Authors: Sandra Worth
“You’re not hearing me, Mother. God has condemned me! He darkened the sun at the hour of Anne’s death—to show me—to show the world—” he swallowed, fought for breath, continued, “His disfavour.”
“I see.”
He watched her return to her seat, the silver walking stick thumping the cream and umber tiles softly, his father’s gold beads jingling at her waist. She arranged herself gracefully into her chair and looked at him.
“There was an eclipse of the sun when our Lord died on the Cross,” she said.
Richard gazed at her without comprehending.
“Perhaps it was not His
disfavour
but His
favour
he wished to show. Perhaps He wished to show the world that He Himself lamented this one death… where there had been much suffering… and much love.”
Cool fingers seemed to ease away the hurt in Richard’s breast. Elizabeth had comforted him with similar words, and comfort had come to him that night at Anne’s tomb. Though he knew solace failed to last long beneath the weight of sorrow, he accepted the balm his mother offered with a grateful heart.
“Elizabeth said God sent so many angels to take Anne to heaven that their wings darkened the sun.”
“Aye, there was about Anne a deep sense of love, a truly gracious regard for all living things. God took note of her.”
Richard turned his head to the window. Night had fallen, and a faint sliver of pale light still streaked the horizon, but in the near total darkness there appeared a sight he’d never seen before: In the gardens and the deep woods a few trees glowed silver-white with a strange iridescence. He had never known vegetation to shine with light amidst total darkness, had not even thought such a thing possible. The moment seemed unreal, dreamlike, portentous and almost divine. He went to his mother and knelt at her feet.
“Give me your blessing, Mother,” he said, remembering that she had once refused it.
She reached out, touched his face tenderly. “You must understand that what has happened is not your fault, anymore than Christ’s tribulations were His. Our lives are part of a mighty plan, and though God cannot always alter it and grant us relief from loss, He can send us strength, if we but accept His will… Dear son, I grant you my blessing.” She made the sign of the Cross over him. “Now, let us pray together.”
She removed the chaplet from her waist and offered it to him. He stared down at the rosary given her by his father. Six sets of ten gold beads separated by six square enamel stones, all engraved with the figures of the saints and completed by a gold cross and a scalloped shell of jet—the scalloped jet Anthony Woodville had brought her from his pilgrimage to Compostella. He winced. Aye, there was much to be forgiven, but the burden of guilt no longer seemed as heavy. He took the rosary and together they moved to the pre-dieu to recite their devotions.
~*~
“I’m concerned about Richard, Francis,” said Rob.
“He’s exhausted, is all,” replied Francis. “It’s nothing a rest won’t cure.”
“It’s more than that.” Rob leaned forward, lowered his voice to a hushed whisper. “Nothing matters to him anymore.”
“What foolery. Tudor matters. Richard’s determined to make Tudor pay for what he’s done.”
“No, Francis. Since Anne’s death, he doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep. He barely functions. He can’t go on like this.” Rob fell silent, pondered the table thoughtfully, and looked up with anxious eyes. “He cared for Elizabeth, Francis. He’s worse since she left. Much worse. The fits of temper—” He shook his head. “He smashed his crown after her departure.”
Francis stared at him in disbelief. “His
crown
?”
“He must have. One of its points was dented… You’ve been away, you don’t know. He’s moody, distracted, irrational. His judgement’s poor and he won’t listen to reason. If he doesn’t come to his senses soon… I fear, Francis.”
“Richard will protect the kingdom. He’s always answered the call of duty.”
“You don’t understand! Tudor has only one chance to win England—he’s having a devil of a time getting gold from the French to finance this invasion and they’ll not support another. But Richard’s a reigning monarch. He has the power of the realm behind him—men, arms, money—yet a single battle is all he says he’ll allow himself. It’s insane.” Rob swallowed hard, ran a hand through his thatch of red hair. “What if we lose, Francis?”
Francis stirred uneasily in his chair and turned his face to the dark sea.
~*~
Heavy clouds blanketed the night. Francis hobbled up the worn tower steps to his chamber. He had been in Southampton for months now, refitting the fleet and preparing the southern coast for Tudor’s invasion. There was always so much to do, so much to worry about. But this news about Richard… He halted in his steps. This was not good.
