Chapter Twenty-Six

July 1483

July was stifling in London, and the city was stifling Richard.

The first thing he did after the coronation and its following feast was to pack up his household and move down the Thames to Greenwich, away from any threat of plague. The Palace of Placentia was indeed a pleasant place to live with lawns running down to the widening river. It had been Elizabeth’s favorite residence.

As the oarsmen expertly guided the royal barge to the familiar wharf, Richard recalled his time there fondly while he had waited for King Edward to send him to Middleham. He also remembered it was the last time the three youngest York siblings had been together. They had all been so young and innocent in those first months of Edward’s reign. Now George was dead and Meg, the dowager duchess of Burgundy, was far away in Flanders. Richard suddenly wondered if the news of Rivers’ execution had reached his sister, rumored to have had a dalliance with the handsome earl. Another person to hate him, he mused with resignation. The longer he was king, the more that number would grow. He sighed.

For the first time in a week, Richard sat down to eat in the privacy of his own small hall with Anne and Harry as his sole companions. Still showing favoritism to Harry, Richard had given him the added titles of great chamberlain and constable of England and promised him the enormous earldom of Hereford, making Buckingham, in all but name, king of Wales. Ironically, he did not fully trust Harry, but he needed him. Besides, Harry knew how to get things done.

With Howard now duke of Norfolk, Richard felt East Anglia was his, Stanley was strong in the midlands, and Northumberland could be counted on in the north. It was only in the south and southwest where Richard lacked a following, and he hoped by good governance to bring those provinces around as well.

Anne was complimenting the garrulous Harry for carrying off the coronation arrangements with aplomb, and they gossiped about some of the lords and ladies present at the festivities. Richard retreated into himself as he twirled the goblet carefully in his fingers watching the burgundy liquid spin. He was remembering a sweet moment during the presentations at the feast when he had come face to face with Kate again. He had indulged his daughter’s request that her mother sit with her to watch the crowning, and she was presented to him afterwards.

Anne suddenly reached out and touched his left hand that was resting on the spotless linen cloth, and he looked up guiltily, as he did whenever thoughts of Kate trespassed on his mind. “Working on another problem, my love?” she asked, gently. “Come, why don’t you leave those headaches for tomorrow. Harry is our guest and deserves some of your attention. He is tired of my appraisals of everyone’s gowns, are you not, Harry?”

“Your taste is impeccable, my dear Anne, and so matches my own,” he boasted. He turned to Richard. “Is there aught I can help you with, Cousin? I have spoken with Lawyer Lyneham about Jane Shore’s punishment, and her penance will be carried out next Sunday.”

Anne gave a little gasp. “Penance? Punishment? What kind of punishment? And for what? You told me there is no evidence of witchcraft.”

“Aye, that appears to be the case,” Richard said, his face darkening. “But she must pay for her harlotry. Not only did she lead my brother a merry dance, but she went straightways to Hastings’ bed as soon as Edward was in the ground.”

Anne winced at Richard’s crassness, but she knew how much he blamed both Hastings and Jane Shore for Edward’s demise. “What is her penance then?”

At Richard’s hesitation, Harry gleefully enlightened her. “She will walk the streets barefoot around St. Paul’s in naught but her shift and carrying a large taper. All of London will bear witness to her shame.”

Anne said nothing. She stared at Richard, her eyes revealing her disappointment in him. She rose. “Goodnight, Harry. I hope you find your chambers comfortable,” she said and excused herself.

Richard’s gaze followed her from the room, knowing there would be more to say later. For now he changed the subject. “What do you know of Morton? I hope you have a good guard on him at Brecknock? I do not want him to have any chance to communicate with the Beaufort woman.”

Harry smirked. “Fear not, Richard. His lordship of Ely is well guarded and, isolated as my castle is in the Welsh hills, he can have no contact with Lady Stanley. By the bye, it was a brilliant idea of yours to allow her to carry Anne’s train at the coronation. If anyone believed that you suspected she was involved in the Woodville plot with Hastings, showing her such favor would have surely dispelled those ideas. It was a signal honor, and her husband was mightily pleased.”

“Have I ever told you that I would not trust Thomas Stanley to take off my boots?” Richard replied, pouring himself more wine. “We must watch him and his wife carefully. Remember, she is the mother of the so-called claimant to the throne, albeit my brother was astute enough to exile the brat to Brittany.” Richard sipped the ruby claret, savoring its sun-drenched bouquet.

“Henry of Richmond is no threat to you, Cousin. The Beauforts, by decree, cannot inherit the crown. You have more to fear from your brothers’ sons than that Tudor spawn.”

Richard stopped mid-drink and put down his cup. “My nephews? Why should I fear them? I am king because they cannot be. What nonsense is this, Harry?” Richard pushed his cousin to know why he would even mention the boys.

Harry poured more wine. “I know Stillington swore they are bastards, but suppose Dorset succeeds in securing them and whips up sympathy for their cause. There are still those who believe you were seeking the crown from the moment you took Edward at Stony Stratford and that Stillington was paid to lie.”

