The Stolen Crown: The Secret Marriage That Forever Changed the Fate of England (51 page)

I yanked my sister forward, forgetting that she had twenty years on me, and together we ran through the gates and to our brothers Richard and

3 5 0 s u s a n h i g g i n b o t h a m Edward. They saw us and scrambled down from their horses. Crying out incoherent greetings, all four of us came together, laughing and sobbing in each other’s arms.

Then the children joined us.

“Uncle Edward! Uncle Richard!”

“Was there a battle?”

“Are you prisoners?”

“Did you escape?”

“Are you free?”

“Where is the king?”

“What has happened?”

“Where have you been?”

“Did you bring me anything?”

“Can I ride your horse?”

My brother Edward pulled free at last.

“Oh, there was a battle all right,” he said, grinning. “Trumpet!” It sounded obediently, and a dead silence fell as my brother hopped back into his saddle to make himself better heard. “People! Two days ago, Richard, Duke of Gloucester, usurper and murderer of innocents, late calling himself king of England, was slain in Leicestershire. Long life to your new king.

King Henry!”

I have taken all of the bad news in my life standing upright, but my consciousness proved unequal to these very different tidings. “King Henry!” I shouted obediently. Then I slumped to the ground in a dead faint.

But Bessie had swooned first. Queen and older sister that she was, she had first right, I suppose.

xxv

August 1485 to October 1485

How? How did Henry win the battle?”

Edward grinned. “God’s favor, of course. And a little help from the Stanleys.” He looked around the solar. “Do you want to hear the story?”

“No. We want to hear how the autumn crops look,” I snapped.

My brother grinned again. “I missed you too, Kate.” He shook his head.

“You looked so sweet there lying on the ground just now. So docile.”

“So quiet,” agreed Richard.

“Go on!”

Edward laughed and rearranged the nieces on each knee, and Richard, sitting with another pair of nieces, followed suit. “Well, if you insist. The first thing of any importance, for our purposes, is that two days before the battle, a certain Sir Richard joined us.” He nodded at his older brother.

“I took Gloucester’s pardon only because I hoped the two of you might benefit,” Richard said. “But when I realized that I was expected to be fighting for Gloucester—against Edward—I couldn’t stomach it. Even if Edward wasn’t my only living brother, I wouldn’t bear arms against him— not even if Gloucester were worth doing it for. So I followed my orders and marched with Richard’s army, but I was determined to desert and fight on Edward’s side, or die trying. Fortunately, I got an opportunity to slip off under cover of darkness, and I took it. So did many others, those last couple of nights.”

“What a sight it was, awakening the next morning with my brother standing over me!” said Edward. He grinned ruefully. “It almost made up

3 5 2 s u s a n h i g g i n b o t h a m for the fact that no one could find poor King Henry. Never let the king know I told you this, but he got separated from his men the evening before and was wandering around in the dark, lost as a man can be. We were wondering how we could go to battle with no leader when Henry rode in the next morning, saying that he had been meeting with some secret friends.

Fortunately, that same day he actually did meet with some secret friends— the Stanleys. They promised they’d join him when they safely could, but with Lord Strange being Richard’s hostage, they had to be cautious.

“That night, the twenty-first, we camped near Atherton, and we knew that the time for battle was coming, for Gloucester’s men were encamped nearby. Even with those who had joined us after we crossed into England, Gloucester’s side had the advantage, both in ground and men, but our spies told us an encouraging piece of news the next morning: Gloucester had slept badly. He didn’t sleep much, and when he did, he had nightmares.

Some say that the ghosts of those he’d murdered visited him. He said before battle that if he won, he would utterly destroy all who had fought against him. No ransoms, no mercy.

“Well, that was daunting to hear, and seeing his men all lined up on a hill, outnumbering us three to one at our best guess, was even more daunting. But King Henry gave the order to march, and so we did.

