January 1485. Windsor Castle, England.
Edward sighed as he slowly drank the mead in his cup, letting his head fall back. It was the end of Twelvetide, the final day of the Christmas celebrations and yet he could not force himself back into the great hall. He could not fake joy, nor happiness. At least, not that day.
He always found it very hard to command the court. At his heart, Edward was a simple and introspective man, who had difficulty being as charismatic and charming as his own father had been. He wondered how his father did it, how he didn't feel like tugging his hair out in clumps over it. The nobles conspiring at his back, the people always looking for his favour. The pretty maidens throwing themselves at him, hoping for pretty baubles and gifts from him.
When his relationship with Kathy Herbert ran its course, he married her to a minor nobleman, paying for her dowry himself and now he was with Margaret Bouchier. He was loyal to her and she didn’t come to him with low-cut gowns and long eyelashes dipped in water to make them appear glossier. She came with smiles and deep curtsies out of respect. Why did they think, then, that he’d care for them if they acted completely differently?
And there was something he needed to do. Something that seemed more and more important as the days passed and nothing changed, as they both pretended nothing was wrong. A groom opened his door, slipping his head inside as he spoke, "The Duke of York, Your Grace."
Edward straightened his back and set his cup aside so as to greet his brother properly. He might be angry with him, but Richard was still his blood. His father’s son and his mother was right. What would the great King Edward say if he saw his eldest disrespecting his little brother with something as simple as a greeting?
His brother stepped inside and the groom closed the door, leaving the two of them alone. The room was spacious, with wooden tables for dining and desks for writing, the edges smoothed down save for their sharp corners. And the many expensive rugs lining the floor. That was why Edward had asked him there, instead of his private apartments. So his brother would know he was speaking to a king.
Richard was sixteen now, nearly as tall as Edward and with their mother’s narrow shoulders. Their father’s blue-grey eyes stared at him as he bowed, wearing a simple dark blue doublet. He had a serious expression on his handsome face, as if he knew what was happening even before it had already happened.
“Brother,” Edward said as his brother straightened up. Richard only looked at him and he gestured for him to come closer, standing by the hearth of his solar. When he looked at him, Edward felt as if he looked at a stranger. Yes, he remembered the days of their childhood, the nannies bemoaning what to do with him, how to make him learn some responsibility, but they weren’t allowed to grow as close as Edward was with the Herberts; the end of his relationship with Kathy notwithstanding.
“Your Grace,” said Richard. “Is there any reason I was called here instead of being allowed to join the Christmas celebrations?”
Edward smiled sardonically. “Don’t act the fool, brother,” he ordered. “It doesn’t suit you. You know exactly why I summoned you here.” He stepped closer, both of them staring right ahead. Staring into the eyes of someone who shared their blood, someone who had come from the same womb, the same loins. Richard was his brother, his flesh and blood. That meant something, didn’t it? Somewhere, deep in his heart, there was something that made him better than everyone else, that made him different. “Blanche.”
Richard smiled. “What could there be said about the Queen, my lord?” he asked. “Enemy’s child. Imprisoned by our family and made to produce heirs.”
“Then you know,” Edward guessed. “That I have consummated the marriage.”
Richard nodded. “Six months before it was suggested by our dear mother, brother, but you did it,” he said with a smile that could tell a hundred lies. “In nine months, I may be a joyful uncle.” He was utterly smug, so sure of himself that Edward frowned. “Will you name him Edward after our father, or Henry for her grandfather?”
“I suppose it’s a matter of time before we see,” Edward responded. “It could very well be a girl. It may be a Magdalene, after our mother.” He smiled at the dark look that crossed Richard’s face, almost jealousy. “Though you should worry about your own wife and children, other than mine,
brother.”
“I would gladly worry about a wife and children, brother, if the match with Portugal might be properly arranged so I may have my intended beside me as my wife.” The talks between England and Portugal had faltered, they both knew it to be so. It was the work of their French cousin, Queen Ana, who used her feminine wiles to convince King João to break the centuries-long alliance with England in favour of one with France. His Infanta could very well have a new husband or a veil before crossing the channel. Richard shook his head. “It is difficult to conceive a child with a woman across the channel. Especially when the king arranging the match is under maligned hands.”
“If I could trust you,” Edward began, “I’d have you wed the greatest heiress in this land.” Cecily Bonville had married their half-brother Arthur to afford him lands since he would not gain any in virtue of his illegitimate birth, but another, greater, woman could be found for Richard, if he’d only show himself capable.
“And why do you not trust me, brother? Am I not, by birth, designated to be your right hand in all things? Our mother instilled in me a respect for this family and a loyalty to the members of it. But then, I suppose loyalty is a foreign concept to you. Tell me, how is Mistress Margaret?”
“You’re irresponsible,” Edward began. “Since you were a child, you have been so and to take eyes from your childishness, you dare to lecture me.
Your king.”
“I am not lecturing the king, I am advising my brother whom I hold in the greatest regard. You are not a fool, Ned. You are only acting foolish. And isn’t a brother meant to give a brother a thump on the head when he needs it?”
“If you truly held me in the greatest regard, you would not look at my wife so,” Edward responded. Richard looked away from him. “Don’t pretend to have good intentions when all can see the truth plainly. The court believes we are fighting over Margaret, but we both know the truth. It’s about Blanche, isn’t it?” His brother still did not look at him. He might be his father’s son, and a Yorkist to boot, but Richard was just sixteen. Still a child. And children are terrible liars. “You desire my wife.”