“Christ’s nails!” Richard exclaimed, rising from his chair. “I thought we were long past those rumors. You do believe Stillington, don’t you? You were there when he came. I believe him, because Edward’s lust makes that pre-contract with the Butler woman plausible. Did you know, by the way, that Elizabeth held him at knife’s length before she got his promise to wed? If it weren’t so tragic, ’twould be funny.”

“I do believe Stillington, Richard, but there are enough who do not. Those boys are your blood and thus your greatest threat.”

“Well, my lord Buckingham,” Richard snapped, tired of the subject, “what do you expect me to do? Maybe you could, but I can’t murder my own flesh and blood!” Hadn’t Henry shared his blood? Christ, it always returns to Henry, he thought. He gripped the silver goblet hard and focused on the present. “Should I send them away—somewhere secret until my reign is more established? I do not want England to face yet another civil conflict.” He looked directly at Harry. “Aye, mayhap that is what I should do. When Anne and I are well on our progress, and London is quiet again, it would be easy enough to send them somewhere remote. Now that Brackenbury is constable of the Tower, he must know a safe place north of the Tees to house them.”

Harry shrugged. “Why don’t you leave it to me to arrange. You have enough to occupy you before you set off.”

Richard nodded absently. “I would be very grateful.”

On his way to Windsor, where the court would gather before setting off on the progress, Richard took a detour to Chertsey Abbey. Shooing away the shoeless pilgrims from the modest tomb Edward had given King Henry in 1471, the abbot groveled his way in front of Richard when he was told who the plainly dressed man was riding up with several escorts. Richard gave the monk a weighty purse for the upkeep of Henry’s grave and begged to be left alone with the former king’s remains. He was not surprised by the number of pilgrims gathered there, as the abbey had become a shrine to the pious monarch, with even a miracle or two credited to Henry.

Waiting until the church was emptied, Richard prostrated himself in front of the cold, gray, stone tomb. “Forgive me, Your Grace,” he began aloud, but fearing eavesdroppers, he fell silent. Forgive me my dreadful sin, he begged the king. A day does not pass that I do not think of what I did. You are with the angels and have left me with hell on earth and worse to follow in Lucifer’s domain. I pray that you will intercede with Almighty God for mercy, for I cannot believe He has forgiven me.

An hour later, he emerged into the July sunshine and the queue of pilgrims fell on their knees in deference. As he went to retrieve his horse, he heard a man say to his neighbor: “A bit of a short-arse for a king, ain’t he. And crooked into the bargain.”

Richard winced, but kept walking.

The noisy, colorful cavalcade stretched along the roads and lanes of England for miles, following the new king as he showed himself to his subjects. Leaving Windsor on the twentieth of July with an impressive array of bishops and nobles, Richard was buoyed by the welcome he received as they passed through hamlets and villages and on to towns like Reading and Oxford. Having watched how Edward used pomp and ostentation to his advantage, Richard spared no expense on his jewels and clothing nor on his generosity to the towns he lodged in. In Woodstock, where, discovering that Edward had annexed a large tract of public parkland for his own hunting enjoyment, Richard returned the land for the use of the people once again. It was one pleasure of kingship, he thought, that he could redress some wrongs.

On those first days of his travels, he could truthfully say he was happy for the first time since consenting to be king. The delight and enjoyment of others who feasted at the many banquets he funded or who benefited from his gifts to the cities enhanced his own good humor. The king’s party was entertained by Francis at his luxurious ancestral home, Minster Lovell Hall, alongside the pretty River Windrush. It was Francis who rode alongside him most days, Buckingham having taken leave to remain in London until the progress reached Gloucester. On the night Richard rested at the hall, he created Francis viscount as well as chamberlain of the king’s household and chief butler of England.

“I am greatly honored, your grace,” Francis publicly declared, but later in private he admitted to Richard, “I am overwhelmed.”

Richard grinned. “It is the least I can do for one who has never let me down, Francis. I should be thanking you. As soon as Rob joins us, I will tell him he is to be my comptroller of the household and thus keeper of the privy seal. I think he will be pleased. I need my friends close.” He helped himself to wine and stretched out his aching body in a high-backed arm chair. “I confess I am bone weary already. This progress is more exhausting than doing battle. But I am pleased with our visits so far. What do you think—and I pray you be honest with me.”

“Then I shall be frank, Richard. When you are without Buckingham, you are easier to be with and, if I may say, you make better decisions. I still wonder why he chose to remain behind as he does enjoy showing himself off, you have to admit.”

Richard was startled but attentive. “He is doing my business,” Richard said, but gave no explanation. “So, he irks you that much, Francis? Do others feel as you do? I did not realize I indulged him or behaved any differently around him. I have to admit that I benefit from his influence with council, you must see that, but I will consider your advice about my judgment. Bad judgment makes a bad king, and I aim to be a good king. I hope you believe that.”

