more masses for the souls of Richard’s father and brother.

Richard wept as he thought back to the last time he had seen his father, the day the duke had ridden out of Baynard’s and towards his death. “Tell me, before I go, if you remember what is most important in this life, after loving a merciful God?” he had asked Richard and George. “Our loyalty to England, the king and to our house of York,” Richard recalled was their answer. “And what is most dishonorable?” York had persisted.

Richard swallowed hard, glancing across at George on the other side of the hearse. Had George forgotten or merely ignored the answer: “Betrayal of family and friends.”

Before the final feast, as many sought their beds for an afternoon nap or took a walk along the river, Richard, Rob and Francis went riding. It was not for mere sport, however, as Richard had the assignation in Stamford with Kate. He would gain custody of his son that day, and the anticipation of seeing the boy again after all this time made him anxious. Would the lad accept him? How would Kate handle the parting? She had written to tell him that she had seen Katherine safely into the duchess of Suffolk’s hands, as he had requested, and that Katherine had already settled into life with her cousins. Richard was certain John would come to like his new home, too. He worried how Kate would fare alone, but he was convinced he was doing the right thing by his children.

Even with all his mental preparation, he was unprepared for the heartbreaking parting between mother and son on the road outside the town, where he caught up with them. It took all his resolve not to gather Kate to him and comfort her. His time with little Ned had taught him much about fathering, and so he was able to kindly but firmly reassure the sturdy, dark-haired John that not only would he live like a prince, have a new brother to play with, but he would be free to see his mother as often as possible.

“I will look after him, Kate, I promise,” Richard swore to her as John said his farewells to Kate’s servant, Molly. “And I will make him write to you.” He stepped aside as John ran headlong into his mother’s arms again, and she clutched her son hungrily. But a prolonged parting was only more painful, Richard guessed, and so he gentled John away from Kate’s embrace.

“Forgive me,” he mouthed to the anguished Kate and, swiftly carrying John to his horse, Richard settled the boy on the saddle in front of him and cantered off from those heartbreaking sobs, without a backward glance.

“This is your son?” Edward was amused and curious. “Aye, he has your serious expression and your coloring, but he is of sturdier breeding, I reckon. Kate’s father was a farmer, I remember.” He turned back to the little boy, still on his knees but gaping in awe at the magnificent giant of a king, and said: “I am your Uncle Edward.” Then he bent and whispered, “but when we are not alone, you should call me ‘Your Grace.’”

Five-year-old John blinked and turned to his father. Richard nodded, “He won’t bite you, Johnny. Just try saying ‘Your Grace.’” When John mimicked the salutation, Edward smiled and raised him to his feet. “Good boy. Brother, why don’t you take him along to meet his cousins? My two boys are with their mother in our apartments.” Richard was grateful Edward had not seen fit to comment on John’s illegitimacy; he was unsure yet what John understood.

As John stared about him at all the darkly clad men crowded around the king, he suddenly felt alone, afraid, and wanted his mother. He had had enough of this “adventure” that had been promised. Tears began to form, and he wailed, “I want my mother.”

Richard reached down and took his hand, remembering well what the need was like.

“You will get used to being here, son, I promise. Now, let me introduce you to another important member of the family,” he said, snapping his fingers at his wolfhound. “Meet Rufus, and tell him to sit. He will, you know.”

Richard could not have known that John had left a much beloved litter of pups in Suffolk, but he was pleased when the boy’s his eyes lit up.

“Sit, Rufus!” John ordered, and his wailing changed to smiles when the huge dog obeyed.

The queen was less accepting. She looked down her perfectly pert nose at the small boy, her large eyes taking in every peasant inch of him. She refused to acknowledge he was also a Plantagenet. “He looks strong,” was all the goodwill she could manage. She pointed to her sons playing with toy soldiers in the corner of the large solar. “You may go and play, if you wish,” she curtly instructed the lad, who clung to his father’s hand.

John had never seen such fine toys, however, and, happy to see children his own age, finally let go of Richard’s hand and cautiously joined his cousins.

“I am glad to have this chance to talk to you, Brother,” Elizabeth said, suddenly becoming charming as she took his elbow and guided him to the window seat. Richard stiffened. Why, he could not say. She had never been impolite to him, nor dealt with him in the haughty manner in which she had just treated John. She had even sent an exquisite, silver baptismal cup to Ned.

“How is Anne? I trust she and your heir are well. A pity they could not be here for this important occasion.” She chattered on for all she and Richard were good friends. “But I hear from your mother that Anne may be with child again and thus was wise not to make such a journey.”

Richard acknowledged that they were indeed expecting another child. “But Anne is quite well, I thank you. She wanted to come, but it was I who dissuaded her. We have waited too long for another babe to take any chances.”

He never failed to be astonished by Elizabeth’s beauty. At forty, she had weathered two marriages and seven children well—and the Grey brothers were already adults. He was not to know, as he pondered this, that Elizabeth was in fact carrying her eighth child. He inclined his head and asked, “You wished to talk to me, Your Grace?”

“Call me Elizabeth, Richard. You are always so formal.” Her famous laugh again disarmed him, and he smiled. “There, that’s better. You are quite handsome when you smile.”

What do you want, Richard wondered. The last time they had met, she had shocked him by remarking, “I must say, your tailor does admirable work hiding your hump,” before scooping up her little dog and gliding from the room. He had not even disclosed his problem to Edward, but, with all the comings and goings in the many castles he visited, he guessed a servant or two must have gossiped. Not his servants; he could trust them, even Signore Vicente, Middleham’s master armorer, who had had to make him a new bespoke harness for the France enterprise. Elizabeth’s remark had made him self-conscious for the next few months, however, causing him to always stand or sit against something, and he took to wearing a short mantle to change his silhouette. Today, however, Elizabeth was being warm and friendly, which made him wary. He waited.

“I do not trust Clarence, do you?” the queen eventually asked as casually as she could. Where is she going with this? Richard asked himself as Elizabeth continued: “He preens around the court for all he is heir to the crown and fawns on Edward, who is still foolishly blinded by his charm. It does not fool me, and I detest him. I warned Edward not to forgive him the first time he rebelled, or the second when he murdered my father and brother, but he believes George’s ambition died with Warwick at Barnet. I do not.” Elizabeth was leaning so close, Richard could smell the rosemary in her hair. “I am watching for him to put a foot wrong, which I wager he will do e’er long. What do you think, Brother? I know there is enmity between you and want you to know I share your suspicions.” She placed her delicate hand on his, and he was trapped. He felt the threat in her touch; she was out to avenge her family’s deaths and would use him, but Richard was not to be used again for dark deeds—especially not by Elizabeth Woodville.

He wanted to get away, but he patted her hand indulgently. “Dare I say you have an overactive imagination, my dear Sister. Despite his bravado, George is chastened I assure you. Besides you now have two healthy sons in anyone’s path to the throne. You should not worry yourself any further about George.”

“You Yorks!” Elizabeth snapped, snatching her hand away. “Loyal to each other in the extreme. It seems you’re as much a fool as Ned, Richard,” and she stalked off towards the children, her warmth dissolving rapidly into a chill wind.

Richard watched her with interest. It was as though she was waiting for George to blunder so she could pounce and bring him to his knees. Richard thought about warning his brother, but later upon joining George and Edward cordially drinking and sharing family anecdotes, he decided Elizabeth was no match for the York brothers and foolishly dropped his guard.