The Reluctant Queen

Mystery in the Bowyer Tower

It was a great relief to return to the sanity of Middleham. How thankful I was that Richard was lord of the northern marches, so that we could live there in the free fresh air.

There was a great welcome for us. The children were waiting to greet us. My anxious eyes went immediately to Edward. His cheeks were pink because he was excited and that gave him a healthier look. I was eager to discover how he had been while I was away. As for the other two, they were clearly in good health and spirits. I saw the pride in Richard's eyes as they rested on them, and also the faint anxiety when his eyes turned to our son.

Isabel's death and that of Ankarette had upset me a great deal. Isabel had never been robust but her daughter, Margaret, appeared to be a fine healthy child. I had heard that Edward, the Earl of Warwick for the title had gone to Clarence was quite healthy but lacking, so it was said; slow to speak, slow to walk. My Edward was bright enough; it was just that he was a little frail compared with his half-brother and sister.

I must stop worrying about his health, I chided myself. I must stop thinking about Ankarette. I must stop that dread I was beginning to feel concerning my brother-in-law. But having once been the victim of one of his mad schemes made that difficult. He was ruthless in his quest for power.

I wondered how long the king would allow him to go on wreaking havoc on the lives of those about him; and once more I rejoiced that we were removed from court and such intrigues.

Those were uneasy months. We had the occasional visitor from court and when we learned what was happening there my relief was intensified.

We heard that there appeared to be open hostility between the king and the Duke of Clarence, and that Clarence made a point ofstaying away from court as much as possible. On the rare occasions when he was at the royal table he ostentatiously inspected each dish which was put before him and refused all drinks. It was a studied manner of implying that he suspected poison. He talked openly about the manner in which his wife had been poisoned and the wicked woman who had been sent by the queen to perform the dastardly deed. She had been rightly punished, but it was those who had paid her to commit the crime who were the true culprits.

Such talk was very dangerous.

"It is said, our visitor told us, that the king is fast losing patience with the duke. As for the queen and her family, they are determined to be rid of him. I am sure some charge will be brought against him ere long. They do not take the accusation of being involved in his wife's death lightly."

Richard said little to our guest, but afterwards he confided in me that Edward must be realising at last that he would have to take some action against George. Who could guess what mad scheme was on his mind?

Even in the north we heard of the trial of Dr. John Stacey. In fact the whole country was soon talking about it.

Stacey was an astronomer at Oxford who was accused of witchcraft. He was arrested and under torture admitted that he dabbled in the evil arts and implicated a certain Thomas Burdett who was employed in Clarence's household.

That was when interest in the case became so widespread, because under torture Burdett admitted that they were studying the stars for the purpose of reading the fate of the king.

Even Edward must take note of this. He had set up judges to discover the nature of these investigations and the verdict was that these people had been concerned in prophesying the death of the king and, moreover, using their arts to bring this about. This was treason and sentence was passed on all the men involved. They were taken to Tyburn and hanged.

This should have been a warning to Clarence, as one of the accused was a member of his household.

Clarence never learned lessons. He railed against the injustice done to innocent men. He blamed the Woodvilles. They controlled the king. The king had no power over his wife and her rapacious relatives were running and ruining the country.

Every day we waited to hear of some outrageous act. Edward's patience was at an end.

It was a June day when a messenger came to Middleham from the king. Clarence had been committed to the Tower and Richard was commanded to come to court without delay.

The king's younger son, Richard, Duke of York, was to marry Anne Mowbray, heiress of Norfolk, and Richard must play his part in the ceremony.

"Marry!" I cried, when Richard told me.

"He is only a child."

"I believe all of four years old and his bride is six. But she is one of the richest heiresses in the country. This will be the queen's contriving."

I was horrified to contemplate such a marriage. Why, the boy was much the same age as my own son Edward.

However, for such an occasion, the Duke and Duchess of Gloucester must be present.