Francis nodded. “I do, Your Grace. But there are times when I—and certainly Jack Howard—have felt pushed aside, not by you, but by Harry. I would just ask you to be cautious in your favor with him, ’tis all. Your position now is strong, but…”

“…there are those who call me usurper, I know, I know,” Richard finished for him. “I need Harry to hold Wales strong for me, so giving him the Bohun Hereford estates seemed like a good idea. But I will take your words to heart, Francis, and watch myself with Harry. I thank you for your honesty.” He lifted his cup in salute. “Here’s to Gloucester on the morrow. I have proudly carried the name for all these years, and I hope the citizens will welcome me, despite my absences of late.”

“You should have no fear of failure there, Your Grace,” Francis assured him, “Gloucester will welcome you with an open heart.”

Gloucester was to mark the end of the honeymoon of Richard’s three-week reign.

The day began benignly enough with a walk along Ebridge Street to the market place where trumpets sounded his arrival and the mayor and aldermen knelt to their duke, now king. After several florid speeches of welcome, Richard addressed the crowd at the High Cross in his pleasant tenor.

“I would not be standing here today if your mayor and aldermen had not barred the gates to Queen Margaret’s army a dozen years ago. Loyal to me as your duke, they obeyed my desperate request that she not be allowed access to the city. That action allowed my brother, the late King Edward, to array his troops at Tewkesbury instead of the more difficult and destructive military maneuver of besieging this city. For this I must thank you all, and in gratitude, I have granted your city a charter of liberties.” A roar of approval met this statement, for the people knew that the arbitrary taxation and fines carried out by kings before Richard would no longer apply to Gloucester if it had its own charter. He also offered the mayor money to distribute among the citizenry, at which the mayor, consulting with his aldermen, declared: “We will not accept the money, your grace, for we would rather have your love than your treasure.”

When Richard asked: “Is this true?” he was gratified by the unanimous shouts of “Aye!” from a thousand throats. “Then you have my undying love always,” he declared.

It was an hour after the feast when the duke of Buckingham was announced, surprising Richard, who had withdrawn to his private office in the castle. Richard rose to greet his cousin with a smile and a slap on the back. “I am right glad to see you, Harry. I was not expecting you. I hope all is well or has London Bridge fallen down?” he joked, but seeing how flushed Buckingham was and that he was clearly withholding some news, Richard asked, “What is it?” and sat back down in his chair. This time it was Harry who took to pacing.

“You remember our conversation about removing your nephews from a possible rescue?”

Richard nodded. “We talked about sending them north, and you were going to speak with Brackenbury. I trust you communicated this plan to Sir Robert, and that he has a solution?”

Harry lowered his voice to an excited whisper. “Better than that, your grace, you need never again worry for your crown. I have taken care of the boys. They pose no threat to you anymore. They are with God.”

They are with God.

As the awful truth sank into Richard’s brain, the smile vanished from his face and, as the bile rose, it turned his color to a green-gray and his eyes to blazing orbs of fury. “Are you mad!” he cried in a hoarse whisper. “Did the Devil himself spawn you? The boys cannot be dead. They were under my protection,” Richard rose and menaced his cousin, who stared at Richard aghast. Richard grasped Harry’s arm and jerked him as far from the door—and unwanted ears—as he could.

The bigger man, Harry threw off Richard’s hand and felt for his dagger. “I did it for you, Richard. I did this for you! I thought ’twas what you wanted,” he cried. “You said you could not kill your own flesh and blood, and that you wanted me to kill them. You told me to take care of them. Good Christ, I thought you would be pleased.” Sweet Jesu, he could see from the murderous look in Richard’s eyes that he had read his cousin wrong. He desperately tried to think of something clever to say, but his silver tongue betrayed him into a babbling of excuses and blame. “It was Brackenbury’s idea,” he finally lied in desperation.

Outraged, Richard propelled the bulky Harry into the garderobe out of anyone’s earshot. “Sit down,” Richard commanded, and pushed Harry onto the wooden seat. “Do not lie to me,” Richard threatened. “Brackenbury would never risk his eternal soul by sanctioning or committing such an act. But it seems you would, my lord. Now tell me exactly what you have done.”

Little by little Richard coerced from the nervous duke the details of how he had so easily taken possession of the boys, being that he was the mighty duke of Buckingham and was acting on the king’s orders. Thus who would not have believed him? Richard listened in horror as Harry described duping the boys with a story that he was sent by the king to rescue them from people who wanted to harm them, and that their Uncle Richard would protect them. Richard gasped at the lie. His nephews went to their deaths believing he had ordered this atrocity. Dear God, how much more could he take? But for his nephews’ sake, he would hear the whole sorry story. He grasped the neck of Harry’s doublet. “After you lied to them about me, what then?” he demanded.

Harry forced Richard’s hand away. “I had to lie to get them to come. Besides, ’twas not a lie,” he retorted. “You were going to send them away.”

