B008257PJY EBOK (7 page)

“Speak for yourself,” Francis grinned. “I’m as handsome as ever. You’re the one who’s a bit careworn at the edges, Richard.”

Richard attempted a smile. He shut the window. “See you in the morning, old friend.”

~*~

At the Archbishop’s palace in Lincoln, the fresh morning air rang with the clangour of bells and the song of monks at Prime. After chapel, Richard strode into the great hall for breakfast. The smell of the freshly baked bread he loved made his stomach growl. As soon as he sat down, he tore himself a large slice, dipped it into a bowl of black treacle, and washed it down with mead. A steaming platter of pike was set before him; he lifted his dagger, attacked it with relish, then downed his favourite cheese and sweetened his palate with a serving of stewed figs. He had almost finished his breakfast and raised his dagger for one last slice of cheese when two red-faced messengers ran in and knelt at his feet.

“My Lord King,” one panted, “a rebellion has broken out! The Duke of Buckingham has risen in revolt against you!”

Richard smiled. “Who sent you to me in this jest?”

The two men exchanged glances. “We’re sent by Lord Howard, Duke of Norfolk, Sire,” said the first messenger grimly. “’Tis no jest, my lord!”

For Richard, past and present converged and into his mind’s eye flashed the image of Edward, laughing at the news that his loyal cousin John had revolted against him.

“The Duke of Buckingham has issued a public proclamation throughout the land—” the second messenger said, “that he has repented of his former conduct and joins the rebellion to free the princes!”

Richard listened blankly, his dagger limp in his hand, his blood pounding in his head. His mind told him it was no mistake while his heart refused to believe. Most news was made up of rumour, hearsay, innuendo, omens, and hasty judgements given flavour by perception. Buckingham was his friend, his ally, his blood. Never would he betray him.

Or would he?

He pushed away from the table. “Follow me,” he commanded, and led the way to his council chamber.

~*~

During the course of the day, more messengers arrived. From London, Wiltshire, Kent, and Wales they came; two knights, half a dozen squires, a herald, even a lowly serving lad, confirming the first reports. Gradually the tale emerged. The Marquess of Dorset and his uncle Lionel, Bishop of Salisbury, had gathered their supporters and fomented rebellion in Salisbury, Wiltshire, Kent, Surrey, and Exeter. Most were friends and kin of the Woodvilles, like Sir John Fogge, whom Richard had pardoned and taken to his breast early in his reign. Others were old Lancastrians, yet others men who had lost their positions at court to Richard’s appointments, like Sir John Cheyney, replaced by Sir James Tyrell as the King’s Master of the Horse. Morton, the ambitious and wily Bishop of Ely, fell into two of these categories, being both a Lancastrian at heart and one who found himself out of favour with the new King. To this rebellion, the Duke of Buckingham was a latecomer. Sometime in August, he had made his decision to throw in his lot with them.

Richard looked from face to face, struggling to comprehend. “But… he had everything…”

“He had not the Crown, my lord,” said Sir Marmaduke Constable, a Neville kin and John’s old friend whom Howard had dispatched from Westminster to brief Richard. “The Duke of Buckingham considered himself next in line to the throne by virtue of his double descent from Edward the Third. By discrediting you, he felt he could gain the Crown for his own head. This much we learned from a serving lad who was privy to their treasonous plotting and came to us with the information.”

“It makes no sense,” said Richard. “He stands to lose everything by backing Tudor—an adventurer with no true claim, and fewer prospects.”

“My lord, all we know is that Morton told him this and Buckingham went along with him, in spite of the fact that Buckingham himself preferred the Crown.”

Richard made no response. He turned away to the window, seeing in its coloured glass a reflection of the black-robed, dark-eyed bishop and bright golden-haired Buckingham sitting over wine at a table in a dimly-lit room.

His best friend, and his worst enemy.

The old wound from Barnet began to throb in his right shoulder and his head ached. He became aware that Scrope of Bolton was speaking. The words came to him muted, as if they carried through fog. “…that foul traitor… God rot his soul! …after the King made him Lord Constable, Great Chamberlain, Chief Justice of Wales, gave him the crown estates of de Bohun and everything else he asked for!”

“Everything but the Crown.” Francis’ voice. “What baffles me is why he gives his support to Tudor. Surely he won’t be content playing kingmaker?”