It was a long and tiresome journey and I knew Richard's heart was heavy. Clarence was a menace and there would be no peace while he was allowed to pursue his rebellious ways but for a brother to be a prisoner in the Tower was something Richard found hard to accept. I was sure the king felt the same.

When we arrived in London, Richard went at once to the king. He was with him for a long time and when he came back he was very sorrowful.

"I think Edward is probably going to forgive him," he said.

"He cannot bear to think of the little boy whom he used to love so dearly as an enemy. He said to me: "He wants my crown, Richard. I believe nothing else will satisfy him. He is so wild ... so foolish. How long does he think he would last as king? He never thinks beyond the moment. There is more to being a king than wearing a crown and smiling at the loyal shouts of the people. George will never understand this." I said: "You have done the only thing possible by sending him to the Tower. He will come to his senses there. It seems the only way to make him realise the dangerous position he has put himself in." I think he agreed with me but he is wavering."

It was shortly after that when Cecily, Duchess of York came to visit us. The duchess, Richard's mother and my father's aunt, was a lady of great presence. She was indeed one of the most regal persons I have ever met; and I believe that since her son Edward came to the throne she behaved as though she were a queen, , demanding homage from all those who came into contact with her.

In her presence one felt impelled to show the respect due to royalty.

She was a very handsome woman. In her youth she had been noted for her beauty and known as The Rose of Raby; but now her face was ravaged by sorrow. I had heard that she had never recovered from the death of her husband, for they had been a devoted couple and she had accompanied him on many of his campaigns even when she was pregnant, which she invariably was at that time.

Seeing her now in her old age, but still a commanding figure, I could imagine how angry and humiliated she had felt when her husband's head, adorned with a paper crown, had been set on the walls of York. It must be a consolation for such a woman that her son, Edward, was now King of England.

I went to her and knelt, which seemed the natural thing to do in her presence. She bade me rise.

She said: "I am in great distress. I would speak with Richard."

"My lady." said Richard.

"Anne and I have no secrets from each other. You need have no fear to speak before her."

She looked at me intently. Then she said: "Very well. Stay here. It is of George I wish to speak."

"George is the king's prisoner," said Richard in dismay.

"His own brother!" cried the duchess.

"There should not be quarrels within the family."

"George has been behaving very foolishly." said Richard.

"He has done so many reckless things damaging to the king. And now he has allowed himself to be involved in this witchcraft plot against the king's life."

"George is a little careless. He means no harm, I am sure."

Richard looked faintly exasperated. I guessed he had heard that said so often in his childhood.

"My lady mother," he said, "you must know that George has committed many acts for which other men would have lost their heads."

She looked at him disbelievingly.

"I know he has a streak of mischief."

"Mischief indeed! Do you know he shut Anne up in a cookshop and left her there to work in the kitchens? Do you call that a streak of mischief? He should have lost his head for that alone."

"Richard! You are speaking of your brother."

"I know it and I wish he were any man's brother but mine."

"You must not talk thus of George. Anne, you must persuade him. You must understand that this is his brother ... my son!"

"Could you not speak to the king, my lady? George's fate is in his hands."

"I have spoken to the king. Naturally I spoke to him first."

"And did he not listen?" asked Richard.

"He listened. He was all charm and sympathy, but there was a hardness in his face. It is that woman. She is against George. Edward should never have married her."

"I believe that at this time it is not the queen but Edward himself who is beginning to realise what a danger George is to him."

"Listen to me, Richard. Edward is fond of you. You are his favourite. You always adored him so blatantly. Edward is a fine man ... a great king ... but he grows hard. And we are speaking of his brother."

"Edward is the most forgiving man I know. He has forgiven George over and over again. But this time George has gone too far."

"But you will speak to him, Richard. I, your mother, beg you to. No ... I command you to. George is mischievous. Edward knows this. It is not to be taken too seriously. If you will talk to Edward ... explain he means no harm ... he will listen to you."