“Not without a proper, carefully devised plan sanctioned by the council,” Richard snapped. “You acted alone, my lord.”

Harry tried again to turn the tables. “It was a misunderstanding, cousin; I thought I was acting on your orders.”

Richard snorted. “Enough of your excuses. Continue with your execrable story.”

Harry stared at the floor as he related how he had hurried the boys away in the middle of the night in a small boat and rowed them to a wooded place upstream from Westminster. “I knew those woods were thick and no one would hear or find them. I urged them to rest under a tree as we had a long journey the next day…”

So outraged, Richard had to interrupt. “Those poor children. They must have been terrified. What kind of a monster are you? And you a father yourself! Go on, give me the rest of it. God help me, I am listening.”

“I swear they were not afraid. Edward believed I was taking them to Wales—to safety—and he calmed his brother. Said it was an adventure. When they were asleep, I…er,” and he was barely audible now, “…I smothered them, took off their rich clothing, covered them up with ferns and branches, and rowed back to the city.”

Richard slid down the wall to a sitting position, his head in his hands. For the first time since taking the reins of state, he felt powerless and utterly alone. Appalling images flooded his mind of the boys enduring the same terror and blind panic he had known with George and the cushion, and seeing the abandoned bodies of his brother’s children either decaying or being eaten by animals. In disbelief he asked, “You did not even bury them? How cruel and how stupid. Someone will discover them, and you will be found out.”

A gleam of hope made Harry lift accusing eyes to Richard and he rose from the debasing seat. “But I will tell them I was acting on your orders, Your Grace. That I was merely your instrument. Do you know how many who already think you usurped the crown will believe me? I warrant a lot.” He was not prepared for how swiftly Richard could move until the fist hit him square in the face, and he fell back onto the seat clutching a bloody nose.

For once Richard knew Harry was right. What was he to do? He alone was responsible for raising up his cousin to lofty heights. All had witnessed that the two were hand-in-glove from the moment they arrived in London from Stony Stratford with young Edward. Harry had been a comforting voice and right-hand man since then, and he had welcomed his only royal cousin to his side. So who would believe that Harry had acted on his own? No one. And if he did accuse Harry, very few people would believe the two of them had not planned this heinous act together. Why else would Buckingham have stayed behind in London and not taken his place on the progress? He could hear the accusations now: “They have murdered innocents,” and he put his fingers in his ears. It would be his word against Harry’s, for surely Harry would swear Richard had been complicit. Had he really led Harry to believe he had intended such a monstrous act and would have issued such an order? Nay, surely God knew he had never had such an evil thought.

He stood over his cousin staring at him with new eyes, knowing now he had been wrong to trust Harry so blindly. The image of little Richard wriggling in his sleep to catch a breath as Harry held his hand over the pert nose and cherubic mouth sickened him so painfully that he had to puke. He shoved Harry off the garderobe seat and vomited down the chute.

Buckingham crawled out of the confined space and was attempting to stand, when Richard once more pinned him against the wall. “Christ’s nails,” he spat in Harry’s bloody face, “I trusted you, and you have betrayed me.” He grasped his cousin’s elegant jacket and pulled him closer. “Hear me well, my lord, for this is what you will do. You will leave immediately and finish what you started, you monstrous murderer of children. Do not return until you have properly disposed of the bodies, do you hear?” Harry nodded obediently, and Richard released his grip and walked past him into the office. “God damn you, Harry,” he lamented, “you have made both of us complicit, and thus you have consigned both our souls to hell. God knows I shall never rest again.” He pointed to the door. “Now, go! Get out of my sight!”

Nobleman that he was, Harry held a kerchief over his nose and left the room in a dignified manner, but he seethed. Hadn’t Richard secretly desired the boys’ deaths? Harry had not enjoyed the act of killing them; in fact it had been repugnant. But he was an ambitious man, and if the two brats were a threat to Richard’s crown, then they were a threat to Harry. Richard should be grateful to him for taking on the task, not insulting him. He was a royal duke after all and did not deserve such treatment. As his self-esteem fell, his resentment mounted, and once out of the city gates, Harry did not hesitate. He urged his horse into a gallop and took the road west to Wales and home, ignoring the royal order to return east to bury the boys. “Let them rot,” he said into the wind.

Inside, Richard was slumped in a chair weighing the enormity of the crime his cousin had committed in my name, he bemoaned. The murder of innocents was the most heinous of sins, so the scriptures taught. Even worse than regicide, he never needed to remind himself. He imagined his own little Ned being so callously smothered, and he groaned. He rose and locked the chamber door, not wanting to be disturbed while he knelt and prayed for the souls of his brother’s sons.

He remembered young Edward’s telling words from their last meeting, asking, “Would you do us harm, uncle?” Richard shook his head violently at the memory. Nay, Edward, I swear I never meant you harm, so help me God. But no comfort came, and he knew he did not deserve any. God had truly forsaken him. His chest heaved with dry sobs as he begged his brother’s forgiveness. They were gone; Edward and Elizabeth’s beautiful young sons were gone.

