Royal Mistress (39 page)

“B
essie, my beloved wife and consort, I beg of you be diligent in your duty to our children, and especially to young Ned. He will be well protected by Richard until he is of age in only another four years . . .” Edward’s voice trailed off as he grimaced in pain.
Elizabeth applied a damp cloth soaked in witch hazel to the king’s temples and tried to soothe him.

“You know I will not shirk my duty, my lord. I gave you ten children, did I not? And I put up with your mistresses,” she could not resist reminding him. “I believe I have done more than my fair share of duty. But my dear Edward, why did you not name me and my brother as regents? After all, you have entrusted Ned’s guardianship to Anthony at Ludlow all this time.”

Edward’s patience was ebbing. “You are not of royal blood, my dear,” he emphasized. “Richard is.” He was too weary to remind her that she and her family were still not popular with his subjects and would never be acceptable as regents. “Richard is a father; he will know how to care for Ned and Dickon. And he is my brother and thus closest to the throne after my sons.”

On the other side of the bed, Tom Grey raised an eyebrow at his mother, as if to say “too close for comfort,” but Elizabeth was listening to Edward’s request that she leave him to his councilors “for just a little while, my dear. Go, I pray, and fetch Dickon so I may give him a father’s blessing. It pains me that I cannot bless Ned and teach him what he needs to know. I pray you, Bess, give him my love.”

Elizabeth nodded, much moved. Doctor de Serigo and the other physicians had advised her that Edward was near the end. It was pointless to send for the Prince of Wales now; there was no hope that the king would see his heir again.

It seemed half of Westminster was gathered in the stuffy chamber awaiting, like circling carrion crows. Temporal and spiritual lords like Hastings, Stanley, Howard father and son, and Rotherham, Morton, Russell, and Stillington had all served Edward through his twenty-two-year reign and hoped to be rewarded at the last.

All at once the king struggled to sit up, a fanatical light in his eye and grim determination on his face.

“If I am to die, I will see you, my lord Dorset, and you, my
lord Hastings, forgive your differences and reconcile in front of these witnesses. Draw near and swear friendship,” he ordered the two astonished subjects. “Now!”

For a brief moment, Will was tempted to refuse, especially as his young popinjay stepson-in-law’s reticence was equally evident. But then he looked back at Edward, who had made such a monumental effort to effect this extraordinary reconciliation, and, despite his pride, Will walked toward the marquess, his hand outstretched.

“With all my heart, I will strive to become your friend,” Will asserted, his eyes never leaving his adversary’s face.

As though his arm were lead, Tom Grey raised it level with Will’s, and they grasped wrists in a reluctant show of camaraderie. Edward nodded. “ ’Tis well done and all I ask before I leave this earth. England cannot afford such dissensions, my lords. It makes us weak and vulnerable.” He gestured to the others clustered by the door. “All of you, take one another’s hands. Swear you will uphold my kingdom and support my son and my brother’s regency when I am gone.”

When the men had complied, Will edged Tom from the bed and bent to kiss Edward’s clammy forehead. “My heart and my sword are yours always, sire. My gratitude for your friendship may never be fully expressed, but all will know it by my loyalty to your sons.” When Will saw his sovereign’s tears, he turned away, stifling his own sadness. “Adieu, sweet king,” he whispered.

“God be with you, too, faithful servant,” Edward replied, unabashed.

Will composed himself and returned to his place next to Jack Howard. “Did I appear sincere with Dorset?”

“Aye, my lord,” Howard replied, but Will noticed the long mustache twitch, as if the mouth were trying hard not to smile.

“Are you for Gloucester as protector?” Will asked, and was cheered to see the vigorous nod from his colleague. “Then I can call on your support if I need it? In case the family”—and he jerked
his head in Elizabeth’s direction—“tries to take the reins instead.”

Howard raised his eyebrows. “Do you think they might? Against the king’s express instructions? But aye, you can count on me, Will.”

Satisfied with the reconciliation, Edward fell back onto the pillow, demanding another potion from the hovering physicians. “And then I shall rest. You may leave me, my lords.”

Within a few minutes, the nine-year-old duke of York was led into the room by Thomas Howard. Dickon ran to his beloved father’s bedside and hopped up onto the bed.

“They say you are not well, my lord Father. Does it hurt?”

Edward forced a grin and patted the boy’s golden head. “Certes, it does not,” he assured his son. “We shall have some sport in a very few days.” Then he looked grave. “But if something should happen and I am not here, I want you to promise to look after your mother and your sisters, do you understand?” When Dickon nodded, his blue eyes anxious and wide, Edward took his hand. “And Ned will be king one day, and you must learn to be a loyal brother, just as my brother Richard is loyal to me. We have talked about family loyalty before, remember?”