“Arrogant Buckingham doesn’t intend to put Tudor on the throne,” replied Scrope. “He’s merely using him to topple Richard. No doubt he figures that when the throne is empty, it’ll be the man with the best claim and biggest army at his back who’ll wear the crown!”

Richard shook himself from his lethargy, tried to concentrate on what was being said.

“Those who have met Tudor say he is a wily devil, much like Louis of France,” Marmaduke Constable said. “He’s a penniless exile, forced to live by his wits. Intrigue is all that’s left to him. Since he’s been reared among the French, no doubt he’s learned their ways.”

“God damn him; he’s timed his revolt well and caught us unprepared!” Francis exclaimed. “We’ve no army with us. The King’s supporters who came on the progress returned to their households long ago.”

A man-at-arms entered, and announced the Constable of the Tower, Sir Robert Brackenbury. Silence fell. Everyone turned to the door. Brackenbury strode in, his helmet under his arm. “Sire,” he said, bending a knee.

Richard stared at the gentle knight. The long wavy white hair framing his face flowed from his crown to his shoulders like that of Merlin in an old illuminated manuscript. Aye, he could use a Merlin now; to turn time back, to set everything right. Mutely he motioned for him to tell what he knew.

“Sire, the Duke of Buckingham came to me at the Tower late on Lammas Day. He said he was there to carry out your bidding regarding the princes, and that, the matter being highly secret, only his men were to go with him to the royal apartments. All others were to be dismissed for the night. I was to ask no questions, he said… I could not deny him, Sire, for he was Constable of England and I, only Constable of the Tower, and you have long evidenced great faith in my lord of Buckingham—”

Richard inclined his head, absolving Brackenbury of blame.

“In any case, I had no cause to suspect wrongdoing since I knew how you felt about your royal nephew, and for certain, so did the Duke.” Brackenbury cleared his throat nervously. “The Duke was there much of the night, and by morning he and his men had departed. I went straightway to the royal apartments, but they were empty… No sign of the Lord Bastard or his serving lad to be found anywhere. However, in the White Tower, under the foot of the stairs that leads from the royal apartments to the chapel, there was an area newly covered with mortar, still wet. We didn’t know what to make of it.” He looked at Richard with a pained expression. “Sire, if ’tis true that my lord of Buckingham did the foul deed, that could be where he hid the babes’ bodies.”

Richard’s lassitude vanished, replaced by explosive anger. His blood boiled in his veins. With an oath he kicked a chair over, hurled the table on its side, pulled down the tapestries around the room, and grabbed the wine flagon from the sideboard. He pounded it against the stone sill and flung the battered silver piece across the room. He swung around, eyes blazing with murderous rage. “Kendall! Make a public proclamation! Buckingham is a traitor and all my subjects are to be ready to take up arms on my behalf! Write Chancellor Russell; tell him we leave for Grantham in the morning and to send the Great Seal there immediately!”

Kendall hastily upended the table with the help of the others. Someone offered him a chair and he fell into it. When Kendall was done, in a rush of feeling, Richard seized the pen from Kendall’s hand and added a postscript:

And here, God be loved, is clear at last the malice of him that had best cause to be true, the Duke of Buckingham, the most untrue creature living, whom we with God’s Grace shall soon bring to justice.

He flung the pen back on the table and rose. “Gather your clerks and send out a summons to arms across the land, all of you!” He sagged against the hearth and leaned his head on the mantle.

Francis went to him, placed a hand on his sleeve. Richard looked at him with wounded eyes. “How could he do it, Francis?”

Francis had no answer. “If we produce little Richard, the rebellion will collapse,” he offered.

“It would make no difference to their purpose. We’d merely be toying with the child’s life. Tudor would dispatch him in order to seize the throne. I can’t take the chance.” In a choked voice, Richard said, “I killed him, Francis.”

“No, Richard. Edward died because he was too ill to be moved. But for his fever, I’d have taken him to Barnard with his brother. He was mortally ill. The infection in his jaw was spreading. In time it would have reached his brain. The boy didn’t expect to live himself. He took confession daily and was preparing himself for death. As for the serving lad, it was not you but Buckingham who took his life. And remember, Richard of York lives—because of you.”

“Not I… Anne alone. She suspected what I was too blind to see.”