"I think he will make up his own mind in this matter. George has been judged a traitor and you know the penalty for that, my lady."

"Edward cannot allow his own brother to be put to death!"

"I am sure he will not allow that. He will soften towards him as he has done so many times before."

"Richard, you must speak to your brother. I beg you to."

"Then I will speak to him."

"Remind him that George is his brother."

"He is not likely to forget that, my lady."

"I rely on you."

"I will tell him of your feelings, but it may be that this time George has gone too far."

He would promise nothing more. She was displeased. She was one of those women who expect immediate obedience from everyone around them, and that includes their own children.

The wedding of the Duke of York to the little Norfolk heiress was a grand affair. The bridegroom was very handsome as all the king's children were with his sturdy young body and fair looks. The king was clearly proud of his family and he had good reason to be, and so had the queen. She was very contented. There was no question about her beauty; she was dazzlingly so, even now. But there was something very cold about her; she was statuesque and her perfect features might have been cut out of marble. She was clearly proud of her achievements widow of a humble knight to become Queen of England and moreover hold her place in the heart of the philandering king all these years. Of course, she was clever. Many still said she relied on witchcraft and her mother had undoubtedly been a witch. A strong woman, the queen's mother. She had been married to the mighty Duke of Bedford and had become a widow when she was only seventeen years old; and then she had fallen passionately in love with Sir Richard Woodville, had married this comparatively humble man and had remained in love with him, it was said, all through their married life. She was an exceptional woman and belonged to the royal house of Luxembourg. She was the one, it was said, who had bewitched the king into marrying her daughter.

And now here was Elizabeth Woodville, proud of all she had achieved. Her eldest son Edward was now Prince of Wales and his brother, the little bridegroom, Duke of York. There was one of her children whom I noticed particularly. This was Elizabeth, the eldest of her daughters, for whom she demanded great homage because of the proposed union with the Dauphin of France, which had been one of the results of the Treaty of Picquigny. Elizabeth was addressed as Madame la Dauphine, which I thought a little premature, remembering what often happened to these proposed alliances.

The marriage of the two children was taking place in St. Stephen's Chapel from the walls of which hung blue velvet decorated with the golden fleur-de-lys. Lord Rivers led in little Anne Mowbray.

Both children did as they had been told, although I am sure neither of them had a notion of what it was all about. And when the ceremony was over, it was Richard's duty to scatter gold coins among the crowd waiting outside. And then Anne Mowbray, with Richard on one side and the Duke of Buckingham on the other, was escorted to the banqueting hall.

There were shouts of loyalty from the people. Weddings were always a source of interest and enjoyment and the wedding of such a young pair was particularly delightful to them.

It was on this occasion that I exchanged a few words with the queen. She said how grieved she had been to hear of Isabel's death.

"She was delicate, of course," she said.

"There are some of us who should not bear too many children." She was a little complacent, implying she, who had borne several children and still retained her youthful looks and beauty, was most certainly not one of them.

"I sent Ankarette to her to help her." Her face hardened. That was a terrible case. Ankarette was a good woman. She served us both well."

"I know, your Grace," I said.

She touched my hand lightly.

"There are some wicked people among us," she whispered.

"It is best that they are under restraint. I must go to Madame la Dauphine. I am pleased to see you here, duchess."

It was gracious of her to speak to me. I think she wanted to stress to me that the Duke of Clarence was unworthy to live.

The next days were given over to jousting. Knights came into London from all over the country to take part. The Woodvilles, of course, were very much in evidence and the occasions were graced by the presence of the queen and Madame la Dauphine. The absence of the Duke of Clarence was very noticeable.

Richard told me that he had spoken to Edward about their mother's plea for leniency.

"I should add mine, Anne," he said.

"But I am so unsure. He is our brother. He has been near me all my life. We were brought up together."

"Edward, too."

