The Murders of Richard III - Elizabeth Peters [3]
For answer, Jacqueline arranged her features in a hideous scowl. Out of the corner of her mouth, in the accents of a movie gangster, she said, “ ‘I am determined to prove a villain, And hate the idle pleasure of these days!’ ”
“Oh, forget about Shakespeare,” Thomas said. “He based his Richard the Third on the Tudor historians, and they maligned Richard to please Henry the Seventh. Shakespeare’s version is great theater, but it isn’t history. Let’s try another question. How much do you know about the Wars of the Roses?”
“I know a little bit, but not enough, about everything,” said Jacqueline. “I’m a librarian, remember? Oh…”
The last word was a low moan. Tenderly she freed her swelling fingers from entwined thread, wadded the whole mass up, and thrust it back into her purse. The second failure had soured her temper. She went on disagreeably, “I never did understand the Wars of the Roses. I don’t think anybody understands the Wars of the Roses. I don’t want to understand them…it…the Wars of the Roses. The houses of Lancaster and York—the red rose and the white—were fighting for the throne. That’s what the Wars of the Roses were about. That’s all I know and all I need to know.”
“Okay, okay,” Thomas said soothingly. “The last of the Lancastrian kings was Henry the Sixth—not to be confused with Henry the Seventh, the first of the Tudors. Henry the Sixth was a nice ineffectual old idiot—part saint, part mental defective. His successful Yorkist rival was Edward the Fourth, the big handsome blond, whose contemporaries considered him sexy, even if you don’t. Edward got rid of Henry the Sixth, and Henry’s son, and a few miscellaneous malcontents, and settled down to enjoy himself. His biggest mistake was to marry a widow lady, Elizabeth Woodville by name. Everyone was shocked at this marriage with a commoner; they resented Edward’s failure to strengthen England with an alliance with a foreign princess. Elizabeth had a couple of sons by her first marriage and a crowd of brothers and sisters. They were a predatory crew, and Elizabeth helped them advance. The noblest families in England were forced to marry the queen’s sisters; the marriage of her twenty-year-old with the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk, aged eighty, scandalized the country. Edward begat a clutch of children on his beautiful wife—two sons and a number of daughters. The eldest daughter was also named Elizabeth.”
“These people all have the same names,” Jacqueline grumbled. “Edward, Elizabeth, Henry. Can’t you call them Ethelbert or Francisco or something?”
“I could,” said Thomas coldly. “But those weren’t their names. Stop griping and concentrate.”
Jacqueline reached for a cucumber sandwich. They were having the genuine English tea she had demanded, in the lounge of one of London’s dignified old hotels. The chink of silverware and the subdued rattle of china were no louder than the genteel murmuring voices of the other patrons.
“Edward the Fourth,” Thomas went on. “The Yorkist king—Richard’s brother. Got that? Okay. Edward died at the early age of forty, worn out by riotous living. He left two sons. The eldest, on his father’s death, became Edward the Fifth…” He ignored Jacqueline’s grimace and went on relentlessly. “Yes, another Edward. He was only a kid—twelve years old, too young to rule alone. A protectorate was necessary; and the obvious candidate for the role of Protector was the kid’s only paternal uncle, Edward the Fourth’s younger brother—a brilliant soldier, a first-rate administrator, devoted to his wife and little son, loyal, honest, popular—Richard, Duke of Gloucester.”
“Three cheers and a roll of drums,” said Jacqueline. “Gee whiz, Thomas, to think that all these years I’ve had the wrong idea about Richard the Third. He was a swell guy. I’m surprised they haven’t canonized him. Beloved husband, fond father, admirable brother…. Loving uncle?”
“You have a tongue like a viper.”
“Thanks. Look here, Thomas, what is the one thing people do know about Richard the Third—if