Queen of Trial and Sorrow (36 page)

I was reminded how Margaret of Anjou used to take her son with her wherever she went when she was at war with the Duke of York, for she felt instinctively that he was safe only with her.  I felt the same way, against all logic, but I was too tired to argue with him.  Taking his dear face between my hands, I kissed him on the brow.  “Very well.  Promise me you will not tarry in London, nor go near any of your estates, for they will be watched.  Try to reach your Uncle Edward in Brittany but be very careful for Gloucester will be having the ports watched too.”

“Of what use will I be in Brittany?” he protested.

“There is nothing you can do here!  Don’t you see that?  You are a Wydeville.  If Gloucester intends to seize the crown, we must count on Lord Hastings to prevent him, but you must remain free, so that in the event of Hastings’ failure you will be in a safe place from which to fight to win it back – so please our Lord.  Don’t quarrel with me, Thomas.  If you wish to go, do as you’re bid, and for the love of God, don’t give me cause to worry about another of my sons.”

He acquiesced at that and I went into the bedchamber to remove the pouch of my jewels from under the mattress where Anne was sleeping, from which I took a few for barter and some rose nobles.  When I returned to the hall Dorset was shuffling about in a dim corner, and I said to Lionel: “Don’t leave me too.” 

“I won’t,” he said.

Obviously plans had already been made.  My son was dressed in a cassock, suitably stained and vile-smelling.  I noticed he had a larger belly than just a few moments before, and when I handed him the jewels he lifted the hem of his robe and stuffed them into some hidden crevice.  He sat at the table while Lionel shaved a tonsure on his crown.  The disguise complete, there was nothing more to do than kiss his face one last time, give him my blessing, and let him go.

I had never been so fearful.  Not even on that first occasion in sanctuary when Edward had fled to Burgundy and Warwick was in power and the unforgiving Margaret of Anjou was likely to arrive any day, and God alone knew what her vengeance would be on the woman who had sat in her place for so many years – no, not even then, for I had known that Edward would return and when he did he would triumph over his enemies.  But now I was desperately afraid, for Edward was sleeping in his tomb and I could not see from what quarter rescue would come.

……….

It was around the middle of the month that I learned from the monks that the sanctuary was once again surrounded by troops and boats on the river.  Our visitors had stopped coming.  No more messages from Hastings either.  Something had happened.  Feigning illness, I sent for Doctor Serigo, but he returned the alarming message that he could not come to me at this time.  Finally, I asked the abbot himself, who looked at me in surprise.  “Did you not know, Madam?  Lord Hastings was executed at the Tower Friday last.”

I gave a great cry.  I fumbled behind me for a chair and Anne had to run to assist me.  My sister glared at the abbot for upsetting me.  Although he was punctilious in his courtesy, I nevertheless sensed his disapproval of me personally and his resentment at the financial burden and disruption imposed on his abbey by our presence.  However, I am charitable enough to believe he had no idea how severe a blow he was inflicting when he told me this awful news.

“Of what was he guilty,” Anne asked him.

“Conspiring to bring about the protector’s death.”

Of course.  What else would it be?

The abbot had only the barest details, but much later, I learned the full story from one who was there.  It came about like this.  William Catesby was a lawyer from Ashby St. Leger in Northamptonshire, who had had the good fortune to make himself useful to Lord Hastings in a few land deals, became a permanent member of his household and enjoyed his confidence.  Hastings commended him to Gloucester, who took such a liking to the fellow that he was soon including him in his most secret councils.  Hastings believed he had an agent in Gloucester’s household who would report everything to him, but in fact Catesby had transferred his loyalty and was reporting to Gloucester everything he learned during Hastings’ meetings with Rotherham, Stanley, et al.  So while Hastings knew nothing of Gloucester’s plans, Gloucester knew Hastings was a danger to him, and ruthlessly set about eliminating him.

There was a meeting of the council at the Tower on June thirteenth to discuss the coronation, and Hastings, Rotherham and Stanley were invited to attend, along with Buckingham, Lovel, Ratcliffe and Gloucester himself.  Hastings might have been suspicious, but Gloucester sent Howard’s son Thomas to his house to make sure he turned up for the meeting. 