"No, Edward was not with us. There were just the three, Margaret, George and myself. We were the only ones in the Fotheringay nursery the young ones. I am glad no decision rests with me. Poor Edward. I know what he must be feeling now. His thoughts will be in the Bowyer Tower with George."

He told me later that Edward had sent for him and had talked of Clarence. In fact Edward could think of nothing else. He said that if he were wise he would let George suffer the penalty of treason.

"For," he went on, "there have been so many of his acts which are treasonable."

"I had to admit that that was so. But I asked him how he would feel if he gave the order for his brother's execution. That order would have to come from him.

"It would lie heavy on my conscience." he answered.

"And it would. Poor Edward, I pity him."

I said: "He should not reproach himself. He has been a good brother to George and George has scarcely been the same to him."

"I have suggested that he go to George and talk to him. Give him one last chance ... and if he should err again ... then make his decision."

"And what said he to this?"

"I believe he is going to do it. I feel sure he will forgive George."

Then I said: "The trouble will start again. It is inevitable."

"You think the king would be justified in signing the death warrant of his brother?"

"Justified, yes. But I do understand what you mean about its lying heavily on his conscience."

"We shall have to see. Edward is going to the Tower. He will go without ceremony. We shall soon know the outcome."

We did. When the king returned from the Bowyer Tower, the first thing he did was send for Richard.

I waited in trepidation to hear the news, for I guessed something of significance must have happened. Richard was absent for a long time and when he came back to our apartment he shut himself in. I went to him and he allowed me to enter his chamber where I found him looking very distressed.

"Richard!" I cried.

"What is it?"

"I... cannot believe it!" he said.

"This is the end. It must be."

"The king has forgiven him?"

He said nothing. He just stared ahead.

I sat on the arm of his chair and stroked the hair back from his face.

"Tell me, Richard," I said.

"I feel I should know, because of what I have suffered at his hands."

"It is a most astonishing turn of events." murmured Richard.

"He is mad ... completely mad. He has thrown away his chance. This must be the end. He himself made the decision."

"Richard, I beg of you tell me what has happened."

"Edward went to him ... ready to forgive him once more. But no sooner did George see him than he began to abuse him, shouting that he had brought a breed of reptiles into the family, that he had married a witch and not only had he married her but it seemed he had married her blood-sucking relations also."

The king would have been in no mood for such talk, I should have thought."

"You would have thought correctly. He ordered George to be silent. He accused him of acts of treason. He told him he had come to help him, but was growing less and less inclined to do so. George was reckless. He had clearly been drinking. A great butt of malmsey had been delivered to his cell on George's orders. Edward went on trying to reason with him. George is shrewd at times and he knew that the king was trying to find reasons for releasing him. Oh, what a fool George is! He could have been a free man today, but he was never very good at reasoning. He was always caught up in the passion of the moment. He went on ranting against the queen and the Woodvilles. Then he said a terrible thing. He said that when our father was away in battle our mother took a lover and the result was Edward which meant that Clarence was the rightful heir to the throne."

"What a monstrous story!"

"An insult not only to Edward but to my mother."

"I wonder what she would say if she knew?"

"She would be incensed as Edward is. He said to me, "You see how he is? What can I do? He is my brother. If I let him go free, how can I know from one day to the next what he will do?" I said to him, "You shall be confronted by our mother. Perhaps then she would not plead for you so earnestly"."

"I cannot imagine what she would do if she heard such a rumour." I said.

"Edward does not want her to know what Clarence has said of her. He said it would shock and depress her too deeply. She was always a devoted wife to our father. She was even with him in campaigns whenever she could be. This is a terrible slight on her good name, and so unjustified: But it shows that George will say anything that occurs to him."

"Do you think this will be the end of him?"

Richard was thoughtful.

"There is one other matter," he said slowly.

"I think Edward was on the verge of telling me, but changed his mind. I am of the opinion that it shocked him so much that he could not speak of it even to me."

"So you have no idea what it was?"

