The Stolen Crown: The Secret Marriage That Forever Changed the Fate of England (22 page)

Then the king summoned me to his chamber. Our relationship had been polite since the day he ordered my uncle’s execution, but rather stiff, which in all fairness was more my fault than the king’s, for he had been kindly enough disposed to me now that my Lancastrian relations were safely dead and buried. He’d even allowed me to spend a few days visiting my mother.

Upon my entry, I bowed deeply, knowing full well that it irritated Edward, who with family was inclined to be far less formal. “Your grace,”

I said in my best courtier’s manner.

“We were sorry to hear of your uncle Henry Stafford’s death, Harry.”

“Thank you.”

“You are sixteen. Time, perhaps, for you to have a bit more freedom.

Certain of his lands reverted to you, as your grandfather’s heir, upon his death. It is our intention to let you enter upon them.”

I stared, too stunned by this good news to keep up my formality.

“Really?”

1 4 2 s u s a n h i g g i n b o t h a m The king shot me an amused glance. “Really. Mind you, these things take time to settle, so don’t pack your belongings tonight. And lest you be wondering, you are still a ward of the crown. Your grandfather’s estates will remain in our hands until a more suitable time.”

“And my Bohun lands?” I ventured.

Edward’s face changed. “
Your
Bohun lands?”

“The Stafford properties that came into the crown’s hands with the marriage of my ancestor Mary de Bohun to the fourth Henry. With the sixth Henry now deceased and without heirs—”

“We are quite aware of the origin of the claim, Harry. Whether it is as strong as you seem to believe is another matter entirely. It is not an issue we are disposed to decide today, if ever.”

“Yes, your grace.”

“Who has been speaking of those lands to you, anyway?” He frowned.

“Your mother?”

“No, your grace,” I said truthfully. My mother, in her grief at losing the last two of her brothers, hardly cared about her own chamber at the convent, much less the Bohun lands. It was Aunt Margaret who had reminded me of my claim to them. “It is common family knowledge.”

“Hmph,” said Edward. “Well, you may be excused now.”

When Richard came back to court from the North a few days later, I lost no time in acquainting him with my good fortune. “I shal have land of my own now! Of course, I was sorry about my uncle Henry,” I added piously, though I confess I hadn’t given my poor uncle, of whom I had been fond, a second thought since Edward gave me the news. “I also mentioned the Bohun inheritance to him. You know about that? It was probably premature to raise the subject, but I think now that at least it’s been broached, he might—”

“For God’s sake, Harry! Stop yammering about your lands. You’ll be rich soon enough, if you don’t goad someone into stabbing you out of sheer boredom first.”

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“Richard? I—”

“Anne’s missing.”

“Missing?”

“He echoes, too,” Richard told the wall.

“Ech— Richard, I beg your pardon. I just don’t understand. Wasn’t she staying with George?”

“Supposedly.” Richard took a turn around the room, then took a deep breath. Having composed himself, he said, “Edward gave me permission to ask for her hand in marriage. I’ve not raised the topic in so many words with her, because it seems from what she’s let drop that she did have some regard for that bastard whelp of Margaret’s who was her first husband.”

I started to protest Margaret of Anjou’s virtue and thought better of it.

“Don’t worry, I’ve not called him that to her face. But she’s an intelligent wench, more so than most, and I think she realizes that I’m the best match for her. She doesn’t want to see George get all of the Warwick lands any more than I do.

“So when I arrived in London today, I stopped by George’s place.

I’d brought some gifts from the North; Anne rather prefers it up there, I gather. I figured it was about time to start making my intentions more clear. But when I asked to see her, as I’ve done before, I was told that she was no longer living there. No one would tell me where she’d gone. The worst of it is, I’m not sure if anyone there could tell me. I tried bribery, threats—everything. All I got was the same reply. The Lady Anne was not staying there, and where she had gone they did not know and could not venture to say.”

“George wouldn’t tell you?”

“I wasn’t admitted to his presence. That alone tells me he has something to hide.”

“Jesus,” I whispered. “Do you suspect—” I could not bear to finish the sentence.