While he was shaved and dressed, Hastings chatted amiably with Howard.  He probably kissed Mistress Shore goodbye, told her he would see her at dinner, or supper.  He left his house early so that he could break his fast with the king, which had become his habit.  The council meeting was to begin at nine o’clock.  When the protector entered any misgivings Hastings entertained must have been laid to rest, for he was in a rare smilingly benign mood.  He didn’t stay long, however, excusing himself on the grounds that he had other business to attend to, and would return shortly.  In the meantime, the councilors should proceed without him.

What did he do in the hour or so he was gone?  Made sure his own men were in place?  Put the finishing touches to a draft of the proclamation that would be issued after the deed was done to appease the Londoners? 

The coronation was only nine days away and due to the hard work and diligence of the council members, all the arrangements had been made; only last-minute problems cropped up occasionally. Lord Stanley who, as Steward of the Household, was deeply involved in the details of the coronation, was discussing the various privileges granted to the high clergy during the ceremonies when Gloucester strode in, ignoring the murmur of greetings.  One look at his face told the councilors that his mood had change for the worse.  He went to his chair but didn’t sit.  He put the heels of his hands on the table and gripped the edge, leaning slightly forward, his shoulders hunched, gnawing on his lip.  Every movement, every look and gesture, spoke of a monumental fury, barely contained.  A small muscle spasmed in his left cheek and the gray eyes glittered icily as they moved round the circle of councilors, staring fixedly at certain faces.  And finally they came to rest on Hastings.  ‘What would you say men deserve,’ he had said in a dangerously low voice, ‘who have conspired against the lawful government and encompassed my ruin so that they may rule king and kingdom at their pleasure?’

Hastings, who must have been sweating by then, replied cautiously: ‘If they are guilty of such plots they deserve punishment.’

Buckingham said harshly: ‘They deserve death!’

His voice rising, Gloucester asked: ‘What if I were to tell you that the plotters are in this very room?’

There could be no answer to that.  Screaming with fury, Gloucester accused Hastings, Rotherham, Morton and Stanley of plotting against his authority and his life.  They were traitors! 

Grim faced, Stanley glanced furtively around as if seeking an avenue of escape.  Rotherham was squeaking with terror like a cornered mouse.  As for Morton, even then that keen brain was engaged in the exercise of rescuing him from the situation.

Hastings looked straight into that terrifying, twitching countenance.  ‘I, a traitor?’ he said calmly.  ‘Everyone here knows I am loyal to the king.  It is not I who am a traitor, my lord.’

‘Oh, cease!  Cease!  Don’t provoke him!’ Rotherham whined, shivering with terror.

Gloucester pointed a shaking finger at Hastings.  ‘I loved you like a brother, but you have betrayed me!  You are the vilest traitor of all.  You have been consorting with the harlot Shore who ruined my brother’s health with her vile and wanton ways and now spends her nights in your bed!  You have used her to carry messages to that odious witch in sanctuary!  They are both witches.  They have put a curse on me.  They have cursed me with bodily weakness!  My food tastes like ashes!  My drink tastes like piss!  My sleep is rent by devilish nightmares!’

The shadows under his eyes spoke of tension and anxiety and exhaustion.  He had not been sleeping well the last few days, but that had naught to do with Mistress Shore or me.  A troubled conscience is a diligent guard against easy sleep.

His face contorted.  ‘Treason!’ he screamed suddenly, and brought his fist crashing down on the table. 

The door burst open and, led by Sir Thomas Howard, armed men rushed in as if they had only been awaiting the signal.  Stanley lurched to his feet, making a grab for his dagger, and his chair went crashing over.  Buckingham backed up against a window, ostentatiously brushing his sleeves as if to eliminate the contamination of traitors. Lord Lovel too scrambled out of the way as Stanley landed a punch on one of the guards.  With scant respect for their cloth, the two churchmen were hauled from their seats, Rotherham bleating protestations of innocence.  Gloucester was still screaming at Hastings who, seeing the futility of resistance, remained motionless until his arms were seized and he was manhandled to his feet. As Stanley was clubbed to the floor and the two churchmen were pushed toward the door, Hastings shouted over the racket: ‘I am no traitor and I defy anyone to find any proof of my guilt!  I am for the king!  May he reign in peace and prosperity.  If you steal his crown you will rue it to the end of your days.  To the end of your days, Dickon!  That’s why your food tastes foul and you can’t sleep!  It’s your conscience has cursed you!’