Francis was glad when Rob Percy joined the progress as they approached the great abbey at Tewkesbury, where Richard had a mass said for the souls of George and Isabel, buried together in the Clarence vault. Contemplating George’s ugly death did not lighten Richard’s black mood, but he thought how fortunate George was that he had died before Edward left England in such scandalous turmoil. And now I have Edward’s sons’ souls to atone for, Richard reflected somberly.

“How long has he been like this?” Rob asked Francis as they waited outside for Richard to emerge. They stared south across the fields where, a dozen years before the decisive battle took place that vanquished Lancaster once and for all, or so they had thought then. The prince of Wales, Edouard, had been killed fleeing that field and was buried somewhere inside the majestic church. It was said George of Clarence had killed the prince himself, and if so, then there was irony in both men lying side by side in death.

“It began the day Buckingham arrived in Gloucester then just as swiftly departed. Richard locked himself in his room for several hours, and I was told the duke had ridden off in a fury.” Francis shook his head. “Richard has not made mention of Harry since. It is passing strange.”

Rob chuckled. “Good riddance, I say. How long have we wished the clown would be humbled? Perhaps Richard finally saw through his guise. He knows our opinion of the duke, and mayhap he spares himself an ‘I told you so’ from us. ’Tis as well we go to Warwick next. I have seen to it that the queen is comfortable there, and she awaits Richard eagerly.”

“Anne will buoy his spirits, I have no doubt,” Francis agreed. “And Richard will be even happier when Ned is reunited with them, although I wish it were sooner than a month hence.”

When they asked, a few days later, if Buckingham would catch up to them, Richard gave a terse response.

“Perhaps,” he said and mounted his horse.

Richard had never been happier to see Anne, and she was elated to have such a positive effect on her husband. The first night of feasting at her father’s favorite castle was boisterous, full of music and laughter, helping Richard to relax and his two friends to breathe more easily.

But Richard’s first nightmare came that very night. In his cups and unable to bring lovemaking to a much needed climax, he fell into a fitful sleep. His flailing awakened Anne as the watch cried out the hour after prime. She lit a candle and shook him. It was a hot August night and her nightshift was damp with perspiration, but Richard’s was drenched. She thought he had a fever.

“Wake up, my love,” she urged him. “You are dreaming. No doubt you had too much wine.”

Richard shuddered. “Not wine, Anne, but fear. Fear for my immortal soul.”

Anne held her breath. What could be troubling him so? She rocked him but wisely kept silent; he would tell her when he was ready. As long as he still loved and needed her, she did not care to know his every secret, she had long ago decided. It was sometimes best for secrets to remain secret. But Richard was clearly in distress, so she gently prodded him to unburden himself.

“Tell me what ails you, Richard. There is nothing that would shock me anymore,” she said, teasing. “Unless you have found another mistress.” She could have bitten off her tongue as Richard roughly pulled away from her. “Forgive me, that was foolish. But tell me Richard, I insist.”

Richard began pacing the chamber, hugging his arms to his chest. He wanted to tell her, but his guilt was so profound, he doubted even Anne would understand or forgive the morass he found himself in. Nay, Anne was too kind and gentle to hear a tale of such appalling cruelty. And so he told her a half-truth.

“Harry and I have quarreled, Anne. More than quarreled; I am not certain we can be reconciled. You only need to know that I was in the right, and Harry would not accept it. He betrayed my trust, and that is all you need to know.”

“He will recover,” Anne said, brightly. “He likes his position near you too much to stray.”

Richard returned to his place beside Anne and stroked her sandy-colored hair. “I expect you are right, my dear. Now, let us try and sleep.”

The farther north the king traveled the more rapturous his reception became. Pageants and plays were presented to him in Leicester and Nottingham before the royal procession crossed into Yorkshire and on to Pontefract. The extensive and many-towered castle, once called the kingdom’s most fearsome fort, was visible for miles, and it was difficult to avoid noticing the spiked heads of Rivers, Grey and Vaughn so recently set above the gate. Richard and Anne spurred quickly across the short drawbridge and rode under the gatehouse to the best of all welcomes.

“Mother! Father!” Ned’s happy cry reached their ears as he raced across the bailey to greet them. Anne turned shining eyes to Richard and mouthed, “Thank you,” as the castle residents—Yorkshiremen all, who possessively looked on Richard as their own lord—cheered the returning couple. Originally, Ned was to have met them at York, but Richard thought to surprise his road-weary wife, who had had to resort to riding in a litter for many of the miles since Leicester.

Richard had already dismounted when Ned, with Rufus at his heels, flung himself into his father’s arms. It was hard to say who was more excited to greet him, Ned or the wolfhound. Smothering the boy with kisses, Richard hoisted him in front of Anne, who wrapped her hungry arms around her son. Holding the rein, he lead his little family to the steps of the turreted keep set high on the motte. Richard greeted his subjects as Anne and Ned were helped off the palfrey.