Richard shook his head. “I don’t believe he’s murdered her, if that’s what you mean. He’s genuinely fond of Isabel; he’d not harm her sister.

1 4 4 s u s a n h i g g i n b o t h a m What I do believe is that he’s poisoned her mind against me somehow, or convinced her that she’d be best off taking the veil. That’s what worries me most, actually. She’s stubborn; if she determines on a course of action, she’ll stick to it.”

I thought of the times at court I’d seen Isabel and Anne, during that almost comical period when Edward and Warwick were trying to pretend all was well. The Warwick girls were pretty, with finery befitting their father’s wealth that they plainly enjoyed showing off. I couldn’t imagine either of these heiresses settling for a nun’s habit. Richard must have read my skepticism, for he said, “Don’t underestimate George’s smooth tongue when he cares to exercise it. And remember, Anne doesn’t know me that well. She was off in someone else’s household most of the time that I stayed in Warwick’s. George can tell her every sin I’ve committed, real or imagined, and she might just believe him.”

“We have to find what’s become of her, then.”

“We?”

“We are blood brothers, are we not?”

“Harry, there was a great deal of ale as well as blood between us that night.” I must have looked shattered, for Richard hastened to add, “Well, yes, we are. But how can you help? You’re not a confidante of George.

And”—Richard hesitated—“frankly, Harry, you can run off at the mouth sometimes. I’d prefer to keep the inquiries discreet.”

“I see.” I stood. “Well, then you must excuse me. I’m off to my nursery.”

“Harry!” But I was long gone.

When my anger cooled, I realized that Richard was quite right. I did let my tongue run away with me sometimes, as I had at Tewkesbury and about the Bohun inheritance. I still had much to learn about the world, I began to realize. All the more reason, I decided, that I should prove my worth to Richard by finding Anne. But how?

George and I were on civil terms, and could chat idly on the few

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occasions when we were thrown in each other’s company at court, but I didn’t like him. I’d not liked him since that day he’d so triumphantly announced the death of my grandfather, a man worth a dozen of the Duke of Clarence. Even making allowances for George’s youth at the time, I couldn’t like him.

I doubted, however, whether he thought enough about the matter to like or to dislike me. Six years younger than he, I was probably quite insignificant in his eyes. And did he know that I was good friends with Richard?

I had no idea. I tended to think not, though he had to know we talked together. But that in itself meant nothing. After all, we were all cousins, all dukes, and all (more or less) on Edward’s side. There was no reason why we shouldn’t talk together. No reason, either, why I shouldn’t pay a visit to my cousin the Duke of Clarence—except that I never had. Would it not look strange if I did now? I needed an excuse.

Then, that same evening at supper at court, two men got into a brawl, one that was quickly broken up but which left both men with impressive-looking bruises. As I watched them being hauled away to cool their tempers in a cell for the evening, I suddenly had my inspiration. Now I just needed to put my plan into action.

“The Duke of Buckingham, your grace.”

George stared at me as I limped into his chamber, clothes torn and dirty, leaning on my page. “Harry? What the hell happened to you?”

I stared shamefacedly at the floor. “A brawl,” I muttered.

“Well, I hope you didn’t get the worst of it.”

“I did.” I hoped my page, still supporting me, was keeping a straight face.

At my command, it was he who had roughed me up an hour or so before, and he had set about his duties with more enthusiasm than seemed quite proper. In his zeal, he’d knocked me rather hard on the cheek, which ached intensely. “Your grace, I was hoping you would do me a favor.”

“Not avenge you, if that’s what you’re thinking,” George said affably.

1 4 6 s u s a n h i g g i n b o t h a m “No. It’s just—well, you know how it is at court. Everyone knows everyone else’s business. If I came back there as I look now, I’d be the talk of the place, and that would be humiliating. Since, as you say, I got the worst of it. And besides—”

“Out with it, Harry.”

“The king keeps us wards under close watch, as you’ve probably heard.

And—well, I would hate for him to know what happened. If he found out, I’d probably never be allowed out on my own until I was one-and-twenty.”

That was no lie; the king did guard us closely. “I was hoping that I could wait here and clean up while my page went and fetched me some fresh clothes. Then when I come back, nothing will look so amiss, and if the king asks where I was, I can say I was with you. He can’t object to that.”

