We Speak No Treason Vol 2 (15 page)

‘The Council shall decide,’ said Buckingham comfortably, sliding his arm in that of the Protector.

At Crosby’s Place, Richard’s town house, I was well content, for I was again in his service, like many others who were separately bound to him through old ties of the blood and through plain devotion. His men of York upheld him in the Protectorship: Francis Lovell, Richard Ratcliffe, William Catesby. And his Council! Such a core of loyal supporters: Thomas Rotherham, Archbishop of York, my lord William Stanley and his brother cursed Thomas, ever-faithful Hastings, and oh, the cleverest of them all, Morton, Bishop of Ely. I could laugh weeping, were it not for young Brecher’s face watching me from the fouled straw. I could laugh at the irony of it, and at our singular blindness.

He trusted them. He trusted me. Sweet Jesu, how easily he trusted!

I served him at bed and board, I bore letters, waiting while the young King appended the laborious
Edwardus Quintus
, watching each bill kissed by the red wax and the Great Seal or the Privy Seal or the Signet Seal, and witnessed by the Chancellor, John Russell, at the royal apartments of the Tower, where Edward awaited his coronation. He was not ill-pleased with his sumptuous chambers, Edward. There he reached full realization that he was part of the long pattern of monarchs, sleeping and eating where previous kings had done, and submitting daily to the fussing ministry of Piers Curteys, who while measuring him for the robes of state, vowed his Grace to be overlong in the leg, yet wonderfully slender in the waist. Edward grew less pale and pouting, but there was one thing that he craved: he longed for little York, his brother.

I recall one day at the Tower. It was excessively hot for June. The reflected river lapped brightly on the stone walls, the gay arras. Lady Anne Neville was talking with the little King.

‘Madam, I miss him sorely,’ he said. ‘Sir Robert Brackenbury puts himself out to entertain, but he is not my brother Richard.’

The Constable of the Tower pulled a long face.

‘He is not as young as your brother, Sire,’ he said ruefully. We were laughing together when the Protector entered, Buckingham’s flashing figure at his side. The young King moved swiftly, forestalling his uncle’s obeisance.

‘Have you news?’ he asked hesitantly.

The Protector’s eyes swept over the boy, moved to Lady Anne, grew troubled.

‘Again, I shall disappoint your Grace,’ he said slowly. ‘The Queen your mother remains adamant. She will not leave Sanctuary, nor will she allow my lord of York to do so. All our persuasions have come to naught.’ He touched his wife’s cheek. ‘Madame, you are wan today,’ he said. ‘Like a lily.’

‘Then I must go to them,’ said Edward decisively.

Richard Plantagenet turned, walked to the window in silence. Buckingham’s tongue, however, tripped gaily as one of his Welsh mountain streams. He grasped the boy about the shoulder.

‘It’s better you remain,’ he laughed. ‘Certes, it is safest—safety above all, eh, my lord? We would not have you witched away in the black of night by certain parties... Be patient, good my lord.’

Edward, puzzled, unquiet, glanced from one to the other. ‘What did my mother say?’ he asked timidly.

Buckingham laughed again. ‘The deputation records that she sings the same, alas!’ he said merrily. ‘The Queen-Dowager weeps anon. There’s a vast hole in Sanctuary wall where they brought her treasures—coffers of jewels, bolts of satin, cloth of gold. She sits surrounded by richness, and she weeps.’

The Protector turned with a frowning glance.

‘Be comfortable, good my liege,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow, we will endeavour to bend her to your will. We shall send Sir Robert here, and the Archbishop of York, Chancellor Russell too...’

‘Can you not send Bishop Morton?’ asked Edward eagerly. ‘I remember when I was at London before, my mother said he was the most cunning. prelate in the realm and the best friend in the world to all her kin.’

In the breath-holding silence that very prelate was ushered in, smiling. He looked richly bland, the chalky cheeks folded like a lizard’s. Lady Margaret Beaufort had an eye like a lizard, well I recall... And a Dragon, what is he but a monstrous lizard, spewing slime...

Behind Morton strode Sir Edward Brampton, fresh off his ship, with salt-stained cloak. His fierce sailor’s eyes fastened on the Protector.

‘Sir Edward has news,’ said Morton amiably, returning our bows. ‘Faugh! It is stifling in here, my lords. His Grace should have more fresh air, dare I say so.’

