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  “I wish Tristan could have come, Mama,” he whispered.

  “I miss him.”

  Anne laughed at the thought of a hound walking in a royal procession. “I know you do, my sweet. But it won’t be much longer, I promise. If you are good, maybe Papa will knight him when we get home.”

  Ned turned his head to his father so quickly that his wreath almost fell off his silky locks. “Oh, Papa! Could you? Would you? Oh, Papa, I believe Tristan would be proud!”

  “What are fathers for?” Richard replied with a twinkle in his eyes, meeting Anne’s gaze over his head.

  Anne gave a laugh.

  ~ * ~

  Richard and Anne spent a contented two weeks with their family at their castle of Sherriff Hutton, near York, where they had spent many happy days as children themselves. The castle was crowded with chatter and music but Richard still struggled with the burden of guilt that had descended on him with young Edward’s disappearance, and more bad news arrived to dim the glow of Ned’s investiture. The council had written that all was not well. The rumblings of unrest were growing too loud to ignore, and measures had to be taken. In mid-September Richard dispatched writs to London with orders to appoint commissioners to hear cases of treason. He put Buckingham at the head of this commission.

  Richard had long since forgiven Buckingham for suggesting, at Gloucester, that he do away with his two nephews for the security of his throne. He had received the suggestion in horror, seen it as an attack on his honour, and in his fury had practically thrown his cousin out with his own bare hands. But time had spent his anger. However misguided Buckingham had shown himself to be, he was kin and they shared the same blood. There was no doubt that his cousin had made the suggestion in Richard’s best interest. It was one of those terrible ironies of life that young Edward had disappeared at the same time, as if plans to abduct him had been implemented by the plotters even as he and Buckingham stood arguing about the boy’s fate.

  Picnicking with his children by the edge of a pond on the castle grounds, Richard heaved an inward sigh. Buckingham had written him in the meanwhile, expressing horror at the boys’ disappearance. The letter had been cleverly done, couched in language oblique enough to disguise its meaning from a casual reader, yet clear to him.

  Richard leaned back on his elbows, felt the grass tickle his palms. He turned his head skyward to watch the quiet flight of ducks descending on the water. How pleasant it was here! He was determined to enjoy this brief interlude, the first opportunity he’d had to spend time with George’s two children. Strange how different they were, he thought, watching little Edward chase butterflies at the water’s edge and Maggie read. They scarcely seemed brother and sister. In contrast to poor, dim Edward, Maggie was a normal, healthy little girl, contemplative and intelligent, with a love of books and rarely to be found without one, as now. He picked up a pebble and threw it into the pond. Ned’s hound, newly knighted Sir Tristan, went barking after it, while their old wolf-hound, Roland, now thirteen, who had belonged to Anne’s dead uncle John Neville, opened a sleepy eye to watch.

  “My lord father—” said Ned.

  “Aye, fair son?”

  “Why does Evil always vanquish Good?”

  Richard had a sudden vision of young Edward at the inn in Stony Stratford soon after King Edward’s death. He flinched. Ned was gazing at him with dark, thoughtful blue eyes. John’s eyes. The past was everywhere at once. “But it doesn’t, Ned. Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “King Arthur dies in the end.”

  “Aye, ’tis a sad tale. Yet it lifts our hearts. Even now, seven hundred years later, we still recount Arthur’s deeds of arms and remember his courage and his dream. So, in truth, he didn’t die, did he?”

  Ned was silent. Richard knew the idea was too insubstantial for his young mind to grasp.

  “Virtue always prevails, my son, and the world is proof of it. In Roman times, man was enslaved, the human condition one of greatest misery. Now, men are free. They have rights, laws to protect them. In another few hundred years, their lot may be even kinder. It shall not come about because evil prevails, but because good men made a difference. Whether they live or die as a result of their efforts is immaterial…” He picked up a stone and threw it into the pond. “See that ripple? A stone fell in and disappeared so that you might think it did no good. But if for a thousand years men sit on these banks and throw pebbles into the mere, one day, there will be no mere.”

