Royal Mistress (52 page)

T
om heard the dogs baying in the distance as he lay curled up inside an empty wine barrel among others on a shout sailing down the Thames. He should have gone upstream, he decided too late, when he witnessed the number of soldiers sent to beat down the rushes east of Westminster. He hoped they would find the cloak one of his adherents had planted by the riverside and assume he had drowned. His friend, the bribable guard, had arranged for him to be smuggled inside the barrel on board the small vessel, and as the hue and cry had begun after he was safely under way, he tried to make the best of his discomfort and await unloading at Hay Wharf at the bottom of All Hallows Lane.

Thanks to his years of philandering, he knew every rat-run between taverns and brew houses and would have no trouble
evading capture. He patted the bulge tucked inside his undershirt, concealed by the monk’s habit he had been given as a disguise, and smiled. Gloucester would not get some of the king’s treasury back, he swore to himself. How clever his mother had been to insist they take much of it with them into sanctuary. It would come in useful for bribes, he mused, and his possible flight to Flanders if the circumstances warranted it.

As he congratulated himself on his escape, he could hear the lapping of the waves against the sides of the boat. He hoped Jane’s friend was trustworthy; he would reward the man certainly for his pains, he told himself. Yearning for Jane, he was tempted to go straight to her house on Thames Street instead of to his hiding place, and her lovely face swam into his mind. Aye, she would be alone, in need of comfort now, and would gladly welcome him to her bed, he had no doubt. He was counting on taking refuge with her after hiding at the Pope’s Head. His and Jane’s names had never been linked, he reminded himself, so that measle Gloucester would not look for him there.

The reason for Jane’s empty bed brought Tom solemnly back to Will Hastings’s awful fate, and he shuddered. The queen had fallen on her knees when she was told the news, and Tom had been surprised to see his mother weep so for her husband’s best friend. Her own charge of conspiracy seemed to Tom not to have affected her as much as Hastings’s death. What could the man have possibly done to warrant such a swift death? he asked himself. Aye, he and Will had never rubbed together well, but Tom had admired his statesmanship and his loyalty to Edward. And occasionally, the two of them had shared a drink and a wench in good companionship, he remembered. Nay, Mother’s instincts were correct, he thought. Gloucester was a dangerous man, and she was right to stay in sanctuary. The former frequent visits from Bishops Morton and Rotherham, as well as Lord Stanley and his wife, had kept Elizabeth positive that she would prevail and see Gloucester
put aside. She had thus been devastated to learn of those men’s arrests but had dismissed her own accusation as “unprovable.”

Footsteps hurrying across the deck and loud shouting from the wharf alerted Tom that the boat was about to dock, and he braced himself for the jolt. In very short order, his conveyance was rolled off the gangplank and onto the pier and then stood in a cluster with others. When the double knock signal was given him, he pushed off the lid, climbed out, and disappeared up All Hallows Lane.

I
t was as well Tom had left that day, for on the morrow, Elizabeth was once again visited in sanctuary by a delegation from Richard. This time it was headed by eighty-year-old Thomas Bourchier, Archbishop of Canterbury, who bowed into the queen’s presence with Jack Howard and Bishop Russell of Lincoln flanking him.

“Not again,” Elizabeth protested, kissing Bourchier’s ring and kneeling for his blessing. “I have not changed my mind, my lords, so I pray do not waste your time.”

It was Jack Howard who responded. “The lord protector is angered by the marquess of Dorset’s flight, madam. He is most anxious that you should know he does not hold it against you, and warns you he cannot look upon Dorset’s action as anything but mischief-making.”

“Christ’s bones, but
the lord protector,
” and she mimicked Howard’s words, “is taking his position far too high-handedly. My son has every right to walk the streets of London like any other loyal subject of his brother and my son, his grace King Edward. Therefore, Jack, I should say—enough of this nonsense. Why are you really here? To accuse me of witchcraft again?”

Jack Howard bowed and stepped aside for the archbishop to state his mission. He marveled again at the Woodville woman’s composure and astonishing beauty. Even in her midforties, Elizabeth dazzled. Edward certainly had known how to pick his women, he thought, although Jack preferred a woman of
a more cheerful disposition than Elizabeth, and his Margaret suited him well. He listened as Bourchier rambled on about how deeply disappointed the English people would be if the young king were crowned without his brother in attendance. “May I suggest strongly that you let your son, Richard, go to be with his brother. The king is lonely and asks for his brother daily. I can assure you, the protector only wants what is best for his nephews.”

The three men were not prepared for the torrent of expletives that erupted from Elizabeth’s weeks of confinement and frustration. Bourchier physically flinched at the venom that the queen spat at her visitors. “I do not even know if my Ned is safe and well, and Gloucester accuses me of witchcraft and would no doubt like to see me burn. Why should I release my other son to him, my lords? You tell me why.”

Then she broke down and cried. “You would take away my darling boy, my sweet Dickon? When shall I see either son again?” Her bosom began to heave, and her loud lamenting embarrassed the archbishop, who kept motioning his hand up and down in a futile effort to calm her.

Jack Howard stared at the weeping woman, relieved his wife had never succumbed to wailing. Is she feigning? he wondered briefly, but when her oldest daughter, Bess, came running into the room, he assumed the hysterics were not usual. Bess was followed by the other daughters, all gathering around their mother like protective pups. Finally, the object of the discussion arrived from a different part of the lodgings and ran headlong into Jack Howard’s legs, almost knocking the stocky lord over.

Jack bent down and sternly gripped the boy in an attempt to restrain him.