“As promised, the Stanleys were out there on the field, in force, but they neither helped nor hindered either side. That in itself was a fearsome sight, because we couldn’t be sure of whether Gloucester had suborned them in the meantime, and they could have slaughtered us if they had chosen to do so. We learned later that Gloucester was furious when he realized what was happening, and that he ordered the execution of Lord Strange, who’d been dragged along just in case such a situation arose. But there was too much going on, and fortunately for our niece Joan, Lord Strange was forgotten about and will be coming safely home to her.

“Then the Duke of Norfolk’s men smashed into the Earl of Oxford’s troops. Poor Oxford has never stopped regretting what happened at Barnet, you know, when he lost control of his men and they had to be rounded up

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and taken back to the field, only to fight against their fellow Lancastrians.

Well, he redeemed himself at last. His men drew around their standard and gave no ground. Worse for Gloucester, they began to drive Norfolk’s men back against themselves. Norfolk was killed.” Edward took a long draught of ale. “A pity that such a noble man died in such an ignoble cause.

Richard, you take over. You can tell it as well as I can, if not better.”

My oldest living brother smiled modestly and cleared his throat. “Norfolk’s death must have been a blow to Gloucester—if he knew about it. Norfolk was the oldest and most experienced man in his command. If Gloucester did know, maybe that’s why he did what he did next. Depending on your point of view, it was either extremely brave or extremely foolhardy.”

“Or both,” put in Edward.

“Or both, as I was about to say.” Richard, usually the most serious of men, suddenly grinned. “Bessie, do you remember how he used to do this when he was little, never losing his chance to get a word in? I’ve missed it.

Anyway, at this point Richard, with just a few followers, charges pell-mell down the hill. He’d spotted King Henry’s standard and must have hoped he could finish Henry himself off there and then. I’ll anticipate Edward by saying that he almost did.”

“We were there in the thick of it, Richard and I,” interrupted Edward.

“So we were. Sisters, just picture a fully armored knight, followed by more, careening toward you downhill at full gallop. It was the last sight poor William Brandon, King Henry’s standard bearer, ever saw. Pity.

Brandon was a brave man.

“We were holding our ground as best we could, and fighting back, but it wasn’t looking good. Richard was almost within striking distance of King Henry. And that’s when the Stanleys finally moved in—for us. They swept in and began to pick off Gloucester’s men. And then they reached Gloucester himself.”

Bessie and I had joined hands and were barely breathing by now.

“He didn’t last long after that, needless to say—men in all directions were trying to take him down, some for glory, some out of pure hatred. I’ll give

3 5 4 s u s a n h i g g i n b o t h a m him credit, he fought like a tiger—not that he had much choice, for he couldn’t escape even if he’d wanted to, and if he was taken alive, he’d be facing the block. So it behooved him to go out with a good fight. At last he died—but not before Edward and I had stricken some blows upon him for the sake of Anthony and your sons, Bessie. Not the most chivalrous thing we’ve done, perhaps, as he was outnumbered, but it was satisfying.”

“I thank you,” my sister said quietly. “What happened to his body?”

“Stripped naked, flung across a horse like a slaughtered animal, and taken to the Grey Friars at Leicester for display. Some thought that as a king, he should have received more dignified treatment, but others thought that given his crimes and the way he attained the throne—”

“He deserved what he got,” I finished firmly, thinking of all the good men and the innocent boys who had perished at the order of Gloucester.

“Who else died?”

“Catesby was captured, and will probably be executed, I heard before I left. Sir Richard Ratcliffe died in battle, so did Sir Robert Brackenbury.

Your man here, Nesfield, died. And Walter, Lord Ferrers.”

“His death I am very, very sorry for,” I said, and crossed myself. “He was a fine man.”

We were quiet for a while, reflecting on those decent men who had given their lives for both sides, and upon those who had suffered before this battle for their loyalty to my nephews and to the memory of Edward IV. I was silent too for Harry, who’d died trying to bring about this day.

Finally, Bessie said dryly, “Now that our prayers have been answered, I realize I know almost nothing about King Henry. You must have come to know him well in exile, Edward. What sort of man is he?”