He resumed his uneven gait up to his room. If it were true—if Richard were cracking—then they were doomed. At the threshold of his chamber, he pulled up sharply. Where was everyone? Torches flared, a fire burned in the hearth, but the chamber was empty of servants, though the coverlet had been turned down for him. Strange… there was something on the pillow. He knitted his brows together, approached cautiously. A letter… And a rose.
A red rose.
Tudor had sent him a missive.
~ * ~
Chapter 27
“For I, being simple, thought to work His will.”
Light morning mist hovered over the countryside as Nottingham Castle loomed into view on its rocky prominence. Richard reined in White Surrey and stared at the brooding towers and long line of battlements, words from a favourite poem echoing in his mind:
’Tis the Castle of Care
whoso cometh therein
May mourn that born he was
In body or soul.
The quote came from a ballad about the sorrows of the poor, but what about the sorrows of kings? He gave a sigh and nudged White Surrey forward.
In two days it would be the eleventh of June, Anne’s birthday. He remembered the dread that Anne had felt the last time they had come to Nottingham. Somehow she had sensed what was to befall. He himself had no wish to return to this place that was laden with memories, but he had no choice. There was little love for him in the manor houses where the names of Stafford and Hastings were mourned, and though there were some good men who were staunchly loyal, like Lords Ferrers of Chartley, Grey of Codnor, and Lord Zouche, a strong royal presence was necessary. The North was for him; the South, against him. These strategic midlands would determine whether his kingdom would be won or lost.
The two weeks since Berkhampsted had confirmed his decision. He would not deviate from the test he had set for himself. In Stony Stratford he had calculated what was right for him and the realm, and it had brought disaster. From now on he would leave everything in God’s hands. If God wished foul Tudor to rule England in his place, then so be it. He would submit to His will, whatever His plan.
He clattered over the drawbridge and through the arched gates into the courtyard. The castle chamberlain delivered a lengthy welcome. He listened politely and made a gracious reply. After giving White Surrey over to the Master of the Grooms, he embraced Francis, who had come up from Southampton to visit. Followed by his retinue of knights and squires of the body, he climbed the staircase to the great hall.
The high ceilings and tall stately windows of the wood-panelled chamber darkened and weighed down on him with fierce oppression. Here in this gloomy room as they drank and made merry on the feast of St. George, was brought the news of Ned’s death.
Always with the hand that gives, is the claw that takes back
. He laid his gauntlets down.
“’Tis the Castle of my Care,” said Richard, almost to himself.
His men averted their gaze. Francis said, as lightly as he could manage, “Aye, and a frightful dismal place. The day is fine, Richard. Let’s leave here and go hunting.”
Richard didn’t respond. He moved to a window and pushed it open. A warm breeze caressed his face. Leaning on the latch, he looked out over the emerald forest stretching away on the northern horizon where Robin Hood had made his stand for loyalty and justice. And away to the east, over the hills and dales, crouched Tudor, awaiting his chance. Soon he would pounce.
He slammed the window shut. “Send to Wales for hawks and falcons. By God, we’re going to hunt in style and let that Welsh bastard know we lose not a moment’s sleep over him!”
~*~
For Richard, every day without Anne seemed to last forever, and the day of her birth was torment. He spent much of it on his knees, at a prayer vigil in the chapel hearing masses, and privately at the small altar in his bedchamber. That night, alone by the fireside where he used to sit with Anne, he read from the Book of Ghostly Grace which his mother had given him as a parting gift. It bore an account of the visions of Cistercian nun St. Mathilde of Hackeborn, one of the earliest mystics of the Sacred Heart, in which she described the state of former friends as she beheld their souls after death.
Richard lowered the book in his hand, remembering Anne’s account of Isobel’s death. Everyone had thought Isobel was imagining John’s presence, but according to St. Mathilde, she might indeed have seen him. Staring into the shadows of the night, he whispered, “Come to me, Anne, come to me—” But there was no flicker of movement from the darkness; no answering response from the silence. Wearily he rose from the fireside and fell into bed. And for the first time since her death, he dreamed of her.
