Chapter 5

Richard occasionally glanced back as the boat glided down the Thames, in case some messenger was hot upon his heels. No one was.

He had neither rushed nor tarried, taking a few moments to wash away the worst of the blood and change out of his armor. It was a small delay, but enough that if George told Edward where he was going and Edward so chose, he could have overtaken Richard. Not that he wished to be overtaken, of course. But this was to be an implicit pact among the three of them – even if Richard wielded the blade, they had all agreed that weak Henry would die, though the elder two might deny it later.

And he knew that was how it would be. Edward loved him, in his way, but he also understood the advantages of allowing his bunchbacked younger brother to carry the guilt of their shared actions. Victory for York, victory for Edward, and what for Richard? No doubt Edward would make him some small gift – a manor and its lands, perhaps, or some new title and responsibilities. But no true honor, nothing that would change how people viewed him. Richard would remain the shadow to Edward's sun.

"Would that he were wasted, marrow, bones, and all, that no hopeful branch from his loins might spring," Richard thought, and was briefly surprised at himself. He had had no particular thoughts when the princesses Elizabeth, Mary, and Cecily were born, but this latest child in the Queen's womb was foretold to be a son. He had put his life in danger, done everything for Edward, and would have to kneel before this infant, who had done nothing apart from surviving his birth passage. It occurred to him, for the hundredth time, that he would do a better job on the throne than Edward.

"I do but dream on sovereignty," he reminded himself. Edward was the king, then came his four children, then George and any babies he might stuff into Warwick's older daughter. Only then came Richard. He could do nothing to alter the fact the God had placed two brothers ahead of him.

What did younger sons do, if they could not inherit a kingdom? Serve their older brothers, and avail themselves of all the earthly pleasures of royalty, Richard thought as he disembarked at the tower. Edward had shown he intended his rule to be a gay one. Feasts, wine, cards, fine clothes and furniture. And women. Ladies, ladies, everywhere. Virgins, whores, and every woman in between. That had some appeal, even if the other trappings meant little.

"I'll make my heaven in a lady's lap, and witch sweet ladies with my words and looks," he thought, but the words lay so heavily on his chest that he had to stop and lean against a wall to breathe. "Oh, miserable thought, and more unlikely than to accomplish twenty golden crowns!"

Love had made clear it had no use for Richard. Why else would it have bribed nature to put a mountain on his back, wither up his arm, and shorten one leg so that he could only halt along? He was at least the third most-powerful man in England, possibly the second, with rich lands and the King's ear, and ladies still averted their eyes and prolonged their paths to avoid him, making a gesture to ward off his evil eye if they must pass him by. "And am I then a man to be beloved? Oh, monstrous fault, to harbor such a thought."

What remained, then, but to dream of the heaven of wearing a crown? No one would refuse him, insult him, ignore him then. If Edward was too blind or indifferent to grant him the little joy that he could, he would get the power himself. But how? Many lives lay between him and home. He could not hope to outlast them all. Unless – some of those lives were unnaturally shortened.

Of course, he couldn't murder George in his bed. But surely – opportunities – might arise. Richard was the best in his family at playing the games of power. He could smile, weep, flatter, rage, whatever was demanded in the moment. "Can I do this and cannot get a crown? Were it farther off, I'd pluck it down."

He took a moment to compose himself before approaching Henry's cell. It wouldn't do for the guard to see him ruffled by the thoughts warring inside.

Henry was under no illusions about why he had come. "What scene of death have we two, now, to act?"

The calmness threw Richard. He had expected Henry to beg for his life. "Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind," he said, to buy himself a moment.

"Kill me with thy weapons, not with words," Henry said, and began to "prophesy" about how thousands would rue the hour of Richard's birth. What did Henry know of his birth? But the usurper king went on, about how the owl shrieked, dogs howled, storms raged. "Thy mother felt more than a mother's pain, and yet brought forth less than a mother's hope. To wit, an indigested and deformed lump. Teeth hadst thou in thy head when thou wast born, to signify thou camest to bite the world. And, if the rest be true which I have heard, thou camest- "

"I'll hear no more. Die prophet, in thy sleep!" Richard put his sword through Henry's belly.

"God forgive my sins, and pardon thee," Henry said as he slumped to the floor. Still talking? Did he think he was Christ, asking forgiveness for his executioner? Richard knew how to silence him.

"Down, down to hell, and say that I sent thee thither," Richard said, and stabbed him again, and again, and again. "I that have neither pity, love, nor fear!" The blood flew, but he didn't stop until he was exhausted and had to breathe. And then it was silent. No earthquakes, no tempests. He had killed a king, and God had not said a word.

So Henry had known the truth of his birth, or at least part of it. If the rumor had spread so generally, no wonder everyone fled from him. The Duke of York's unnatural son. Well, if he was unnatural, what claim had nature's laws on him? What purpose could love serve, even a brother's love? Love, for those who would use him while they could, and then toss him aside? No.

"Then, since the heavens have shaped my body so, let hell make crooked my mind to answer it," he thought."And this word 'love,' which graybeards call divine, be resident in men like one another and not in me. I am myself alone."

It seemed impossible that no one would observe some difference in him after he had killed a king, but no one did. They were all too preoccupied with waiting for the new prince, perhaps. So much the better for him.