“Ah, but what about your cheek, Harry? Quite a bruise you have coming up there.” He tapped it hard, and I winced.

“I tripped in the dark.”

“Clever boy.” Clarence showed me a set of dazzlingly white teeth. “All right, you can stop here for a while. But tell me. What was a pretty lad like you brawling about? Because I just can’t picture it.”

I gave the floor another piercing gaze. “A woman,” I admitted.

“A woman! And you a married man, Harry!” Clarence snorted. “Don’t tell me you’re on the way to siring a bastard too, like my upstanding brother Richard.” He rang for a servant. “Wine, man!” Then he snorted again. “Not one bastard, mind you, but another on the way! And the hypocrite turns his fastidious little nose up at Ned’s escapades.”

Richard had another bastard on the way? It was the first I’d heard of it.

Remembering that Clarence himself had a reputation as a faithful husband, I hastened to give my own disapproving snort at Richard’s hypocrisy.

“So, what’s her name?”

“Er—Molly.” I hoped George didn’t ask for more intimate details, for I’d yet to lose my virginity, except in my imagination. “She has black hair and green eyes. A real beauty. With lovely breasts,” I added for good measure.

(There was no reason to stint myself, surely.)

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“Best keep her far away, Harry. Ned won’t like to hear of you keeping company with the likes of Molly when you’ve got your pretty Kate waiting for you. Now, that’s a beauty, Woodville or no. If I were you, she’d have been in my bed by now.”

“She’s still very young,” I said in my most urbane manner as the servant brought our wine. Here, I knew, was where the hardest part of the evening lay.

George could drink prodigiously. He wasn’t a habitual drunkard by any means, though his drinking would get worse (and sloppier) later. Most of the time he drank in moderation. But when he chose to, he could drink vast quantities of wine, and he would be drinking long after the last of his companions was in a stupor on the hearth. Richard had witnessed these episodes two or three times and had told me that George scarcely seemed drunk, except for his speech being much less guarded. I could only hope that this would be a drinking night, and that I would be able to keep my faculties intact sufficiently to lead him onto the subject of Anne.

It didn’t work out that way.

George liked sweet malmsey wine, so that was what we drank that night; to this day, the thought of the stuff makes me queasy. I didn’t try to keep up with him; that surely would have killed me. He drank twice as much as I did, and never showed it.

Nor did he talk of Anne. We talked about every subject under the sun— he turned out to be able to discourse well on almost any topic—and I think we even recited the prologue to
The Canterbury Tales
together at one point, for reasons that mercifully escape me now. We talked of Isabel; we talked of the Countess of Warwick; we talked of Margaret of Anjou; we talked of my wife; we talked of Cleopatra, even—but no Anne.

Finally, the wine having overcome my discretion, I hazarded, “How is the Lady Anne? Is she grieving the loss of her husband?”

“She is well.”

“I thought I might pay my respects to her—and your lady wife—before I left.” By this point in the evening I could manage this longish sentence,

1 4 8 s u s a n h i g g i n b o t h a m and the ones before it, only by speaking very slowly. I hiccupped once, then twice for good measure.

George chuckled. “I don’t think either lady would welcome seeing you at present, Harry.”

“But I truly hoped to see them. They’re so”—I searched vainly for a gallant remark but could not find one in the mists fogging up my brain— “pretty. Couldn’t I at least see Anne and just gaze upon her?”

Clarence’s smile faded and he put down his wine cup. “You want to see Anne,” he said. “Well, she’s not here to see. Why, you’re not surprised to hear that, are you? You little snake! Richard sent you, did he not?”

“No! I came myself.” The wine was beginning to make me queasy. “But not to spy…” I felt myself slumping to my left.

George yanked me up. He was a tall man, not quite as tall as the king but still impressive, and I thought he might try to kill me. He certainly could have without much effort, especially in my condition. Perhaps it was the very lack of challenge I presented that dissuaded him, for he stared in my face for a moment or two, then grinned and released me. “Well, since you took the trouble to come here, I’ll tell you what my man told Richard.