Authors: Sandra Worth
Or Anne might be right. Bess Woodville might give up the Sanctuary that was a reproach to him and his rule.
The Abbey clock clanged the half-hour.
“At first light, I shall make arrangements to bring him from Barnard’s Castle.” Drawing Anne to him so that her cheek lay in the hollow of his neck, Richard gazed at the fire, feeling its warmth surge through him. He kissed the top of her head. “What would I do without you, my Flower-eyes?”
Anne nestled in his arms, watching the dying embers. The last log had fragmented into glowing splinters, and the splinters were burning away, dissolving into ashes. She felt suddenly cold.
“You’re shivering, Anne—” Richard put an arm around her and poked at the ashes with a cherry branch. “Let’s go to bed, my sweet. The day is done… the fire is almost out.”
~ * ~
Chapter 11
“He rooted out the slothful officer
Or guilty, who for bribe had winked at wrong…
Clear’d the dark places and let in the law.”
Throughout the Christmas festivities, Richard focused his attention on the problem of Brittany and the external security of the realm. He bought more ships, manned them, and devised a system for protecting the merchant convoys. Before the new year of 1484 struck, he sent Howard and Sir Edward Brampton to harass the Bretons.
Finally he was able to focus on the internal peace of the land. Anxious to present himself to the people and give them a chance to assess him personally, he decided to make a progress south, to Kent, a seat of insurrection against the Crown since the days of Holy Harry. On his first day in Canterbury, after a private prayer vigil at the high altar, he returned to his chambers in the Bishop’s palace and prepared a proclamation. He handed it to Anne for her approval.
As Anne read, she was overcome with emotion. The words were nearly an echo of those Richard had spoken to her on that starry night in Middleham during their first married summer together. She could see him in the moonlight, hear his voice:
I have a dream, Anne, I dream of justice for all…
I am determined that everyone shall receive justice, he had written. Extortion and oppression will be punished, and anyone who has been grieved, oppressed, or unlawfully wronged may come to me and I will see that justice is done… All my subjects shall enjoy their lands, property, and goods, according to law, and I order that no one, no matter how exalted or what his degree, can rob, hurt, or wrong a man… upon pain of death or imprisonment.
She handed the proclamation back to him without looking up.
Richard rose from his desk. “What is it, my sweet? What ails you?” With a gentle touch, he wiped a tear from her cheek.
Anne raised her head. His face sparkled as though she gazed at him through crystals. “Forgive your foolish wife, Richard,” she smiled, lifting her chin. “They are tears of pride, beloved.”
~ * ~
On the twenty-third day of January in the new year of 1484, as Abbey bells rang for Tierce, Richard opened Parliament in the Painted Chamber at Westminster Palace. After the Archbishop’s speech, he rose from his canopied throne and addressed the members.
“In the past, innocent men have been thrown into prison solely by accusation,” Richard said, his thoughts turning to poor Cook, the merchant who had had the misfortune to own a tapestry coveted by Edward’s greedy queen. “And kept there for years,” he added, remembering Sir Thomas Malory who, on one ruse or another, had been kept in prison and denied a trial for years because he had caught the evil eye of first Marguerite, then Bess Woodville. “That must change. Every accused must be granted bail until proven guilty. His property must not be seized until he stands convicted. The law must cease to be an instrument of extortion and oppression,” There was a stunned silence, then a few cheers and everyone began to talk at once. Voices were raised against the measure, but in the end, they relented. From the dark looks around him, Richard knew he had failed to win these men over. They had abandoned their opposition only because he was King and they felt they had no choice.
Now to the yeoman, Brecher, who’d given him shelter one long ago summer’s day when he and Anne had disguised themselves as peasants, fled Barnard’s Castle, and were lost in the rain.
“Corrupt juries obstruct justice. Therefore, every man serving on a jury must be of good repute. To ensure that he has a vested interest in his community, he must own property. Verdicts of unqualified jurors are to be declared void, and tampering with jurors must be a felony.” More cheers. More dissension. Finally, it was agreed; the wording strengthened.
