Author's note: In the play, Richard basically explains his decisions as coming from being unable to "prove a lover." I'm exploring what might happen if he did have a real love relationship. I take no position on the real-life relationship between Richard and Anne Neville – this is fiction about the play, where it's clear the marriage stemmed from manipulation. Mostly I'll follow where Shakespeare changed history, with a few important exceptions. I will try to make the dialogue suit the period, but let's face it, I'm no Shakespeare.
On we go! Please read and review.
Chapter 1
December 30, 1461
Richard leaned on the balustrade overlooking the silent courtyard, made silver by the combination of frost and moonlight. Tomorrow, there would be New Year's celebrations to endure, but tonight was meant for memory.
The cold of the night somehow surprised him. Had it been unseasonably warm on the night his father and brother had died, or had his blood been racing with fear to the point that he couldn't feel the weather? There had been no moon that night, and it had probably saved his life, as he cowered in the shadows while Clifford slew young Edmund.
Cowered. Of course, there was nothing he could have done, caught off-guard and unarmed. Any attempt to attack Clifford would have resulted in his own extinction, without preventing Edmund's. But his brother had looked in the direction where he was hiding, desperately seeking help, and he'd had none to give.
Perhaps that was why he couldn't weep with Edward and George. He had fallen short once; he could not do so again. And when one of the servants told them how he saw the she-demon Margaret wipe their father's cheeks with a handkerchief soaked in Edmund's blood, any gentler thoughts that might have been lurking at the back of his mind fled. Nothing remained but revenge. He would get it for his father and Edmund, and erase his inability to help them.
Richard had always known he was the least of the brothers. His mother had attempted to quiet the servants when they told their lurid versions of his birth, but she had let slip that the Duke of York had given his second-youngest son his name out of pity. What was left unsaid was that all of the others had been named for some great person whom his father had wanted to commemorate or flatter. He could only imagine the consternation of anyone told that this deformed creature was their namesake.
Nonetheless, his father had seen that he had a suitable education for a younger son and had spoken to Warwick about a potential marriage alliance through his daughter, Anne. And his mother had called for him as she fled, just as she had for Edmund. It was only after she beheld her youngest and her husband, both slain, that she turned to him with cold eyes. He wondered if she somehow knew about his failure, or simply wished he had been sacrificed instead.
He had hoped that killing Clifford would redeem him in her eyes. But when he described how the traitor choked in his own blood, how he had left him to suffer in those last moments, she had lifted her hand to quiet him. Peace, Richard. Peace. And he was silent.
He wondered if the others were still awake, reliving that terrible night. She certainly was. Edward was probably suffocating the memories in some woman's sheets, while George drowned them in wine. The world always seemed to overlook their sins, but turned from him in disgust. He felt the anger rise and snarled at the moon, then calmed himself. Edward respected his counsel, in all matters except those pertaining to the King's outsized appetites. Whatever his flaws or failings, he had the ear of a king. That must content him, for the time being.
00000000
Leagues away, another man was awake on that bitter night, remembering the past. But instead of watching the moon, he fixed his eyes on a sleeping child.
He had not wanted responsibility for Katherine. Her mother should have been caring for her, but she was gone, taken by a fever days after bringing this child into the world. Her father, then, his brother – but no. His lordship was always fighting somewhere, fulfilling his duties or hiring himself out to reduce the burden of his gambling debts. Her own brother was too young, still learning the arts of war and court life in a nobler household. And so only he remained.
Thomas had been given over to the church, serving two functions: his father appeared pious and avoided having to come up with some means of educating another son from his dwindling fortune. He might have made a fine monk, if he hadn't become ill. The brothers thrashed him for sloth, over and over, until they decided that he would have worked faster if he could have. By then, his eyes were inflamed, his bowels plagued him and his body had begun to stiffen, causing him to stoop forward like a graybeard, rather than the youth he was. Since he had not yet taken his vows, he was allowed to return home, to die at his ancestral hearth.
But he had not died, nor had he fully recovered, settling into the life of a semi-invalid. He had carved out a niche of usefulness for himself, managing the property while his brother sought glory. He had resigned himself to living like a monk, apart from the required poverty – he saw his brother's lovely wife blossoming, and knew she paid him no mind, unless she had some question about domestic expenses. His illness had made him cantankerous, and he had grumbled about the disruption that a child was sure to bring into a household he kept well-ordered.
But then she was there, and the beautiful woman who had birthed her was not, and she was his to bring up. He hadn't expected to ever grow fond of the little thing, wet and noisy as she was, but she captured his heart the first time he held her. He hadn't intended to hold her: her nurse was somewhere else, getting a bit of rest, and she had begun crying, creating an abominable fuss. He picked her up, and she hushed, fixing her blue eyes on him in a way that made him think she saw his innermost being. It was the most frightening, and the most wonderful, thing he had ever experienced.
Since her father was so rarely home, and the estate had precious little for educating a girl, he took to teaching her himself. She was reading English by the age of four and now, at six, was beginning to decipher the Latin in his books. He'd been mulling whether it was best to teach her French or Greek next, then scolded himself. It was useless to teach her either; with no money for a dowry, the convent would be her fate. If anything, he should be teaching her to follow a strict schedule of orders without complaint, but he never could bring himself to harsh to her. Only when her impetuousness and fearlessness threatened to result in serious injury, did he raise his voice, and even then, the sight of a trembling lip melted any anger.
He enlisted the servants to teach her whatever they knew, as a sort of introduction to the drudgery life was sure to bring. The idea was not entirely succeeding – there were very few things she couldn't turn into a game. And he simply lacked the will to deny her the few pleasures they could afford, whether it was a rag doll or the chance to learn to ride from the stable boys.
Well, what of it? The Mother Superior would teach her someday. No one wanted a willful wife, he knew, but with no dowry, no one would want her even if she were the mildest little mouse ever to crawl along the earth.
"Thou shouldst be a duchess," he whispered to the sleeping child. "If only a duke were wise enough to have thee."
Notes: The historical Richard was nine when Edward became king, but obviously I've aged him up to follow the play. Thomas and Kate are my inventions (though Thomas' health problems are based on a real condition).