"None at all. As I remember, Edward spoke somewhat incoherently. He said: "There is something else ... disastrous if he succeeded." Then he paused for a long time. I asked him what it was and he said: "Oh, 'twas nothing in truth ... just slanderous nonsense. The sort of thing George would think up." I again asked him to tell me, because I could see that, in spite of the manner in which he was trying to brush aside this thing, it had affected him deeply.

"Nothing ... nothing," he said, and he made it clear to me that the matter was closed."

"Do you think that Clarence has offended him beyond forgiveness?"

"I do."

"I suppose the slur on his legitimacy is enough."

"I think it is such nonsense that it could easily be disproved."

"But it shows he is his brother's enemy."

"That is no new discovery. I have a notion that it is this other matter which has made up the king's mind. But knowing Edward, I am unsure. Our mother begged for Clarence's life, and Edward hates there to be rifts in the family. There is Margaret, whom he has offended by refusing to consider Clarence's marriage to Mary and allowing Lord Rivers' name to go forward. He wants harmony all around him ... so ... I do not know what George's fate will be."

We were not long kept in doubt.

Next day we heard that the Duke of Clarence, the worse for drink, had fallen into a huge butt of malmsey and been drowned.

The court was stunned by the news. It was well known that the Duke of Clarence was a heavy drinker, and it seemed plausible that, in a drunken stupor, he had reached to fill his goblet, toppled into the butt and, being intoxicated, was unable to get out. It was ironical that he had been killed by his favourite drink and in a butt which he himself had ordered to be brought into his cell.

I had other suspicions. After what Richard had told me, it seemed certain that he had been killed on Edward's orders.

Duchess Cecily was stricken with grief. She seemed like a different person from Proud Cis, as they called her. She was very sad when she spoke to me.

"Edward is a great king," she said, "and state affairs are safe in his hands. His father would have been a great king too. How I wish there had not been this quarrel in the family! We should all stand together. There is strength in union and danger in discord."

As I tried to comfort her I could not help wondering what she would have said had she known of the slander which her son would have brought against her. Perhaps then she would have understood why Clarence had to die and that he was indeed a menace to his brother, and the peace of the realm.

Richard was very distressed by the whole matter. We talked about it a little. I knew he thought that Edward had arranged for the death of George ... in which case it was murder.

"If Clarence had lived," said Richard, "there would have been trouble sooner or later ... risings all over the country ... men dying in a foolish and hopeless cause. And just suppose Clarence had triumphed over Edward ... imagine what harm would have been done to the country. In such a case murder would be justified."

We discussed this for a while and I think we both felt that if the death of one foolish and reckless man had been brought about in order to save the lives and suffering of thousands, the deed was not to be judged as murder but justice.

"Edward was never a vindictive man," insisted Richard.

"Whatever happened on that night was justified." . I knew Richard felt better after he had come to that conclusion, and we did not refer to his brother's death again.

Mary of Burgundy had now married the Archduke Maximilian, son of the Hapsburg Emperor Frederick the Third, so that the matter which had aroused such fury in Clarence and led to his death was now concluded.

There was another arrest which puzzled Richard. It had taken place on the very night of Clarence's death. This was that of Robert Stillington, the Bishop of Bath and Wells. He was a good Yorkist, but he was accused of uttering treasonable words which could be prejudicial to the state. It was a small matter and Stillington was soon released, but I was to remember this some time after, although it seemed of very little importance at the time.

There was nothing now to detain us. Richard assured Edward that it would be unwise for him to stay too long away from the north. Edward embraced Richard warmly, calling him his 'loyal brother'. Richard was deeply touched. He told me that Edward had said, "Never have I had any cause to doubt your loyalty to me. I should thank Heaven for giving me the blessings of my brother Richard."

I guessed then that the death of his brother weighed heavily upon him. After taking a tender farewell, during which the king commanded us both to take care of ourselves and each other, for he loved us both dearly, we returned to Middleham and our family.