“It was Anne’s idea to move the boys to Barnard’s Castle, but you gave the order.”

Richard put out a hand, gripped his shoulder. “‘To be a king, you have to kill a king’… ’Tis my cross, Francis.”

~ * ~

Chapter 7

“I shudder, someone steps across my grave.”

October drew to a close. The weather turned chill and wet. Never had England seen such torrential downpours. For a fortnight it rained without pause, turning roads into muddy quagmires and flooding many. Nevertheless, Richard’s muster was complete. He was ready to leave Leicester for Coventry, heartened to learn that, contrary to what he had feared, the rebellion was not widespread but confined to the south. Standing in the great hall of Leicester Castle by a window overlooking the rain-driven River Soar, Richard dictated a second proclamation to John Kendall.

“As I, King Richard III, swore before God to rule with mercy and justice, therefore I grant to all my subjects my full pardon for any treasons into which they have been led by the traitor and adulterer the Marquess of Dorset and”—he clenched his fist—“that most vile traitor, the former Duke of Buckingham, Henry Stafford.” His glance, moving across the rain-drenched gardens, fixed on the royal bedchamber in the round tower to the east behind the machiolated walls and battlements of the castle. There, a hundred years before, had died his great-grandfather, John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, from whom both he and Buckingham were descended. Though the good duke’s loyalty had been sorely tested by his nephew Richard II John of Gaunt had remained true to his king. Loyalty and honour had counted for something then… How times had changed. Richard dragged his eyes away.

“Further, I offer a reward for the capture of the Duke of Buckingham of one thousand pounds, or lands worth one hundred pounds per year—” Gasps went around the room. Aye, it was a royal sum, and no doubt would do the job quickly, but it was a sum his purse could ill afford and they all knew it. “For the Marquess of Dorset, I offer—”

The clatter of hoofs drew Richard’s attention to a drenched knight dismounting in the courtyard below. A crack of thunder made the man look up and Richard saw that it was the grey-bearded messenger he had sent to Duke Francis of Brittany. The man strode into the building. Moments later he appeared in the hall.

“Urgent tidings, my lord,” said Thomas Hutton, bending a knee. “I have hastened from Brittany to warn you that Henry Tudor intends to invade England with the help of Duke Francis.”

“My thanks to you, Hutton. By good fortune, we were appraised of his intent some time ago and have set guard on the southern coast. As for ourselves, we are ready to march,” Richard looked up at the dark skies, “foul weather though it be.”

“No need!” called Francis, lumbering in, accompanied by a soaked, shivering young man. “Howard sends news.” He grinned broadly.

“Sire,” panted the messenger from London, “His Grace the Duke of Norfolk bids me tell you the rebellion has evaporated!”

Richard stared at the man in stunned disbelief.

“The Duke of Buckingham was unable to raise much support except by threats and force. It seems he is a much hated man. His castle of Brecon was looted as soon as he left, and his flank was harassed by a local chieftain as he marched east. A large and loyal band fought bravely for you—and right cleverly—to cut the Duke from bridges and to block the passes along his way. The foul weather sent by heaven played no small part in bogging him down. In the end the Duke was deserted by his men.”

“Under whose captaincy did this loyal band fight so bravely against Buckingham?”

“Under Humphrey Stafford, his cousin, Sire.”

“Ah.” Richard made a mental note of the name and filed it away. “And the local chieftain?”

“A Welshman by the name of Rhys Ap Thomas, Sire.”

“What about Buckingham?”

“Buckingham has fled; we know not where.”

“And Morton, Dorset, Lionel Woodville? The rest of the plotters?”

“Morton deserted the Duke, my lord. ’Twas then the traitor Buckingham realised all was lost. It is believed the bishop fled to the fen country where he has friends. Men are on his trail.”

“Well done,” said Richard. But he had no smile. There was still Morton, and in the shadowy recesses of his mind lurked the dark knowledge that Morton was a dangerous man.

~*~

They went south, to Salisbury. More messengers caught up with the royal cavalcade along the way. The plotters had scattered. Some, like Dorset and Lionel Woodville, fled England for Brittany while others sought sanctuary with friends. It was in Salisbury that news came of Buckingham. The messenger was beaming. “I am sent by the Sheriff of Shropshire, Sire. The Duke of Buckingham has been apprehended!”