Robert Brackenbury turned to the young King.

‘Will you best me at the butts again, Sire?’ he asked. ‘Despoil my purse an you will. I deem it honour,’ and he went out, a giant, a clown, with the willing boy. Brampton fidgeted with excitement, as the door clashed shut. Men clustered round him.

‘Well?’ asked Buckingham impatiently.

‘Not vell, my lords,’ said Brampton in his twisted English. ‘I go, as you decree, to fetch back Sir Edvard Woodville. I spread the offer of pardon through his fleet as it lie off the Downs and sure! the captains, being Italian, see the sense in obeying England’s governance. First they fill up the guard with vine and bludgeon them to sleep. They are at the quay now, vaiting the King’s pleasure. But Sir Edvard! Alas!’

‘What of him?’

‘Gone,’ said Brampton bluntly. ‘In two fast Genoese carracks—svift, svift, despite his decks being veighted with gold platters and jewels from this very palace!’

‘So!’ said Buckingham, in great dismay. ‘Dorset flown—and now the other traitor gone—where? Do you know this?’

‘My lords, can’t you guess?’ said Brampton with a wry smile.

Richard Plantagenet drew in his breath, slow yet sharp. ‘Britanny,’ he said.

‘To Duke Francis,’ said Brampton. ‘And to Henry Tudor.’

‘Henry—Tydder,’ said Richard softly. ‘With money, and ships.’ He shuddered. ‘How cold it is!’ he said.

Morton himself leaned to close the window, and I felt the sweat flower upon my lip as the sun beat through.

Beneath the ordered preparations for the crowning, there were stirrings... no more than the shift and whisper heard in a field at night. The Woodvilles’ presence was felt, for all that they were fast in the north country. Their long shadow stretched southward and their sullen adherents were everywhere. Despite the outward composure of Crosby’s Place, of the Tower and Baynard’s Castle, where Richard’s mother lay, under the surface of town there heaved and fermented a boil of faction. There were sundry murmurs, rising and gone next moment like an echo; many flying tales, down Chepe and Bread Street, in Petty Wales and Poultry. Again the cry from those who well remembered witless Harry Six in infancy: ‘Woe, woe to the realm that’s ruled by a child!’ London moved gently, a many-mouthed monster. The agents of the Privy Council went quietly abroad, and I was one of them. Yet it was my wife, in all her innocence, who should have earned my dole.

Margetta was amorous for a gown in blue cloth of silver trimmed with marten’s fur. She vowed she would not be eclipsed at the coronation by Sir John Howard’s wife; I chided her, for the Howards were good friends to Richard. She, at this, pouted and frowned, smote her stomacher, gold butterfly passement and all, and tried another tack, saying that if she were not given a new dress, our babe would break forth in Westminster itself, so close confined was he. With that, she kissed me. Ah, Margetta, Margetta! Never come to Leicester!

I was in her bower, big and awkward among the trinkets and tiring-women. Neat as doves, they came ’twixt her and me, and finally I sent them off and took the comb myself to the rippled black silk that cloaked her. I bade her close her eyes and dream I was her abigail.

‘So talk, Margetta,’ I said gaily. ‘Gossip to me as I were Jane, or Tib.’

‘What news of Mistress Shore, sweet Tib?’ she said obligingly. ‘Are men still lusty for the wanton wench?’ I went on combing, soft easy strokes. Her shoulders beneath the black silk were wonderful whiteness. I grew hot for her.

‘Will she return to poor Will, think you, Tib?’ asked my lady. ‘Poor luckless Will Shore, to lose a beauty, a prize. And to see her spurned—but that should make him laugh. Verily, it was judgment that Dorset left her as he did!’ Her eyes opened on sharp anger. ‘The bawd! No sooner our King laid low than she flies to Dorset’s bed. Shameless, shameless!’

‘He did not keep her long,’ I said, wondering where in France Dorset was.

‘Long enough,’ said Margetta, viciously. The game was over. ‘She spoke of taking poison when he quit the realm. The wanton whore.’

‘She comforted the King,’ I said.

‘She is a fool,’ Margetta cried, glaring at her mirror. ‘She will do aught for Dorset. Even her life, I vow, hangs easy on his tongue.’ And I perceived how much my wife hated Mistress Shore, with the guilty wrath of one who has lain in meadow-grass with a young man hot as a rooster... I turned her to face me.

