Royal Mistress (60 page)

R
ichard needed some air.

He nodded to Francis Lovell, and the two friends ran up the stone spiral to the ramparts high above Sheriff Hutton’s inner bailey. He had to escape the smoky hall and constant chatter so he could think. The familiar Yorkshire east wind off the Northern Sea carried a nip of autumn in it, making the men turn to have it at their backs as they stood on the southern side of the castle and looked out over the forest of Galtres and to the towers of York’s minster in the far distance.

“What news, Richard?” Francis came straight to the point, knowing the taciturn king detested idle banter. The messenger
had arrived not an hour before, his high leather boots caked in mud, and his face ruddy from his long ride, and Francis sensed the news was not good. “You looked as though you had seen a ghost back there.”

Richard stopped and leaned against the battlements. “I was not expecting it so soon, Francis. Jack Howard writes there is rebellion afoot, and that I should return to London at once.”

“Rebellion? By whom?” Francis demanded.

“Does it matter?” the king answered sadly. “Jack says there is talk of it in the southern counties. ’Twas our good fortune he was on his own progress to his new estates in Surrey and Sussex, where he was informed. He will no doubt deal with it should it erupt, but it seems ’tis more widespread.”

Francis tried to sound unconcerned. “You have not been away long enough to warrant complaints. ’Tis those southerners, Richard; you have never trusted them.”

Richard turned away toward the hills. “I wish it were as easy as that, Francis,” he said somberly. “There is more to this unrest than you know.” He stopped short then. Howard had intimated that people were asking about the boys in the Tower; there was a rumor afoot they had been done away with. It was a terrible secret he had kept for a few weeks now—to Richard it seemed an eternity, but he must shoulder the responsibility. He did not want to unload it onto others. Only Anne knew why Buckingham was no longer in favor, and apparently no one else questioned the duke’s extended absence. Here in the north, Richard felt cushioned from the heinous events, but when he got to London, he would have to face them, he knew. At least the boys’ guards only knew that Lord Buckingham had whisked the boys away, presumably to a safer place. He had paid them well to deny they had seen or heard anything. Foolish, headstrong Harry! It was now up to Richard to think of a plausible reason for their disappearance, and to deal with their mother’s questions.

Returning his focus to the present, Richard sensed Francis was waiting for an explanation, but how much should he say to the man he trusted most in the world, if he trusted anyone. If the truth be told, there were only two people he knew were unconditionally loyal to him: the two women he had loved, which was odd, he had once surmised, as most men distrusted women’s tongues far more than men’s. After Harry’s confession at Gloucester, Richard had experienced such terrible nightmares Anne could not help but gentle the truth from him. She had been kind but frightened, and he wished now he had not told her. He was afraid she was not strong enough to share such a burden, but tomorrow she would return to her preferred life at Middleham with their beloved son, and perhaps she would benefit from the change of air.

The other woman he longed to tell was Kate. He had been reminded of her a few days ago when he had knighted their son, John, on the day of little Ned’s investiture. What a fine boy, he thought fondly, and Kate should be proud.

While Francis waited, he watched the bustling below him of the many carpenters, bowyers, potters, blacksmiths, laundresses, and soldiers that kept a castle running smoothly. He was used to Richard’s brooding. He preferred this way of dealing with crises rather than his friend’s occasional rash actions, like the Hastings beheading. But he could usually depend on the rational Richard, and he would follow him down whatever path his king might lead him. His friend’s remark had left Francis wondering, but he knew better than to probe. Richard would tell him in his own good time—or not. And so he waited.

In a very few minutes, his patience was rewarded, for Richard turned to him and slapped him on the back, his chin determined and his voice strong. “Come, let us join the ladies and have ourselves a fine farewell feast, giving them no cause for concern. But on the morrow, we shall cheerfully wave Anne and Ned good-bye, and as soon as they are out of sight, we shall make haste for London.”

Whatever “more” there was to this uprising, Richard had decided to keep to himself, Francis thought, leading the way back down the winding stairs. He had no misgivings about putting down any rebellion; his king was the finest soldier in the kingdom.

T
he spires of Lincoln Cathedral’s three magnificent towers had dominated the horizon for the past twenty miles as Richard and his retinue approached the city on Ermine Street from the north.

The weak October sun was setting when, weary of his saddle, Richard dismounted at the wide steps up to the west front door of the cathedral and was greeted by a prelate in the service of its absent bishop and Richard’s new chancellor, John Russell. Richard strode down the flagged floor of the nave to the choir, followed by his personal household, and the priest led them in a prayer of Thanksgiving for the king’s safe entry into the city that had once been England’s third largest during the previous century’s prosperous wool trade.

It was getting dark when on the short walk under the Exchequer Gate across Bailgate to the castle, Richard and his entourage heard galloping hooves on the cobblestones. A sergeant-at-arms lit a flambeau and held it high as the approaching horseman slowed up the steep hill and came into the light.