One by one, in addition to the grant of bail to the innocent and improvements in the jury system, the rights dear to his heart were debated and adopted into law. These included economic protections against unscrupulous sellers of land, and the protection of the art of printing, which was hotly contested by the prelates. Book writing had long been the sole preserve of the Church.
“One last item,” declared Richard in his resonant voice. “My laws are to be enacted in the common English, not Latin, so that the poor may know their rights.” He noted Archbishop Rotherham’s glum expression and the many glowering faces among the clergy. In one sweep, this measure stripped the Church of a power it had enjoyed for centuries and deprived it of another rich source of revenue. Richard realised he had made few friends here this day.
Finally, Acts of Attainder were passed against the chief rebels of Buckingham’s uprising, but as he had promised Anne, their wives were given full protection against the loss of their property.
Only one had her property confiscated: the former queen,
Bess Woodville.
~ * ~
It snowed heavily in London on the first day of March as a bearded knight with kindly eyes rode into Westminster Palace. Richard watched him from the window of his privy suite where he waited with Francis. He had chosen Sir James Tyrell for this urgent business, knowing Tyrell would not fail him. He was related to Francis, and others of his kin had sided with Warwick in his rebellion against Edward. Yet he had fought for Edward against his kin, and with such bravery, that he had been knighted on the field of battle.
The knight strode into the chamber and knelt in homage. Richard held up a hand for silence until Francis had shut the door. “Speak softly, my good Tyrell,” Richard whispered, motioning him to rise. “In castles even murals have ears.”
“All is ready, Sire. Metcalfe awaits your command.”
“Are the lodgings safe?”
“Aye, my lord. He is with kin of Sir Marmaduke Constable.”
“Very good. Send my squire to announce my arrival and have Metcalfe bring him to the Abbey. We shall await him there.”
“So far, so good,” Richard said to Francis when Tyrell was gone. “I pray we can return him to the North without anyone discovering his identity.” Francis assisted Richard into his furred mantle, grabbed his own, and followed him to the cloisters.
An icy wind blew, lifting swirls of snow in the courtyard, yet the North Walk was lined with clerics sitting on benches by tables and bookcases, and along the West Walk, others were washing. The sound of splashing water and the voice of the Master of Novices instructing his charges filled the cloisters, but Richard knew all attention was on him. Heads turned as he passed the long row of rush-strewn chambers with doors cracked open for air, emitting welcome drafts of warm air from their charcoal braziers. At the East Walk, which led to the Chapter House, he parted company with Francis and a hush fell over the cloisters. The last time he had come to Bess Woodville, it was to remove her son from her custody. Even then he had not gone to see her personally but had sent John Howard and Archbishop Bourchier.
The Captain of the Guard snapped to attention at the door.
“Let Metcalfe in when he gets here,” commanded Richard in a low voice.
“Aye, my lord.” The man unlocked the door to the Chapter House and threw it open.
Clad in blue velvet trimmed with ermine, Bess stood rigidly erect near the central pillar in the octagonal room. The chamber was crammed with the treasures she had carted from the palace, the glowing tiled floor scuffed by the heavy coffers and partially obscured by the Saracen carpets she had laid out. The brilliant wall-paintings were nicked and marred by chests she had stacked one on top of the other, then moved again. More coffers, more rolled carpets, and piles of tapestries and plate were set on top of these. Richard remembered with disgust how she had broken down walls in order to speed the delivery of her goods into Sanctuary.
Bess Woodville glared at him with the haughtiness she had always mistaken for dignity. He thought her a pathetic figure. Her hair was dyed, her cheeks over-rouged, and her scanty lashes blackened with charcoal. Even her mass of glittering jewels couldn’t hide the fact that she was no longer beautiful, for in these months of confinement she had lost a front tooth and her figure had run to fat. Richard’s gaze went to the corner where his five nieces cowered together like mice before a snake. They were all pretty girls with fair hair and bright eyes, the oldest eighteen, the youngest barely four. With shame he realised that to them he was the monster who had killed their brothers.
Anne was right
, Richard thought. He was glad he had come.
“Dame Grey, I wish to set matters right between us,” he said.
“Indeed? Do you intend taking your life?” she snarled.