  “One day there will be no evil?”

  “There will always be evil, for human nature does not change. But if enough of us are true to our conscience and seek to do good here on earth, our actions, which seem to count for little while we live, in the end can change the world. You are blessed, Ned. You’ll have the power to make a difference one day, for you will be king after me.”

  “Dear Papa, I’d rather die than live without you!”

  “Why, Ned, ’tis unnatural that a son die before the father. You will be king after me and do great works, and I shall look down from heaven and be proud.” Ned threw his arms around Richard’s neck and buried his dark head against his father’s shoulder. “Oh Papa… I love you so! I’d be afraid without you!”

  As his son’s soft arms clasped him tightly, Richard was flooded with warmth and fatherly love, but he also felt a certain fearful vulnerability. In this small, precious child dwelt his hopes and dreams, all joy, all meaning in life. Ned was their future, his and Anne’s. How he wished his cheeks were rosier, his lips redder, his eyes merrier! Richard slid his strong arms around his boy. It was for Ned, in large part, that he had taken the Crown. The world was filled with evil and danger, and Ned was so delicate…

  ~ * ~

  Chapter 6

  “Then a long silence came upon the hall

  And Mordred thought, ‘The time is hard at hand.’”

  The time had come to leave York. Over the next week Richard placed little Edward and Maggie into Jack’s care and appointed him head of the Council of the North in his absence. Then he turned his attention to his own preparations for departure.

  St. Matthew’s Day dawned glorious and bright. Richard pushed back the bed curtains and went to the window. “What a fine morning!” he called out. “Listen to the lark, Anne. ’Tis unusual that he sings so fierce.”

  Anne stirred sleepily. “It’s not the lark,” she mumbled, “it’s the nightingale… Come to bed.”

  Richard returned, stood looking down at her. His shadow fell on her face, blotting out the sun and bringing back the comforting dark so that she smiled in drowsy contentment. He sat down on the edge of the bed and stroked her hair. “My love, the night’s candles are all burned out. ’Tis indeed the lark. Come, rise and listen with me…”

  She opened unfocused eyes. “If it’s the lark,” she grumbled, “then he sings out of tune.”

  Richard laughed. Anne raised a limp hand and caught at his shirt. “It can’t be morning yet, Richard… If it’s morning, we must part today.”

  “Aye, my little bird, I fear our time in York has run out. You must go to Middleham with Ned, and I must return to London.”

  She struggled up in bed. “Can you not stay for your birthday? It’s only two weeks away.”

  “No, dear Anne,” Richard sighed. “I’m needed in London. There’s unrest in the land and much business awaits. I’ll send for you as soon as I can, dear heart.”

  ~*~

  The autumn evening had turned chill and a great fire roared in the hall of the fine manor house in Gainsborough where Richard and his friends enjoyed wine with their host, Sir Thomas de Burgh. Reluctant to leave after supper, they lounged while the servants dismantled the trestle tables around them. A messenger interrupted the mood. Richard took the letter, read briefly, and passed it to Francis.

  “It’s Brittany’s reply regarding Edward Woodville and Henry Tudor,” Richard said, his tone resigned.

  “Will we get Tudor?” inquired Rob.

  As Richard offered no repl
y, Francis answered. “Duke Francis of Brittany says Woodville is inconsequential, but if Richard wants Tudor, he’ll have to send Brittany help against France. A war is brewing and he needs at least a thousand archers.”

  Rob whistled.

  Will Conyers, a Neville kinsman of Anne’s who had journeyed with Richard from York, left the fire where he had been warming his hands and came to Richard’s side. Richard was fond of his elder statesman. Though Conyer’s kinship to the Nevilles was by marriage and not blood, he was as tall and broad-shouldered as John and Warwick had been, a handsome man with a high forehead and an eagle nose. His dark hair was silvering now, for he was at least fifteen years older, this kin of John’s who had been Robin of Redesdale when the rest of them had been whelps.