‘Get him out!’ Gloucester screamed in white-hot fury.  ‘Get him out of my sight!  Take off his head!  Immediately!  I won’t sit down to dine until that treasonous dog’s head has left his body!’

Lord Howard, Hastings’ friend of many years, lifted his head from his hands. ‘Jesus, no!’ he gasped, his face ashen.  ‘A trial… There must be a trial!’

‘His guilt is manifest!  He stands condemned by his own words!  Take him away!’

And so it happened.  Hastings was hustled away to the Chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula, where he was allowed a short time with a priest to prepare his soul for its journey to the next world.  It was all done with indecent haste.  There was no time for communion or the final rites, no time for anything but a hasty confession and absolution, before he was dragged out to Tower Green.  There was no dignity to it.  For want of a proper block and axe, he laid his bared neck on a log that was intended for use in some construction work, and an inexpert hand struck off his head with repeated blows from a sword.  It was all accomplished before eleven o’clock, when Gloucester sat down to dine.

Certain windows of the royal palace face onto the Green, and I wondered if my son had witnessed Hastings’ execution.  If so, he must have known, as I did, that his only hope was gone.  And perhaps he shared with me also, the certainty that if such a powerful and influential man as Hastings could be murdered in the city where he was so popular, without trial or examination, on the word of Gloucester alone, then those poor men captive in his castles in the remote north didn’t have a chance.

About two hours after his death, a cart drove slowly through the Bulwark, turned onto Tower Street and headed west.  In its bed lay a long sheet-wrapped shape, stained with blood at one end.  A number of weeping men followed behind, one of who was leading a riderless horse.  By the time the cart reached the Standard in Chepe a huge concourse of people was following it.  Many were saddened by the death of the great nobleman, and many were alarmed.  The more politically aware recognized Hastings’ death as confirmation of the suspicion that had been growing since the coup at Stony Stratford that Gloucester intended to seize the throne.  Weapons appeared and were waved in the air by men shouting threats and curses. As word spread more people came running from the side streets to join the procession, until it turned in at Hastings’ house on Fleet Street and the gates closed behind it.

The crowd lingered, its grief and shock turning to anger at the man whose murder of the popular Hastings was seen as a brutal sign of just how ruthless he could be.  All across London, people gathered in public places and in taverns around fiery rabble-rousers shouting against Gloucester; apprentices stalked the streets in gangs, armed with cudgels, looking for any opportunity to add to the tension.  The evensong services were characterized by men huddling at the back of the churches, whispering amongst themselves.  Hostilities erupted where two gangs holding different opinions met.  Criminals used the atmosphere of unease and anger to commit arson and robbery.  Men of the city watch were shoved and jostled when they tried to intervene.  At Crosby Place, the gates were closed and guarded and guards patrolled inside and outside the walls. 

A herald read out a proclamation in the names of the king and the Duke of Gloucester, claiming that Hastings and his fellow conspirators had planned to kill the protector and the Duke of Buckingham at the council meeting and the plot had been discovered just in time.  It was written in Gloucester’s usual florid and highly exaggerated style and didn’t fail to include an attack on the dead man’s morals.  But the people were not to be fooled.  They knew the great good friend of their late beloved lord had been murdered for his fidelity and because he stood in the way of Gloucester’s insane plan to steal the crown.

The mayor, Sir Edmund Shaa, who was a supporter of Gloucester, went into the streets himself to try to appease the citizens and persuade them to go home peacefully.  Later in the evening he was horrified to see men wearing the Stafford Knot riding into a crowd of citizens and laying about with the flats of their swords.