Richard clenched a fist at his side, maintained control by force of will. “You do me an injustice.”
“
You
—you dare to speak to me of injustice? You who set aside my marriage to Edward, who imprisoned me here and took the throne from my son!”
“Lady, you knew of my royal brother’s bigamy long before the rest of us. You even committed murder to protect your secret. As to your so-called ‘imprisonment’—guilt drove you into Sanctuary. You disregarded the King’s will and tried to seize power. That is treason by any definition, and well you know it.”
“Are we to be blamed for protecting ourselves?” she wailed.
“By pointing a false finger first? That, Madame, is how you have always justified your crimes against others.”
“And you’ve always been against us… Now, by your hand, my sons are dead! May God punish you in eternity—you murderer of babes!”
“Lady, you condemn yourself. Unlike you, I have not steeped my hands in infants’ blood, as you’ll soon learn from the lips of your son, Richard of York.”
Her mouth fell open. She stared at him with disbelieving eyes. “Dickon?” she murmured feebly, shuffling towards him on unsteady legs. She searched his face. “My Dickon is alive?”
There was something unnatural about hearing his own name drop with reverence from such lips, and Richard retreated a step. At that moment the door was thrust open and a grimy stone mason entered, carrying a pail and tools, his boy helper at his side. The door slammed shut behind them and Bess Woodville swayed where she stood. “
Dickon!
” she cried, stumbling towards him, opening her arms wide. “Dickon!”
“
Mother, mother!
” cried little Richard, running into them.
Bess fell to her knees. Her body racked by sobs, she clasped her child to her breast and held him tight. The girls in the corner of the room dropped their hold of one another and stared in frozen, dumbfounded silence.
Had Bess been a stranger, Richard would have been moved to pity by her maternal devotion and tearful joy, but he knew her too well, so his heart remained untouched. Greed had brought her here. Greed for money and shiny things to fill the hollowness of her soul. For all her vicious cunning, all her sly and devious ways, all her clever schemes for power and gain, she was a stupid woman. Only the stupid never learned from their mistakes. He averted his gaze to grant mother and child a measure of privacy, but pity he could not feel. Not for this woman. This
Woodville
. Carnage she had demanded. Carnage she had wrought.
He lifted his eyes to the twinkling coloured glass in the window high above, and silently, in his heart, whispered a prayer for those she had destroyed: his brother, George; his father’s friend, Desmond; for Warwick who had sheltered him, and John, who had taught him honour. And for the many others whom he had loved, and many others still whose faces he had never known, who had perished in the battles of her creation.
~ * ~
Chapter 12
“No light! so late! and dark and chill the night!”
At Westminster, Richard gazed out over the Thames, silver in the early morning light. Anne was always right, he thought. As she’d promised, he’d won Bess over, and with terms that were generous but not extravagant. As a result, no one could say he’d lured the greedy queen out of Sanctuary and into a country house by promise of the gold she had worshipped all her life. Then he dispatched her guard to sea to fight the Britons. His action proclaimed that the queen was no longer an enemy, or regarded him as one.
Too bad about Dorset, though
, he thought toying with his signet ring. Bess had sent her son a secret message in Brittany that all was well and he could return to England, and Dorset had tried to flee Paris in the night. But before he could embark ship, he’d been caught by Henry Tudor’s men and “persuaded” to return. A pity. They could have learned much from him about Tudor’s plans.
“My lord.”
Richard turned. It was Kendall. “Ah, my good man, take a seat, let us see what we can do to help the humble folk…”
A prior who couldn’t afford the eight pounds for a royal licence had it waived; a man who had had himself elected vicar-general by false means in Exeter was replaced by the man he had cheated out of office. A bricklayer in Twicknam who lost everything when his house burned down and could no longer afford to care for the poor he had previously housed, was given money. Richard even took care of Buckingham’s unpaid debts to small creditors, including one for bread and ale delivered by a baker to Brecon. Many other misfortunes were noted and corrected. Richard enjoyed being generous. Despite his depleted purse, he passed out a number of grants. His faithful secretary, Kendall, was a recipient, and there were many others. Even old servants who had long since left his service were not forgotten.