“What is wrong with Mama?” Dickon cried, trying to shake lose from Jack’s hold. “Leave me be, sir. I am the duke of York and you must obey me.”

If the scene had not been so fraught with drama, Jack Howard might have laughed. Instead he seized the moment to entice the ten-year-old boy with the prospect of joining his brother.

“How would you like to see Ned again?” Jack asked, crouching down to the boy’s level and loosening his grip on Dickon’s arm.

Dickon’s eyes lit up. “Is he coming to see me, my lord?”

“Nay, he is not allowed here,” Jack lied. “But you can go to him. He asks for you every day, your grace. He is lonely in his big apartments at the Tower. He has no one to practice with at the archery butts, no one to wrestle with, and most of all no one to share a bed with and fight off his fears in the dark. He needs you, Dickon, and you could go to him if you but ask your mother.”

“Truly?” the boy answered, looking over at Elizabeth, who was now seated calmly and having her face wiped with wet linen. He ran to her and knelt at her knee. “Is it true, Mama? I can be with Ned if you say I can? Please, please let me go. I hate it here with all of these silly girls. They don’t want to play kick-ball or shoot arrows, and I could do that with Ned.” He focused his pleading blue eyes on her, one of his eyebrows slightly misformed and reminding her so much of his father that Elizabeth finally relented.

“Oh, take him, you wretches! You have worn me down these past weeks, my lord bishop,” she addressed Russell, who had been Richard’s chief envoy until today, “and I am tired. My heart will break, but it seems Gloucester does not care a damn about my heart or my family.” She gathered Dickon into her arms, and the men were dismayed to see her sob once more. “When will I see you again, my dearest child? Or my beloved Ned? Life is too cruel; I do not know why I do not simply take my own life and end it all.”

The two clerics gasped at the heresy, and Elizabeth gave a derisive snort. “Fear not, my lords, you will not see the end of this Grey Mare so easily. He may have dispensed with Edward’s loyal Hastings, but I would not give Richard of Gloucester the satisfaction of my death as well. Tell him that, Jack Howard. Her grace the
dowager queen is not finished with him yet.” She gave her son one last kiss, admonishing him to be good and to give his big brother a kiss from her, and set him down. As he turned to walk toward Howard, Elizabeth suddenly swept him back into her arms. “Nay, I cannot allow it!” she cried. “He has to stay with me.” But she had not counted on her son’s yearning for his brother, and Elizabeth, no match for a ten-year-old’s strength of will, finally gave him up. “Go now. Take him! Before I change my mind.”

When the three men, Jack holding Dickon’s hand, turned and walked through the arch to the cloister, Elizabeth shouted ominously: “Beware Gloucester, my lords. He plans to take the crown for himself.” Then she laughed harshly and muttered softly to herself, “Although how he will justify that, God or the devil only knows.”

T
he duke and duchess of Gloucester took little Dickon of York to the Tower, and they stood back to watch the two brothers reunite.

“Uncle Richard told me you might come, Dickon,” Ned said, his face glowing. “Now I shall have someone to talk to who isn’t old and boring.”

“Aye, and we can have sword fights and shoot arrows and play fox and geese and pretend we are on a crusade and . . .” He stopped as Ned laughed and said: “And what, Dickon? You are still a clacking magpie, I see. Our sisters must be glad you left them behind.”

Dickon snorted. “Pah! Those silly girls. Always crying and complaining. I hate them!”

“You should never say ‘hate,’ Dickon,” Duchess Anne’s quiet voice broke in. “ ’Tis a strong word, and you must only use it when you really mean it.”

“Our lady mother uses it all the time,” Dickon blurted out, and then he put his hand over his mouth. She used it when she referred to Uncle Dickon, he suddenly realized, and even a ten-year-old boy knew when he had said enough. He looked anxiously at his
uncle, but Richard laughed and invited the boys to sit for some refreshment. He told them he would send his son, John, to keep them company if they wished, as he was the same age as Ned and already training to be a knight.

“But he is a bastard,” Ned sniffed. “I am not sure a king should consort with a bastard.”

Richard gritted his teeth and chose to ignore the ironic remark, thinking that Anthony, Lord Rivers had a lot to answer for in the arrogant education of the future king. And Anthony an upstart himself!

“John is well loved by his father here and by me, who does not have to be his mother to love him,” Anne Neville suddenly said, rescuing Richard. “He is a good boy and has royal blood in his veins, just like you.” Ned lowered his eyes and apologized.

Richard felt sorry for the boy. “Do you know you have another cousin? He is Edward, Aunt Anne’s and my son. He had to stay behind at Middleham when Aunt Anne came to London, because he is only eight and had a cold. Your aunt misses him very much, and so she is happy to see you both today.”

Ned turned his large, solemn eyes on his aunt and smiled. She was not nearly as pretty as his mother, he noted, but she had a kind face. He longed to know why his mother would not come to see him, and although he understood what sanctuary was, he did not know why she chose to remain there. Uncle Richard seemed kind enough, although Ned would never forgive him for taking away his beloved chamberlain, Sir Thomas Vaughan, at Stony Stratford. He missed his Uncle Rivers, too, but Sir Thomas was as close to a grandfather as the boy had ever known.

Dickon popped a sweetmeat into his mouth and turned his innocent eyes on Richard. “What will I wear at the coronation, my lord uncle? Will there be enough time for someone to make me a jacket? I should very much like blue. ’Tis my favorite color.”

Only Ned noticed the imperceptible furrowing of Richard’s
brow as Anne replied with enthusiasm, “Why, Dickon, I think blue would be a most suitable color for your gown. You have no objection, do you, Richard?”