Edward considered. “He’s shrewd, he’s fond of gambling—goodness knows this enterprise was a gamble—and he has a certain sense of humor.

He’s ordered that the common soldiers who fought for Richard be allowed to return home safely, and I believe that aside from Catesby, he’ll be merciful to those of a higher rank who supported Richard. He’ll rule with a firm hand, I suspect, being wary from all those years in exile, but time will

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have to tell. In the meantime, he’s not Richard. That will have to suffice for now.”

“Amen to that,” I muttered.

“What of Tom?” Bessie asked.

“He will be returning home soon. He tried to get back to England when Gloucester offered his pardon—against my advice, I might add—but Henry’s men caught up with him and persuaded him, rather emphatically, to stay. Anyway, he was left behind in France as a surety for the money that the French loaned to our enterprise. I’m sure the French will be pleasantly surprised to find that they don’t have to keep him; they didn’t have a great deal of hope for our cause, I fear. And here is something else to look forward to: a wedding. King Henry means to marry Bess, as promised. Men have been sent to Sheriff Hutton to fetch her and Cecily to London, where the king will be arriving shortly. And men have been sent to fetch their lovely mother and aunts to London, too. Can you guess who they are?”

I smiled. “And the king’s mother? I suppose men have been sent to fetch her?”

“To escort her,” said Richard. He grinned. “No one
fetches
the Countess of Richmond. Not even the new king himself.”

I had been in London several days when I received a message from Margaret Beaufort to attend her at the Bishop of London’s palace, where our new king, just recently arrived in the city himself, was staying.

Naturally, I obeyed, albeit with not a great deal of enthusiasm. It had been some years since I had seen Margaret Beaufort, except for an occasional superficial encounter at court, and I wondered whether she still considered me a useless, decorative object.

To my surprise, the king’s mother—looking none the worse for wear for her nearly two years of house arrest—surprised me by greeting me with a hearty embrace. “I am very, very sorry that your late husband did not live

3 5 6 s u s a n h i g g i n b o t h a m to see this day,” she said, more quietly than usual. “He was a fine young man. His sacrifice will not be forgotten. Nor shall yours.”

“Thank you, my lady.” I felt tears sting at my eyes at this unexpected kindness. No adult, not even my sisters, not even my brothers, ever spoke to me of Harry, even now that it was safe to do so. Their intentions were probably good, but it hurt me deeply, for it was as if the man to whom I had been married for over eighteen years and borne five children had never existed. This short eulogy was the first mention I could remember hearing of him in months. “I still miss him terribly.”

“Of course you do,” Margaret said in her more normal tone of voice as I showed signs of giving way to my emotions. “But you have your whole life ahead of you. You are but young.” She squinted at me—the countess was shortsighted—approvingly. “And still very fair.”

“Thank you,” I said, thoroughly nonplussed.

“My son the king wishes to see you.”

I cannot possibly convey the sense of utter satisfaction with which Margaret Beaufort said those first four words.

In the chamber where the king was staying, I sank to a deep curtsey until Henry, in a pleasant voice with more than a tinge of a French accent, bade me to rise. I had seen him briefly on the day he had entered the city—no borrowed rags for me that time, for I had watched the procession from the comfort of a viewing platform hastily set up for myself and other honored ladies—but I had not been close enough to study him well. Now I saw that at eight and twenty, he had a lean physique and fair hair. His blue eyes, set in a mobile face, were bright, without the rather piercing quality of his mother’s. All in all, he was an attractive man, I was pleased to note for my niece Bess’s sake. “It has been many years since we have seen you, my lady,” Henry said, taking my hand. “Time has been kind.”

“Thank you, your grace.”

“Were you aware that your husband had made a will, in which he set you a jointure?”

“Yes, your grace. William Catesby told me of it.”

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The king smiled. “The late Master Catesby was rather taken with you, it seems. Did you know that you were mentioned in his will? No? Well, how could you have? He left a hundred pounds to you, to provide for your children and to help pay the late duke’s debts and to see his will executed.”