Chapter 9
August 1473
Richard was getting very tired of faking joy to please Edward.
Of course, in this case, it was absolutely necessary that everyone believe he could not be more pleased. The Queen had birthed another son, named Richard – for the Duke of York, certainly, because she'd never agree to honor him. Another obstacle on the path to the throne.
Richard might reasonably hope to outlive Edward and George, given their immoderate love of food and drink, respectively. So far, Lady Clarence had produced a daughter, who would be only a figurehead, if she grew to be anything like her mother. And one young prince could die honestly of anything – pox, flux, injuries suffered once he was old enough to train for battle … the list was endless. It was less likely that two princes would be so unlucky, however, and the Woodville woman showed no sign that her fertile years were waning. There might be three, four, even five princes before Edward took his final leave.
He played the part of elated uncle well, however, though he sometimes suspected his own mother might see through him. The Queen might have, also, but the King had long since decided that her dislike of Richard, his most loyal brother and friend, was simply an aversion to the ugliness of his person. She could do nothing to harm him, not based on a simple feeling that all was not well.
And coming to court for these celebrations had one advantage: it allowed him to renew old acquaintances. Like Henry Stafford, the Duke of Buckingham.
Buckingham was married to another Woodville relative, but seemed uneasy about their ascension. The Queen didn't dislike him in the way that she did Richard, but he was not a favorite, and he bristled at the King's recent appointment of the Queen's brother as governor of the Prince of Wales' household and high sheriff of Caernarvonshire. Rivers was not completely without skill, even Richard had to admit, but to pass over men more qualified by birth and experience was a slap in the face of much of the nobility. Including both himself and Buckingham.
"'Tis well that Your Grace remains free," Buckingham said as they shared a bottle of wine and a game of chess.
"Oh?" Richard could hardly see anything good in remaining unmarried at the age of twenty-eight, with no prospects to change that.
"Yes," Buckingham said. "You are not yet yoked to any family's fortunes, and might choose a lady rich in her own right."
Edward had been liberal in distributing land to his brothers and cousins, and to the Woodvilles, but he could easily take away what he had given. To marry a lady who possessed her own lands was to gain a measure of security that the King could not touch – not easily, anyway. There weren't many such prizes, though.
"Anne Neville remains unmarried," Richard observed.
"Indeed," Buckingham said. "Perhaps you might renew your engagement."
It had never been a true engagement, only a vague idea of one, and Anne most certainly hated him too much to ever consider coming to his bed. Richard made some noncommittal response to Buckingham, but he continued to turn the possibility over in his mind during the days of feasting.
The simplest thing would be to offer her a marriage of convenience – his protection as the King's brother, in exchange for her lands and possibly an heir. He had no doubt she would reject it. Nor would she be likely to bend if he threatened her. That left one idea, which seemed so absurd that he almost blushed at the thought of trying it: implicating her in his crimes, as she saw them, by suggesting he'd been so in love that he'd gotten rid of every obstacle to their union. But the more he thought of it, the more it seemed a possibility. Anne Neville was fundamentally a good person, and good people could easily be made to believe they were guilty of something.
Yes, that might work. The only thing was to choose the right moment.
00000000
Anne Neville didn't sneak out often, but when she did, she went straight for the nearby cemetery.
The people she loved were not buried there. Her father's body had been returned to his home, and she didn't know what had been done with King Henry and Prince Edward. Her father, her husband, and her king, and she couldn't properly mourn any of them. So she'd found an unmarked cross and decided to pretend, just for a few moments, that they were there.
She always went alone, but not that night. When she'd finished dressing and was almost out the door, she realized someone else was out of bed. Katherine Bly. They stared at each other for a moment, before Kate gestured that she should lead on.
"I suppose you are not going to see a man," Kate said once they were safely alone.
"I suppose thou art," Anne responded.
"No, I just wanted to move my legs," Kate answered, before adding, with a blush, "not thus."
"Indeed," Anne answered, wondering how she might get away.
"I'll say nothing to anyone," Kate added. "If you desire company, I will come. If not, take care."
Anne hesitated. She never shared these nocturnal visits with anyone. But perhaps it would be well not to be alone. She nodded to Kate, and they started across the grass together.
They silently cleared the brambles around the cross together, so Anne could place fresh flowers, then knelt to pray. Anne wished for their souls' rest, then her prayers took a darker turn, as they tended to do. "If ever he have wife, let her be made more miserable by the death of him than I am made by my young lord," she said. "If ever he have child, abortive be it, prodigious, and untimely brought to light, whose ugly and unnatural aspect may fright the hopeful mother at the view."
"The child not yet born is innocent and deserves no curse," Kate interjected.
"Then how wouldst thou that I curse that foul toad?" Anne demanded. "Why wouldst thou defend him?"
Kate stopped to think for a moment. "I fear, lady, that if all the guilty men were thus cursed, every child would be untimely born and every woman mad with grief." She paused. "You weren't there. All good men when they went onto that field, none of them good after they'd made blood run in rivers. I don't excuse Gloucester's part in the slaughter," she added. "You have every right to hate. But if it hadn't been him, it would have been another."
"Would you have the same charity for whoever killed your father?" Anne parried.
"My father's companions said your father killed him," Kate responded. "I don't know what I would do if the Earl of Warwick stood before me. But I wish no harm on you, lady. I hope one day you may be happy."
Anne studied her. "Speakst thou the truth?"
"I did not see my father slain, but yes, as far as I know, that is the truth. But I can't blame your father without also blaming King Henry, Queen Margaret, and Prince Edward for going to battle over a weak claim to the throne; and I can't blame them without blaming King Edward and the Duke of York for their proud ambition; and I can't blame them without blaming the fourth King Henry for taking a throne that was not his; and I can't blame him without blaming the second King Richard for being a poor ruler; and there's probably more I can't think of now. If one is evil, are not all? If one may be excused, may not the others?"
"Pity women cannot be lawyers," Anne said. "Gloucester had best hope thou art nearby when he has to answer before God."
"I shall have enough to answer for on my own, I imagine."
"Won't we all," Anne looked at the cross and sighed. "Come, Kate. The night is waning fast."
They locked arms and walked quickly back toward their palace. Kate suddenly stopped short, holding Anne back. "A man, ahead."
At first, Anne didn't see a man in the darkness, but gradually she could make out an ungainly figure halting toward them. "What black magician conjures up this fiend? Stay back, Kate. I'll dispatch this devil."
The Duke of Gloucester bowed before her. "How fine to see you, Lady Anne."
"Foul devil, for God's sake, hence, and trouble us not," she said.
"Sweet saint, for charity, be not so curst," he responded. "Fairer than tongue can name thee, let me have some patient leisure to excuse myself."
"Fouler than heart can think thee, thou canst make no excuse current but to hang thyself," Anne responded.
Apparently, that was all Kate was prepared to hear, because suddenly she was at Anne's side, tugging her arm. "We must return before we are missed. Please, Lady Anne, I am tired."
Gloucester startled. "Lady Katherine."
"Your Grace. We were about to return for the night."
"Yes, the night is half-gone." Anne thought Gloucester looked almost embarrassed. She was surprised – could such a man feel shame?
"If you are ready, Lady Anne?" Kate nudged.
"Yes, we must go."
"Ladies."
"Your Grace," Kate said. Anne said nothing until they were out of earshot.
"Perhaps I may wish his wife and child well," she said with a meaning that she was almost certain Kate failed to read. "May he not live to long enjoy whatever woman is mad enough to marry him."