“I have never been more pleased to see Yorkshire again than I am now,” he told the exuberant crowd. “Although I am your king and have my duty, you here in the north have my heart.”

Ned was a joy to be with for the weary Richard and Anne. He had grown an inch since Richard had left Middleham, and his parents were pleased with his progress in Latin. They were even more delighted to witness the real affection he and his half-siblings demonstrated upon being reunited. Richard could not have been prouder as he sat and watched his children laugh and chatter together. Katherine, at nearly fifteen, was a lovely young woman and, more disconcerting for a protective father, a honeypot for the young men in his train. Perhaps it was time to think about a husband for her. As she filled out, she looked less the image of Kate and showed some of his own expression, so Anne said. Nevertheless, Katherine was a daily reminder of his first great love, which at once continued to comfort and discomfit him.

And then there was young John. Confident, friendly and intelligent, he could go far, although he would always be hampered by his bastardy—just like his nephews would have been, Richard thought with chagrin.

If Richard felt fêted enough over the past six weeks, he was to be overwhelmed by his homecoming to York. The citizenry was dressed, according to the mayor’s edict, in blue, violet or grey. All the arras and tapestries in the city had been collected and were decorating buildings and stages, where pageants played out, and music floated up from every street corner. Tumblers tumbled, children strewed flowers, and young girls danced through the streets, ribbons and tresses flying behind them. Richard was enchanted as he rode at the head of this most splendid of retinues.

When the mayor, extolling the new king to the townspeople, presented him with a golden cup filled with marks, Richard came to a sudden decision. He would not wait until returning to London to invest Ned as prince of Wales, he would do it here in York. In an astonishingly short time, a delivery of countless garments for his household, coats of arms, banners, pennons and White Boar badges fashioned for the ceremony arrived from the keeper of the Wardrobe in London.

And in the magnificent minster on the eighth day of September, the investiture of Edward of Middleham as prince of Wales took place to the great rejoicing of the city. On the same day, he acknowledged his love for his older son, John, by knighting the suitably awed thirteen-year-old. It has been said that the investiture and subsequent banqueting was even more lavish than Richard’s own coronation. And by formally crowning his heir, Richard’s reign appeared to all to be stamped with legitimacy and blessed with longevity.

Knowing how valuable his former position had been for Edward, Richard formed a new Council of the North, putting his oldest nephew, John de la Pole, the earl of Lincoln, son of his sister the duchess of Suffolk, at its head. He decided Northumberland was best positioned in command of of the important Scottish marches. Richard established this second royal household at Sheriff Hutton and put his other nephew, George’s son, under Lincoln’s guardianship. Although he had stood next in line to the throne after King Edward’s sons, young Warwick was also ineligible to wear the crown due to Clarence’s attainder. But Richard had anticipated the danger of an enemy using the lad as a figurehead for a possible uprising, and he hoped the Yorkshire moors might put the boy out of sight and out of mind.

Anne asked to return to Middleham with Ned for a period, and although Richard was loath to say farewell, he knew she would regain her strength there and granted her request. Besides, he needed to go south and quell a new rebellion before it spread. How quickly his euphoric but ephemeral reception in the north had evaporated. As well, he was perturbed that Harry had never returned or sent word that his grisly mission was accomplished. It had been reported to Richard that the duke was now spending time on his estates in Wales. “Sulking, I expect,” Anne had said.

“I am trusting you to look after your lady mother, Ned,” Richard told his son, who was seated beside Anne in the horse litter. “You are near to ten years old and almost a man.”

Ned held himself erect. “I shall do my duty, as you have taught me, but when shall I see you again, my lord Father?”

“Perhaps we can share the yuletide season together in London.” Richard smiled at Ned’s excited nodding. “We shall have a Christmas fit for a king.” Both Anne and Ned laughed at the joke.

“Something to anticipate, is it not, sweeting?” Anne said, leaning back on the cushions as the horses began to move away.

“Aye,” Richard said, blowing them a kiss. “Only three short months.”

His last view of them as they disappeared through the castle gateway was of Ned leaning out of the litter and waving gaily.

Richard knew he had stayed away from London too long when he heard even more worrying news, this time from the duke of Brittany. It had to do with Margaret Beaufort’s exiled son, Henry Tudor, earl of Richmond, the pretended Lancastrian claimant to the throne. All those years ago, Duke Francis had promised to house Tudor for Edward in exchange for Edward’s support of Brittany against any possible war with its neighbor France. King Louis was now threatening war with Duke Francis unless Tudor was handed over to the French.

“Brittany is so certain I fear Tudor that he expects me to send 4,000 archers to ward off the French.” Richard told his privy councilors upon arriving at Lincoln. “My brother may have feared a Lancastrian challenge, but Richmond is a Beaufort and, as such, has no right to the throne.”

Lawyer Catesby felt obliged to remind them all: “By decree of Richard the Second, upon legitimizing John of Gaunt’s Beaufort bastards, they should never be eligible to wear the crown.”