“Aye, Father,” Dickon answered.

Edward made an effort to sound more cheerful. “You are old enough to know that no one lives forever, are you not? When that day comes for me, I want you to know that you and Ned will be looked after by Uncle Richard. Promise you will obey him. He will be kind to you. He will be in charge until Ned is old enough to govern.”

Dickon leaned forward and confided: “Can I tell you a secret, Father? I am glad Ned is going to be king and not me. I would rather go fishing or play kick-ball.”

For the first time in days, Edward laughed, which caused a bout of congested coughing. Dickon watched full of anxiety until Edward was able to reassure his son. “It sounds worse than it is, my son. Now kneel and receive my blessing.”

Later, when the prince had left the room, Edward asked Elizabeth to draw the bed curtains around them for privacy.

“My dear, I have a boon to ask of you,” he said softly. “Many years ago, I sired a daughter on a woman who lived not far from Grafton.” He felt Elizabeth stiffen. “The lady died and the child was left with the nuns at Delapré. I have supported the convent all these years in payment for my sin, but I would ask that you fetch Grace and let her know her half-sisters. ’Tis much to ask, I know, but will you do that for me, Bess? Maybe God will forgive my sin if I acknowledge the girl. I have seen to my other bastards, and I would not leave this one abandoned. I know I have no right to ask, but will you grant me this one last favor, love of my life?”

His declaration cracked Elizabeth’s hard heart. “I will find her, Ned, never fear. I will care for her as you wish.”

“I thank you,” he said simply. “Now I pray you forgive me my infidelities, and I shall rest more easily. I never stopped loving you, Bessie. Not ever.”

“I forgive you, Edward,” Elizabeth said, deep emotion shaking her voice. Taking his head between her hands, she gently kissed his parched lips. “Oh, my dear husband, how I shall miss you. With all of my heart I shall miss you.”

Edward watched her unaccustomed tears, which caused his own to well. His breathing became shallower when he suddenly clutched Elizabeth’s sleeve. Words were difficult now, but he tried, and mouthed, “Forgive . . . me . . . Nell . . . Nell . . .”

Elizabeth suppressed a sharp retort. Why was he speaking his former harlot’s name? He must be confused, but she was understandably hurt. Instead, as kindly as she could, she asked, “Why should Eleanor forgive you?”

But Edward was too weak to explain what had happened with Eleanor Butler all those years ago. Aye, best left a secret, he decided wearily.

W
ell into the dark morning hours of Wednesday, Edward confessed his sins, repenting sincerely for them. The sun was halfway to noon when he received the last sacrament from Archbishop Rotherham, while Elizabeth knelt with nine-year-old Dickon and their daughters around the bed. From across the room, Will watched, stricken, as Edward the Fourth’s tumultuous forty-year life came to a premature end.

A
n hour later the bells in the more than one hundred churches in the city tolled the news to the shocked populace, and a messenger was dispatched to Middleham to take the news to Richard. Knowing how long it would take for the duke to be informed and journey to London, the council saw no reason for urgency in informing him. However, the business of embalming and burying the king must necessarily be done in a timely manner and, thus regrettably, without Richard.

Since leaving the king the week before, Jane had taken to reading Edward’s book of Ovid’s
Metamorphoses
every day to comfort herself. She knew protocol must keep her away from the palace now. That day, she was reading the tragic story of Orpheus and Eurydice, when she heard the first bell toll the death knell for the king. Knowing at once its significance, she dropped the book and fell to her knees to pray for the swift winging to heaven of her loving protector’s soul.

L
ater that night, the first wave of grief past, Jane could not help wondering what would become of her now. The rosary beads put aside, her mind was a jumble of fleeting thoughts and images of her lover, of how much she would miss him, and of herself, of how she would survive without him. Might her father take her back? Nay, a futile idea. Might she, as a freewoman of London, be able to own a business? She did not know. She knew she could always
make a wage in one of the busy silkwomen shops in Soper Lane, but the prospect was unappealing. Tom Grey’s face interrupted her practical thoughts then, and she caught her breath. Might he come to her now and make her his mistress? She hardly dared to hope, but the thought felt unseemly at this solemn moment of the king’s passing, and she suppressed it.

In the end, Jane determined to ask Will Hastings to help her, and, after asking God to welcome Edward to His side, she turned into the pillow and gave way to mourning the loss of the man who had given her all but his name for eight wonderful years.