  “You should get that Tudor, Richard,” he said quietly. “At all cost.”

  “There’s nothing I’d like better, Will,” Richard said, kicking out a chair for him. “But I’m in no position to offend France or provide an army for Brittany. We haven’t the money. Edward Woodville stole the treasury, remember?”

  “But if France gets hold of him—” Conyers broke off, unable to finish the thought.

  “My lord king is right. Tudor’s an expensive trinket. Much as we want him, we can’t afford him,” offered Richard’s secretary, John Kendall.

  “Not a trinket,” corrected Will Conyers. “More like one of those new-fangled guns that shoots mischief from a distance.”

  “It doesn’t change anything. There’s still no money,” replied Kendall.

  Richard rose wearily. The hall was hot and stuffy from heat and smoke. He went to a window, flung it open. The blast of cold air was refreshing. He leaned against the stone embrasure and listened to the loud rustling of the wind sweeping autumn leaves across the grounds. A line from Malory came to him: “And when King Arthur made His Table Round, and all men’s hearts became Clean for a season, surely he had thought That now the Holy Grail would come. But sin broke out.”

  He looked up at the sky. There were fewer stars than he expected for such an apparently clear night. He didn’t know why, but he had felt despondent all evening despite the warm camaraderie of his friends. Brittany’s letter had not helped his mood. So this was what it meant to be king, this state business that wore on at a petty pace, rarely to resolve with a satisfactory conclusion; this separation from Anne, who from now would have to divide her time between Ned and him. He had never shirked his duty, but sometimes duty seemed an onerous burden.

  “Maybe the money will be there next year,” said Francis, joining him at the window.

  Richard inhaled deeply. It was too late in the day to dwell on Tudor, and useless in any case. “Hard to believe how quickly time passes… It’s already the tenth of October. Last week was my birthday. I was thirty-one.” He gave Francis a wistful look. “We’re getting old, Francis.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Francis grinned. “I’m as handsome as ever. You’re the one who’s a bit careworn at the edges, Richard.”

  Richard attempted a smile. He shut the window. “See you in the morning, old friend.”

  ~*~

  At the Archbishop’s palace in Lincoln, the fresh morning air rang with the clangour of bells and the song of monks at Prime. After chapel, Richard strode into the great hall for breakfast. The smell of the freshly baked bread he loved made his stomach growl. As soon as he sat down, he tore himself a large slice, dipped it into a bowl of black treacle, and washed it down with mead. A steaming platter of pike was set before him; he lifted his dagger, attacked it with relish, then downed his favourite cheese and sweetened his palate with a serving of stewed figs. He had almost finished his breakfast and raised his dagger for one last slice of cheese when two red-faced messengers ran in and knelt at his feet.

  “My Lord King,” one panted, “a rebellion has broken out! The Duke of Buckingham has risen in revolt against you!”

  Richard smiled. “Who sent you to me in this jest?”

  The two men exchanged glances. “We’re sent by Lord Howard, Duke of Norfolk, Sire,” said the first messenger grimly. “’Tis no jest, my lord!”

  For Richard, past and present converged and into his mind’s eye flashed the image of Edward, laughing at the news that his loyal cousin John had revolted against him.

  “The Duke of Buckingham has issued a public proclamation throughout the land—” the second messenger said, “that he has repented of his former conduct and joins the rebellion to free the princes!”

  Richard listened blankly, his dagger limp in his hand, his blood pounding in his head. His mind told him it was no mistake while his heart refused to believe. Most news was made up of rumour, hearsay, innuendo, omens, and hasty judgements given flavour by perception. Buckingham was his friend, his ally, his blood. Never would he betray him.

  Or would he?

  He pushed away from the table. “Follow me,” he commanded, and led the way to his council chamber.