The other three nodded remembering that Henry of Bolingbroke had ignored the decree, usurped the crown as Henry IV in 1399, claiming right of conquest, and then begat the Lancaster line. It was a sobering reminder for the group.

“Is anyone else concerned about Henry of Richmond,” Richard asked, feeding the faithful Rufus a tidbit from his discarded plate of roasted rabbit, “or shall I tell Duke Francis to heave the annoyance over the French border?” He motioned to one of his gentlemen to pour him some wine. Without Anne to admonish him, he was drinking more heavily to alleviate the tension of each day.

“I think we have more to worry about on our own doorstep,” Francis said. “Who do you think is behind this latest incursion? Surely, with Elizabeth guarded at the abbey, her cohort Hastings dead and buried, and no sign of her son Dorset…”

“The degenerate!” Richard interjected. “I have it on good authority he has been bedding Mistress Shore. That woman has an appetite for trouble. I had all but cornered Dorset after his failed attempt to rescue my nephews, but he has fled London. He can be of no help to Elizabeth now.”

“The merry mistress conquers anew,” Rob chuckled. “I can’t help but admire her initiative.”

Richard grimaced. “I fear I shall have to prosecute her again, this time for harboring a fugitive.” He went to the window. “But let us focus on the problem of unrest. Do we believe the trouble has arisen over my kingship or does the discontent stem from Edward’s mismanagement?”

John Kendall looked up from the sheath of papers he had on the table next to him. “If I may interrupt, Your Grace, but here is a letter from Queen Elizabeth.” He handed it to Richard, who broke the seal and scanned the unruly writing.

I am writing to beg you to allow my sons to join me here in sanctuary. I have heard rumor that they are dead—murdered in the Tower by your own hand. I do not believe it, and thus, appealing to you as a father and my erstwhile friend, I request you prove me right and bring me my boys. I remain, your brother’s faithful wife and queen, Elizabeth.

Richard paled. If the rumor of the boys’ death had reached Westminster sanctuary, then it must have spread throughout London—and thus, how far outside? Was this what the rebellion was about? Then it was a lot more serious than mere discontent over taxes.

He stared out of the window weighing if he should tell these few loyal friends what Buckingham had done. He had confessed harboring the secret to his chaplain, but no one else knew the atrocious truth—except Buckingham, of course. How long before the man’s silver tongue divulged the deed and then blamed Richard? Dear God, I could be brought down by such a lie! He resolved to reveal the secret now. How much better for his friends to hear it from his lips than to discover it for themselves upon their return to London. Besides, he needed help to handle the unrest.

Rob broke into Richard’s thoughts. “What does the Grey Mare want now, Your Grace?”

“She wants her sons restored to her,” Richard said quietly, still with his back to them all. “It is the one thing I cannot do for her, God help me.” He turned and dismissed the gentlemen of the chamber so that only Francis, Rob, Will Catesby and Ratcliffe remained, all staring at him curiously.

“Why is that, Richard?” Rob spoke first.

Richard rasped in a low whisper, “Because they are dead.” Crumpling the parchment, he threw it on the floor. “They are dead, God forgive me.”

After the initial shock, the close-knit group of loyalists debated a course of action. It was Catesby’s nimble mind that latched onto the one possible, plausible pathway to dispelling the rumor. “You said Buckingham told the boys’ servant that he was taking them to safety at your behest, am I right? Then who are we to deny that ‘truth?’ You sent Buckingham to remove them in secret somewhere—let us say ‘abroad.’ At that point, Buckingham must see, like the worm he is, he will be off the hook and acquiesce to save his arse. Who will dispute you? You are king, and who will dare demand of the king to show the lads’ faces?”

Francis let out a low whistle of admiration. “If that story is circulated immediately, no one will believe Harry if he now comes forward to say you had him murder the boys. It will sound ridiculous.”

“’Tis a plausible story indeed, William,” Rob Percy agreed and grinned at the young lawyer.

Richard smiled for the first time in days, and he slapped Catesby on the back. “I am grateful for your legal mind, Will, and I think your idea may save the realm from further conflict. I will summon Buckingham to return and tell him in person. He must agree for his own good. It must be the same tale: the boys are somewhere secret and safe. I will even write to Brackenbury and thank him for allowing Harry to take the boys from the Tower on my behalf.”

Then he shook his head sadly. “Foolish Harry truly believed I would be pleased by what he had done and was confounded when I was not.” He nodded at Catesby. “’Tis a masterful solution, and I hope I can persuade Harry to share in it—and return to the fold.” He harrumphed. “That is when he has finished brooding in Brecknock.”

Richard could never have anticipated what happened next: Henry Stafford, duke of Buckingham, turned his coat.

Not two days later, Richard received the intelligence that Buckingham was the acknowledged leader of the rebellion that had interrupted Richard’s progress.

