A death in the Tower of London

I forgot to mention that yesterday, February 17th, was the anniversary of the second Battle of St Albans, fought in 1461, in which the Earl of Warwick was defeated, frightening the Duchess of York enough to send her two small sons, George and Richard, to safety in Burgundy. What saved the fortunes of York was the military brilliance of her eldest son, Edward, not yet nineteen, for his victory at Mortimer’s Cross gave the Londoners the courage to deny entry to Marguerite d’Anjou and her approaching Lancastrian army. On February 26th, Edward was welcomed into the city, riding a wave that would soon take him as far as the English throne.
Seventeen years later, Edward’s unstable brother George, Duke of Clarence, was put to death in the Tower of London, on February 18th, 1478. We do not know how it was done, though the legend that he drowned in a vat of malmsey became a popular one. Since I’ve been re-reading Sunne for the first time in years, working on the galley proofs, here is a scene from Sunne, in which the Bishop of Bath, Robert Stillington, has been sent to the Tower to see the doomed duke.
Page 623-624
* * *
(George) struggled upright with some difficulty, but his smile was dazzling. “How did you get by Ned’s lackeys? You cannot imagine how I’ve yearned for someone to talk with—“
“Your Grace,” Stillington interrupted hastily, unable to bear being greeted as a friend. “You…you don’t understand.” He swallowed, looked about for someplace to sit, and at last lowered himself onto the edge of the bed next to George.
“I’m here at the king’s behest,” he said quietly. “He did send me to you, my lord…so that you might hear Mass and make confession, so you’d not go unshriven to God.” As he spoke, he was studiously staring down into his lap, so he’d not have to watch when the meaning of his words registered with George. Once, as a young priest, he’d given absolution to a condemned man, and the memory had haunted him for years. But this was infinitely worse.
When he could avoid looking up no longer, he chanced a sideways glance at the other man. Months of enforced sobriety had stripped away the excess flesh of George’s drink-sodden summer. The hair slanting across his forehead was the shade of spun gold; the eyes meeting Stillington’s own were a brilliant blue-green and had in them the stunned uncomprehending look of a child. Stillington, who nurtured no illusions whatsoever about George, was, nonetheless, moved almost to tears, and he, who was neither handsome nor young, could only wonder why it was that tragedy seemed somehow worse when it struck at those favored with both youth and beauty. So sharp was his pity that it unsettled him, struck a vein of superstitious unease. So, he reminded himself, must Lucifer have looked before the Fall.
* * *
Also on February 18th, this time in 1516, Henry VIII and Katherine of Aragon were blessed with a daughter, christened Mary. Since Henry had not yet become obsessed with siring a son, it is likely this was a very happy day for them both. I sometimes wonder if we are blessed or cursed in not knowing what the future holds for us.