Immediately recognizing the Howard white lion and azure crescent on the messenger’s livery, Richard ordered that the man be brought into his presence without delay and hurried through the castle gate and into the great hall. Lord Stanley, Francis Lovell, and several esquires of the body followed him into the smaller audience chamber, where a welcome fire was taking the chill off the room.

The duke of Norfolk’s man was soon kneeling at his king’s feet, carefully articulating the exact words Jack Howard had made him learn by heart.

“Your servant, his grace of Norfolk greets you well, my lord
king. He bids me tell you that Kent has risen and is intent on taking London in your absence. The more troubling news is that these rebels of Kent are claiming they are led by none other than his grace, the duke of Buckingham.”

The man got no further, for a roar of disbelief had erupted from those in the room and Richard himself was on his feet.

“Harry?” Richard repeated hoarsely, the blood draining from his face. “Harry leads the rebels?” He turned his back on the audience, who was loudly discussing the shocking news, and he stared at the crackling logs in the hearth. “Dear Mother of God, what have I done?”

R
ichard slept badly. He rose before the cock crowed and called for John Kendall, his faithful secretary. After answering Jack Howard’s call to action, the second letter he dictated was to Chancellor Russell, in which he graciously thanked the bishop for the kind welcome the prelate had arranged at his cathedral and city the day before, despite being indisposed at Westminster, and wished Russell a speedy recovery. Then he proceeded to reassure the chancellor that he was fully informed in the matter of the insurgency.

But, I pray you send the Great Seal to me at once; I have much to do before the rebellion can be put down.

He finished with the usual salutations and watched as Kendall put the final flourish on “written this twelfth day of October at Lincoln in the first year of our reign,” before dribbling wax upon the parchment. As he pressed the royal seal into the hot liquid to make the document official, Richard suddenly snatched the quill out of the secretary’s hand, dipped it in the inkwell, and handwrote a postcript:

Here, loved be God, is all well and truly determined, and for to resist the malice of him that had best cause to be true, the duke of Buckingham, the most . . .

He paused and looked at Kendall. “I know not what to say of him,” Richard said sadly, and Kendall was moved to see tears in his king’s eyes. Brushing them aside, Richard dipped the pen again and nodded to himself.

. . . the most untrue creature living; whom with God’s grace we shall not be long till that we will be in those parts, and subdue his malice. We assure there was never false traitor better purveyed for, as this bearer shall show you.

Ricardus R.
^I

John Kendall carefully folded the missives, assigned more wax to seal them, and left the room without a word to put them personally into the hands of the waiting messenger. He closed the door quietly behind him.

Alone in the room, Richard went to stand by the window, the same dark thoughts running around in his head. Why had he not immediately denounced Harry upon hearing of the unspeakable crime the man had committed? His reasonable mind told him that there was not anyone who would have believed the order to kill the two boys had not come from him. With men already calling him usurper, his fragile hold on the crown would be wrenched from him with an accusation of murder—and of his brother’s children, no less.

But by keeping silent, he would have to bear the guilt alone and remain in a living hell. Neither way was acceptable, he concluded
as his unabashed tears spilled down his cheeks as freely as the rain upon the windowpanes.

L
ondon was on high alert. Not since King Edward had regained his throne in ’71 had so many armed soldiers filled the main thoroughfares, preparing the capital for a possible attack, this time from Kentish rebels.

“We had begun to believe we were safe at last,” Jehan grumbled to his wife and Jane, who was once again welcomed into the Vandersand household. The two women were busy chopping leeks, onions, and cabbages for the customary pottage that percolated over the fire, their sleeves rolled up and their aprons smeared with blood from the rabbit that had gone into the pot first. Jehan was sharpening a stave he kept handy to ward off intruders and was ready to defend his family if the need arose.

“How close are the rebels to the city?” Jane asked. “That must be why I saw Lord Howard ride by in the Chepe yesterday.” She did not tell her friends that he had waved at her; she tried to avoid reminding them of her previous royal connections.

Sophie had, of course, consoled Jane after Tom’s desertion. She was not surprised by his behavior but was glad to know Jane had come to see him for the bum-bailey he was. Nay, worse than that, he was a romancer, a liar, and a thief. And so Jane had taken up residency on Sithe’s Lane once more, playing aunt or nursemaid to Sophie’s two younger children and taking over kitchen duty from Sophie, allowing the hardworking spinner to produce more thread for sale. During her two stays, she had also taught her friend to read.

“Vhy are the men of Kent rebelling?” Sophie asked, throwing the last handful of cabbage into the pot.

Jehan shrugged. “It is in their nature,” he said. “It would seem most rebellions I remember hearing about began in Kent. The drawbridge is raised on London Bridge, and all boats have been moved to the city side of the river. I heard last night in the Pope’s
Head that Lord Howard’s troops are already on their way to halting the rebels before they get to Southwark.”