As though he had received the shock physically, Richard doubled over in pain as Jack Howard’s son relayed his father’s urgent message from London. Thomas, now earl of Surrey, quickly handed the king a cup of ale and suggested that Richard sit. “Allow me to tell you what we know, Your Grace,” he said, as the room began to fill up with advisors, stunned by the news. The young man could not guess that Richard already knew the real reason for Buckingham’s defection, and that his letter to Harry had been too late—or ignored.

Surrey’s father was holding London against Kentish and Sussex rebels, while in the west and Wales, Buckingham was at the head of the rebel force intent on combining forces with the eastern contingent. Jack Howard believed the Woodvilles and their allies were to blame for the rebellion. “Margaret Beaufort has been seen at the abbey visiting the queen, and we intercepted a message on its way to Wales for John Morton, bishop of Ely. The two have been in correspondence it would seem and, with the queen, are plotting to remove you.”

Thomas paused, watching Richard slide his ring on and off his finger as he processed the information. Suddenly, Richard made a sound that was part laugh, part growl. “And here is irony. I sent Morton to Brecknock so he could whisper treason in Harry’s ear,” he said. “He is the one I should have executed, not Hastings. Let me borrow from my ancestor, the first Plantagenet, who famously said, ‘who will rid me of this meddlesome priest.’ Morton the manipulator; Morton the flatterer; Morton the deceiver; he is the snake who has bitten Buckingham and infused him with poison.” His control slipping and his voice shaking, he muttered, “I pray you excuse me, gentlemen, I need some air. Thomas, continue with your intelligence so Kendall here can chronicle it.”

“Your Grace, would you like me to accompany you?” Francis offered, stepping forward.

“I thank you, nay,” Richard answered, walking slowly to the door, his head heavy on his crooked shoulders. Harry’s betrayal was too great to comprehend, but he needed to be alone to try.

He trudged up the spiral stairs to the ramparts with only Rufus for company and faced the glorious west front of Lincoln Cathedral a few hundred feet away high on the hill, its soaring central spire reaching to heaven. Richard hardly noticed its beauty as the cool, damp October air reflected his gloom. Two guards were making their crossover on the northern wall; otherwise, he was alone.

Angry thoughts of his cousin raged around his brain like untamed animals, but all eventually returned to one place: betrayal. What had pushed Harry to treason? To break his sacred oath to his king? Richard recalled Harry boasting one night of taking a leaf from Warwick’s book: “I am a kingmaker,” he had crowed. Aye, Richard thought, and like Warwick you have betrayed your king.

He groaned. How had he come from Edward’s death to crisis after crisis in only six months? When he had started out from Middleham that bright April day grieving for his brother and intent on being a strong protector of the young boy king, he had felt confident, sure of his purpose in life, and a happy family man. Fortune’s wheel had spun him around so many times since then, he was dazed. Sometimes it felt things were not happening to him at all, that he was floating aloft watching himself react, no longer in control of anything. Harry had had a hand in turning that wheel, he could see that now, and Richard had gone along with him, reluctantly at times. And now Richard was king with too many deaths on his conscience already. Guilt and despair gripped him with icy fingers, and he steadied himself against the battlement.

Turning and leaning over a crenelation, he glanced down from three stories to the grassy banks below. He immediately felt a queasiness and instinctively stepped back. Something intangible tempted him to look out again, and this time saw in the green carpet beneath him a possible end to his terrible turmoil. If he could just let himself float down into its soft embrace, his trials, his sorrow, and his wretched life would be over in a second. Sweet Jesu, let me end my misery. I am already damned to hell, so what is one more sin? Summoning the courage to indulge himself in ending it all, he leaned out over the wall farther, sending a shower of loose stones cascading to the ground. How easy it would be to follow them, to know no more…

“And You would leave Ned and me alone, Richard?” Anne’s voice in his brain was as clear as the shout of warning from one of the guards that jolted him from his self-destruction. Rufus gave a responsive bark, and Richard jerked himself erect. He waved off the guard and quietened the dog.

He shivered. How close had he come to self-slaughter, he wondered, dispirited and afraid. He slid his back down the damp wall to sit with Rufus, who nuzzled his master’s wet face.

“Good dog,” he praised him, and then looked up to heaven. Tell me this, Lord, were You not content enough to give me this pathetic body? Have You not denied Anne and me more children? Taken my brothers from me? Have You given me this crown as reward or curse? And now You have Harry betray me” He gave a harsh laugh. Ah, and lest I forget. What punishment will You give me for the deaths of my sweet nephews. I know I shall take the blame.

Aloud, he cried: “Dear God, have pity on me! How much more must I endure to satisfy You? In Jesus’s name, I can bear no more.” He buried his face in Rufus’s rough fur and let the dog’s devotion ease his broken heart.

Little by little, as the drizzle turned to rain, despair turned to resolve, and Richard’s spirit began to revive. He lifted his face to the heavens and made a heartfelt promise: “I will be a better king. I will take care of my subjects, if You will take care of me and mine, O Lord. Let me atone for my past sins by ruling well. I vow I will be strong and do my best for England.”