“The devotion I bear to the Queen is the same as that I bear to you. The concerns I have are for both of your sakes,” Richard said through gritted teeth.
“At least, look in my eyes when you say it,” Edward ordered. “Look me in my eyes and tell me you don’t desire her. Tell me I have nothing to fear when it comes to the legitimacy of the children Blanche bears me.”
Richard turned and for a moment, there was something of their father in him. His back was tall and proud, his gaze resolute, his chin set in stubborn defiance. But at the same time, there was something Edward knew well. Knew it from the days of their boyhood, when he’d visit the capital at the arrival of a new sibling or another and he saw Richard placing a spider between Catherine’s sheets, or stealing one of Ceci’s dolls. He always had wondering hands when it came to what belonged to others.
“You have nothing to fear when it comes to the legitimacy of the children Blanche bears you,” his brother said. And there, Edward saw it. In the glint of his eyes, something different. Something that told him he was being dishonest.
The King shook his head. “Liar,” he said. “You’re a god-forsaken liar!”
Richard tilted his chin up and smirked. “You have nothing to fear when it comes to the legitimacy of the children Blanche bears you. I’ll say it again if you need me to, brother. You have nothing to fear when it comes to the legitimacy of the children Blanche bears you.” His eyes were practically glowing with mirth, like the succession was nothing more than a joke. "You have nothing to fear! Nothing to fear! Nothing to fear!"
“Shut up,” Edward said.
But his brother continued. He was a York, he could not be stopped. He was like a dog with a bone, never ending its chewing until he had gnawed it till the end. “You have nothing to fear when it comes to the legitimacy of the children Blanche bears you. Nothing to fear at all, dear brother!”
“Just stop talking! Damn you! Damn you to Hell, your king commands you to be silent!” Edward grabbed Richard by the fastenings of his cloak, fueled by anger. He felt his brother lift off the stone floor for a moment before he threw him back.
For a moment, Richard was silent. And then, his own feet betrayed him, snagging on the rugs beneath him. There was a crack when the Duke of York hit the table behind him, the silver plate filled with remnants of the feast clattering noisily as it fell to the floor. His blue eyes were wide as he fell too and Edward only stared at him, not even believing what he had done.
A shaking head stretched behind him, touching the back of his head and Richard trembled as he brought it back to look at the blood streaking his palm. For a moment, they didn’t move and then those blue eyes turned to him, wide and scared. He was sixteen. Just a boy. His brother. His little brother.
“Oh Lord… What will you tell Mother?” His eyes were upturned, pained but also sympathetic. A horrible mixture of compassion and agony, like Christ on his cross, prepared to die for the sins of others.
What have I done?
Edward fell to the floor to take his brother in hands and his brother went limply, like a rag doll, or a puppet without its strings. He touched his back, his head and wet hair, blindly feeling the deep wound at his head. He could feel thick blood pouring out without restraint, tears filling his eyes as he finally realised what he had done.
He looked forward at the closed door, screaming, “Help! The Duke of York!” He was desperate, because there was something that could be done. Something. Anything. “Help! Help my brother!”
But as the doors opened and his groom ran inside, Edward could only look back at Richard. Hot tears slid down his cheeks as he whispered, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He shook his head, cradling him close. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.” He looked at the groom, who seemed pale and as if he was about to be sick. “Why are you standing there, you idiot? Fetch a physician!" As the young man ran out, screaming, Edward turned back to his brother. "I’m sorry, Dickon, I’m so sorry. It was not my intention”
Richard looked at him with fear, clutching the hand that cupped his cheek softly. “I know you didn’t,” he began, voice faltering. "I know. It's not your fault." He closed his bloodshot eyes and brought a hand to his forehead, staining his pale skin red. His face twisted into a grimace of pain. “My head…” His words stopped and his mouth slackened, but Edward continued to cradle him as one might to a baby, stroking his head and face.
“It’s alright,” he whispered. “It’s alright, I’m here. I’m sorry.” His hands were drenched in blood and his clothing was ruined, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care at all, he only cared about his baby brother in his arms. “I’m sorry, but you're going to be alright. I swear it.” He held him close. “You’re alright, it’s alright. I’m here.”
Feet ran to his solar and he could only look up, at the seemingly hundreds of people that bound inside.
“Oh God,” someone blasphemously said and he looked at the face of his mother, his aunts. Everyone that must have come running when the groom ran out screaming for a physician.
Someone knelt by him and Edward stared at the physician before him, the wrinkly and wizened hand that came to touch his brother’s neck. “No,” he whispered, although he already knew who it was. “Don’t touch him.”
But, still he touched him, pressing two fingers to the side of Richard’s neck in search of a pulse. The tears bound freely and even though a part of him already knew, had known since it started, his heart still crumbled when the man said, “Dead.”
For a moment, no one spoke and then there was a wail. The sound of a dying wounded animal as his mother fell to the floor beside them all, shaking and crying. The Dowager Queen was not a large woman. She was small, and had been thickened by so many pregnancies. But she managed to lift her son with the ease that Edward had, pulling him into her arms as she wailed.
"My son,” she began, touching Richard’s face gently. “My baby…” There was pain in her eyes, in her voice. The type of pain one has after outliving their offspring. “Who has done this to you, my son? Who has taken you from me?”
“Mother…” Edward began. She stopped with her sobs and her face slowly tilted up, her expression morphing into one of deep rage and pain. “Mother, I’m sorry.”
But when her eyes looked at him, he knew what she saw. A murderer. Kinslayer.
The Lord will never forgive you for this, a voice whispered in his ear, but all Edward could think of was, would he ever forgive himself?