Perhaps he truly was no different. Despite his declaration, sometimes he felt softer emotions invade. A certain wistfulness, perhaps, when he saw the King looking with pride on his queen and the new Prince Edward, or George putting a protective arm around his wife. Then rage followed, which he knew he must keep hidden. It would take more than one moment of resolution to purge himself of the wish that he were not different, to free himself from the torment of unfulfilled desires.

At the prince's presentation, Edward called on his brothers to kiss their new nephew. George knelt and kissed him dutifully. Richard suppressed a grimace; now he would have to kneel, too.

"Thanks, noble Clarence; worthy brother, thanks," the Queen answered. So she had forgiven him all.

"And, that I love the tree from whence thou sprangest, witness the loving kiss I give the fruit," Richard said as he knelt. The Queen said nothing, though he had been the one to stand beside them – typical. Still, she didn't protest when he took the baby to hold for a moment. He bent, as if to smell its bald head, and whispered: "To say the truth, so Judas kissed his master, and cried 'All hail!' when as he meant, 'all harm.'"

00000000

Only when the sounds of fighting had been replaced by those of wounded men groaning did Kate emerge from her hiding place.

It had all happened so quickly that no one had come and told her that her time as a hostage was over. And she had no doubt that was what she had been – an assurance that her father wasn't on his way to the supposed Queen Margaret. Not that he would have been of much use to Margaret, or that the thought of losing Kate would have stopped him if that had been what he intended to do.

She'd had no hope of discerning which way the battle was turning, so she'd found an inhospitable thicket and hidden there with her horse. She had no intention of suffering whatever the Lancastrians might do to her if they assumed she was the Duke of Gloucester's mistress, which they certainly would if they'd found her in his tent.

Once she'd guided her horse through the thorns, it occurred to her that she had no inkling what a person did after a battle. Surely she was thoroughly forgotten and could ride home in peace – but what if this was only part of the battle, and Margaret's men were massed somewhere else for another attack? She lingered, uncertain, until a hand clasped her ankle. She tried to jump away, but the stranger on the ground held her fast.

"Water," he said.

He was covered in blood. How was he alive, with so much blood lost – perhaps some of it belonged to other men? It didn't matter. She took the drinking gourd from her horse's side and poured a bit into the man's lips. He seemed satisfied, but then all the others who weren't too weak were crying out for water, a sip of water, just a drop of water.

The last was a man with a wound in his belly, exposing something like blood-soaked sausages. She tried to focus on his eyes as she gave him the last bit of water. "Mercy," she thought, "mercy," without quite knowing if she was steeling herself or imploring God.

The man drank eagerly, then groaned, and blood issued from his mouth. She turned him to his side, so he wouldn't choke, and took his hand. "Forgive me," she whispered over and over, until his ragged breaths stilled.

She stayed kneeling there, with no sense of time passing, and might have stayed much longer if her horse hadn't nudged her shoulder. "Yes, we must go," she said, more to herself than to the mare. Go where, she hardly knew. Which direction was the road that would take her home? Did she remember the way? Did such a place as home even exist? It all seemed distant, as if far more than two days had passed.

Kate made her way slowly through the trees, doing her best to direct her horse's large hooves away from injured or dead men. Could there be any men alive and whole in England after this, she wondered. But there were. She eventually found them, and one of them was Sir Henry, one of her father's drinking and gambling companions. She had never liked the man, but it was not the moment to chastise him for encouraging her father's bad habits. He started when he saw her.

"Geoffrey's daughter?" he asked.

"Aye. Is my father here? Did he come back from – helping – at home?"

Sir Henry did not meet her eyes. "He never left, child."

"No," Kate said. "No, the Duke said-"

"He received permission, but not an order," Sir Henry responded. "He thought it better to stay here. There is no glory in mopping up a few poisoned wretches, child."

"But they might have-"

"Yes, they might have. But that is not my affair. Can thou get home thyself?"

"Can my father not take me?"

Sir Henry looked again. "No, child, thou dost not wish to go where he has gone."

"May I see him?"

"Best to remember him as he was, child. Not like this. I shall see he receives Christian burial."

"Thank ye." She paused. "I am to go, then?"

"Thou shouldst."

"Which way?"

Sir Henry pointed vaguely to his left. "Wilt thou not weep? For thy father?"

Kate felt too exhausted to weep. "Perhaps tomorrow."

Tomorrow came, though, and still she did not weep. Not when Joanna wailed at the sight of the blood on her frock, before learning it came from the men. Not when she saw Thomas, pale and sweat-soaked and barely able to stand. Not when she had to tell him that Sir Geoffrey was dead.

"Am I unnatural, uncle?" she asked Thomas one afternoon a few days later, as she helped him with the accounts.

"Why wouldst thou ask that?"

"Why do I not weep?"

"Perhaps one day thou wilt, when the time is ripe."

"But my father died."

"He did, and if thou weepest, Joanna and I will wipe thy tears. If thou dost not, he would not expect it."

Kate sat a moment. "I hate him," she said finally.

"Thou dost not."

"He left you and Joanna to fend for yourselves-"

"And we did."

"He could have protected you, and saved himself."

"He made a choice, my little Kate. As must we all. Here, come." He patted his thigh. Kate knelt beside his chair and laid her head upon his lap, and let him stroke her hair.

"Why did all those men have to die?" she asked. "Why could not one of them just been a duke? Is it not enough, being a duke?"

"Aye, I think it should be," Thomas answered. "But thou art wiser than those men, my child, to see that."