  ~*~

  During the course of the day, more messengers arrived. From London, Wiltshire, Kent, and Wales they came; two knights, half a dozen squires, a herald, even a lowly serving lad, confirming the first reports. Gradually the tale emerged. The Marquess of Dorset and his uncle Lionel, Bishop of Salisbury, had gathered their supporters and fomented rebellion in Salisbury, Wiltshire, Kent, Surrey, and Exeter. Most were friends and kin of the Woodvilles, like Sir John Fogge, whom Richard had pardoned and taken to his breast early in his reign. Others were old Lancastrians, yet others men who had lost their positions at court to Richard’s appointments, like Sir John Cheyney, replaced by Sir James Tyrell as the King’s Master of the Horse. Morton, the ambitious and wily Bishop of Ely, fell into two of these categories, being both a Lancastrian at heart and one who found himself out of favour with the new King. To this rebellion, the Duke of Buckingham was a latecomer. Sometime in August, he had made his decision to throw in his lot with them.

  Richard looked from face to face, struggling to comprehend. “But… he had everything…”

  “He had not the Crown, my lord,” said Sir Marmaduke Constable, a Neville kin and John’s old friend whom Howard had dispatched from Westminster to brief Richard. “The Duke of Buckingham considered himself next in line to the throne by virtue of his double descent from Edward the Third. By discrediting you, he felt he could gain the Crown for his own head. This much we learned from a serving lad who was privy to their treasonous plotting and came to us with the information.”

  “It makes no sense,” said Richard. “He stands to lose everything by backing Tudor—an adventurer with no true claim, and fewer prospects.”

  “My lord, all we know is that Morton told him this and Buckingham went along with him, in spite of the fact that Buckingham himself preferred the Crown.”

  Richard made no response. He turned away to the window, seeing in its coloured glass a reflection of the black-robed, dark-eyed bishop and bright golden-haired Buckingham sitting over wine at a table in a dimly-lit room.

  His best friend, and his worst enemy.

  The old wound from Barnet began to throb in his right shoulder and his head ached. He became aware that Scrope of Bolton was speaking. The words came to him muted, as if they carried through fog. “…that foul traitor… God rot his soul! …after the King made him Lord Constable, Great Chamberlain, Chief Justice of Wales, gave him the crown estates of de Bohun and everything else he asked for!”

  “Everything but the Crown.” Francis’ voice. “What baffles me is why he gives his support to Tudor. Surely he won’t be content playing kingmaker?”

  “Arrogant Buckingham doesn’t intend to put Tudor on the throne,” replied Scrope. “He’s merely using him to topple Richard. No doubt he figures that when the throne is empty, it’ll be the man with the best claim and biggest army at his back who’ll wear the crown!”

  Richard shook himself from his lethargy, tried to concentrate on what was being said.

  “Those who have met Tudor say he is a wily devil, much like
Louis of France,” Marmaduke Constable said. “He’s a penniless exile, forced to live by his wits. Intrigue is all that’s left to him. Since he’s been reared among the French, no doubt he’s learned their ways.”

  “God damn him; he’s timed his revolt well and caught us unprepared!” Francis exclaimed. “We’ve no army with us. The King’s supporters who came on the progress returned to their households long ago.”

  A man-at-arms entered, and announced the Constable of the Tower, Sir Robert Brackenbury. Silence fell. Everyone turned to the door. Brackenbury strode in, his helmet under his arm. “Sire,” he said, bending a knee.

  Richard stared at the gentle knight. The long wavy white hair framing his face flowed from his crown to his shoulders like that of Merlin in an old illuminated manuscript. Aye, he could use a Merlin now; to turn time back, to set everything right. Mutely he motioned for him to tell what he knew.

  “Sire, the Duke of Buckingham came to me at the Tower late on Lammas Day. He said he was there to carry out your bidding regarding the princes, and that, the matter being highly secret, only his men were to go with him to the royal apartments. All others were to be dismissed for the night. I was to ask no questions, he said… I could not deny him, Sire, for he was Constable of England and I, only Constable of the Tower, and you have long evidenced great faith in my lord of Buckingham—”