‘Remember the marguerites,’ I said, busy at her lacings.

Crying, she fought me off. ‘The child, my lord!’

I set my lips to the rounded white belly. ‘I shall not harm our son,’ I said. ‘Yet should I? Is there danger in it? Yea, perchance he will think ill of the intrusion... Now, Mistress Shore, she’s not with child, is she?’

I ducked her swingeing blow and laid her on the bed. In Flanders, Spain and Italy, they say the English do not know of love. And the French too, are skilled liars...

I returned from somewhere dim and far. Margetta was babbling of the day’s bread, that it would be overdone. She must go to the kitchen.

‘Yea, your bread is nicely risen, lady,’ I said. ‘Lord’s bread, by my faith. Lie quiet.’

She struggled and sighed and was still in my arms. Yet fair Jane danced again in her mind, for she said:

‘This day my maid told me how she met with Mistress Shore. Disguised as a nun. Ha! A fine nun! She had speech with a man in Bucklersbury. Meg knew her, and would have followed had she not been late with the spices.’

I pressed her rosy pap. ‘Where did Jane go?’ I asked idly.

‘I know not,’ she shrugged. Then the hour struck somewhere and she cried: ‘What sin, what madness this! Let me up, my lord.’

‘Up, wanton,’ I said, with a last kiss.

She turned a loving look on me. ‘She is not fairer than I?’ she asked, and I shook my head, smiling at the body like a fat white candle-flame.

‘‘I know not where she went,’ said Margetta, coiling her hair. ‘But I know she came from Westminster Sanctuary. She had been to see the Queen Dowager. So tell that to Richard Plantagenet, and he’ll give you an earldom.’

I lay, thought-lapped. ‘You have busied yourself,’ I said. ‘Is there more?’

She knelt, a mischief, and fuzzed my ear with whispers. I became stiff with unbelief, heavy with the evil from my wife’s sweet tongue. I shall not rise, I thought. Soon they will come to lay me in the chantry, my toes and helm pointing heavenward, my little bitch Bronia curled beneath my feet. For this new knowledge verily makes me of stone.

‘Woman, woman, what say you?’

‘And not only does she lie with
Hastings
of a night,’ said Margetta, clothed, the respectable matron once more, ‘but she succours the Queen by day. Meg’s brother is a servant at Westminster.’

‘Holy Jesu,’ I said, rising.

‘What then, dear heart?’ asked Margetta.

‘This is evil news, my lady,’ I said, and because she had done such a great service through her clappermouthed alewife, I took her again into my arms and she closed her eyes, while I stared at the bronze mirror and thought: how jealous Buckingham will rejoice! (Can Richard withstand this foulness? We must be sure. We must be sure, for this will break him up.)

There were others who had laboured to the same intent, and we were all of us only too sure when, a week later, we waited with our news at Richard’s mansion.

We had marked our man: Hastings, the loved and trusted. The double-dissembler. My keen eyes had seen the flush of guilt. All his avowals—his hearty concurrence with the royal design—all feigned, treacherous and counterfeit. Even his calling me to halt on my departure for Ludlow—a masked displeasure as a token of his loyalty to the Crown. What moved him thus? I asked myself as we stood in the antechamber of Crosby’s Place. And the answer: ever the same. Power. I heard Buckingham’s voice, raised commandingly; fainter, the Protector’s mild reply. Power. Power and jealousy. My fingers cracked round the letters in my hand. Letters to send four men to the block, Shore to the stake, and Elizabeth Woodville—I knew not how Richard would deal with her, but doubtless she would weep, whatever befell, tears being her weapon.

Two knights of Buckingham stood beside me. Their tongues were hot. They smiled. And I was not happy with the burden Ratcliffe and I bore; the sole joy I got from this sorry business was that Richard Plantagenet would live.

How they had planned it I could only conjecture, but it was writ plain, the date his life should end, by poison or the knife along some darkly shadowed way, surrounded—his escort out-numbered, fighting desperately in black hopelessness... there were gold-hungry assassins in every Southwark tavern, and traitors eager to shame their knighthood for a few acres of livelode. Then, Rivers freed, the young king once more his. A gem of price... like holding England in the palm... They would need to kill Buckingham too. Buckingham, the glorious. A bright sacrifice on Envy’s altar.