In his dream she laughed and took his hand and they ran into the moonlit woods together and made tender love beneath their chestnut tree. As dawn broke, she gathered her filmy white robes about her. “Don’t go—” he cried in panic. “Don’t leave me in this empty place!” She stood in the morning mist, gazing at him, the breeze stirring her gown. “I will wait for you in heaven, my love,” she said, and faded with the mist. “Anne—” he cried. “Anne!—”
He awoke to find himself clutching a pillow to his breast. He hurled it away and sat up in bed. He bowed his head into his hands.
~*~
In the sun of springtime, Richard hunted and hawked with friends, seeming not to have a care in the world as he rode out into Nottingham Forest each morning, his yapping hounds at his heels, a falcon on his wrist. He seemed not to be aware that Henry Tudor was rigging his fleet at Harfleur, or that France was giving Tudor men and money as well as ships. But Tudor was never far from his thoughts during the idle sunny outings with his lords and the long dark summer nights alone. That Tudor would come soon was as certain as death itself, but when he would strike his blow, and where he would land, Richard’s agents had been unable to discover. In the council chambers at Nottingham and riding to and fro from Nottingham Forest, the question was the subject of endless debate among Richard’s advisors. The day after Anne’s birthday, returning to the castle at sunset with their tired horses and dogs, the argument raged fiercely.
“Wales,” said Ratcliffe quietly with a wary eye on Lord Stanley riding ahead. Though Richard gave the Wily Fox the benefit of the doubt, he himself didn’t trust Tudor’s stepfather. “He’ll land in Wales.”
“Not Wales,” said Francis. “Rhys Ap Thomas’ the main chieftain there and he’s sworn fealty to Richard. And Huntingdon’s there. He’d never let Tudor past him.”
Richard winced at mention of that name, flooded by memories. Sweet Kate, lying in her coffin, clad in her bridal gown, and young Huntingdon weeping beside her, as he himself would soon weep for Anne.
Ratcliffe said, “If Ap Thomas goes back on his word, there’s not much Huntingdon can do. Wales has always been trouble for the Crown. That’s why Jasper Tudor was able to hold Harlech Castle for Lancaster long after the rest of the land was Edward’s.” He paused. “I fear the Welsh favour Tudor. His emblem is King Arthur’s Dragon, for he’s half Welsh, and claims descent from a line of Welsh kings.”
“He claims a lot of things,” laughed merry Sir Richard Clarendon, his golden head shining in the bright rose sunset. “Including that he’s not a bastard.”
A loud round of laughter applauded this remark and Richard smiled. Will Conyers said, “One thing’s for certain: a chicken or a weasel would better fit his blazon than the dragon he sports.” He rode tall in his saddle, a hand on his hip, an expression of contempt on his handsome square-jawed face. Richard gazed at him, at his compelling blue eyes and the confident set of his powerful shoulders, which had always reminded him of John. There was a certain nobility about the Neville clan, he thought. A pity so few survived.
“’Tis said he’s more at ease scheming in a pansy French court than fighting on a battlefield,” Conyers added, “and that he avoids feats of arms like the plague.”
“Then it should be short work to slit the Dragon’s throat,” offered the Black Knight, Ralph Ashton.
Dragon
. Richard flinched. Strange that the dragon of his childhood nightmares should have acquired a real-life aspect in Tudor. He remembered the warnings of wise-eyed Thomas Hutton after his return from the court of Brittany. Hutton had been right; the Devil protects his own. The Dragon had escaped them and slipped into France, just as their grasp had touched his slimy hide. It would be no easy matter to slit his throat. But where would he land? That was the question. The Welsh chieftain, Ap Thomas, had sworn fealty, yet who could be sure? Once an oath had bound a man to the death and honour had meant more than life itself. But the old world was vanishing, and in the new one that was being born, oaths were broken daily and there was little place for honour. He hated this new world, and understood it even less.
~ * ~
Chapter 28
“I hear the steps of Mordred in the west,
And with him many of thy people and knights
Once thine, whom thou hast loved, but grosser grown
Than heathen… spitting at their vows and thee.”