Sacrifice (11 page)

   “Well?” Pembroke asked impatiently after several minutes had passed, “what does it say? Out with it, lad.”

   Henry slowly placed the letter on the table and laid his hands flat on the board.

   “It seems the Duke of Buckingham is a more subtle man that I gave him credit for,” he said, “at least he has the wit to send us a letter under a plain seal.”

   Edward and Pembroke exchanged glances. “It’s from Buckingham?” said Pembroke, “what does he have to say?”

   Henry ignored the question and snapped his fingers at the clerk. “Hand me the letter of the fourteenth,” he ordered.

   His correspondence was sorted and filed according to a system of his own devising. The clerk, a pinch-faced fellow with a quietly efficient manner, sorted through one of the piles until he found what his master wanted.

   The letter of the fourteenth was from one of his mother’s agents in London. Henry quickly read through it to remind himself of the contents.

   “Rebellion in Kent, Surrey and Sussex,” he murmured, “and rumours of further unrest in the south-west, where the Marquess of Dorset has raised his banner at Exeter.”

   “The list of names of known rebels is at the bottom,” he added, squinting at the poor handwriting, “Sir George Brown of Betchworth, Sir John Fogge of Ashford, Nicholas Gaynesford, Sir Thomas Bourchier, Sir William Haute…these men were all committed Yorkists, and served the old king loyally. Brown carried the banner of Saint George at his funeral. Fogge was treasurer of the royal household, and a royal councillor.”

   Pembroke shifted impatiently. “Yes, yes. I’ve read through that letter a dozen times. What does the one from Buckingham say? Have the rebels met the usurper in battle yet?”

   “No. They are too scattered, and lack for a leader. Or they did. Buckingham has retreated to his estates in Wales and put himself at their head.”

   Edward gasped, and Pembroke clapped his hands together. “You mean the whoreson has betrayed Richard?” he cried, “God be thanked! First the princes vanish, and now this. The Yorkists are eating each other.”

   “So it seems.”

   There was no triumph in Henry’s voice. He handed the letter back to his clerk and stared down at the message from Buckingham.

   “Buckingham deals in no half-measures,” he said, “not only has he broken with his former ally, but wishes to make me his friend.”

   He glanced up at his companions. “More than that, he offers to make me king.”

Chapter 11

Norfolk, October 1483

It was many years since Maud had backed a horse, though at least her mother had possessed the good sense to teach her to ride both side-saddle and astride. The autumn roads were poor, thanks to incessant rain, but the white mare supplied by Margaret de Vere was a placid beast, with a broad back even Maud had difficulty falling off.

Even so, she rode with the grace and dignity of a sack of coal, and longed to reach journey’s end before the pain of the sores on her backside and inner thighs became unbearable.

   “You will travel as a man,” Margaret had said before Maud’s departure from London, “you have a slender, boyish figure, and are sufficiently flat-chested. There is no need to show your face. Keep your hood up as much as possible. Cloudsley will give your hair a trim.”

   Cloudsley’s notion of a trim was severe. He hacked away at Maud’s reddish-brown locks with a pair of shears, and cropped the remainder with a heated dagger until Maud was virtually bald.

   “There,” he said, stepping back to admire his work, “you look right soldierly now. No more danger of lice, eh?”

   Maud was less happy with the result, but realised the necessity of cutting her treasured locks. Just for luck, she took a hank of the fallen hair from the floor and stuffed it into her purse.

   She would need plenty of luck. Margaret was sending her into East Anglia, once the stronghold of the Lancastrian Earl of Oxford, now enemy territory. King Richard’s chief ally, John Howard, had been made Duke of Norfolk, and acquired all the lands and estates forfeited by Oxford.

   “Howard does all he can to win the friendship of my husband’s old retainers,” Margaret had said, “I know those men. Their coats are not so easily turned. It only requires a match to light the flame of rebellion.”

   I am the match
, thought Maud. In her saddlebags were a number of letters, written in Margaret’s own hand and addressed to various Norfolk knights and landowners. Any one of them, if discovered and read by a servant of King Richard, was enough to condemn her to death.

   Margaret assured her that East Anglia, and especially Norfolk, was a powder-keg ready to explode in Richard’s face. Other parts of the country, such as Kent and the south-west, already fumed with discontent. The King’s repeated failure to show his nephews in public had planted evil suspicions in the minds of many, even those who had served York loyally in the past.

   “The fool has done away with them,” said Margaret, “otherwise, why does he not fetch them out of the Tower for all to see? Poor boys. War is one thing, the murder of innocents quite another. The people will not stand for it.”

   Maud found the undisguised joy in the other woman’s voice repellent, but there was little doubt Richard had blundered. Whatever mysterious fate had befallen his nephews, behind the flinty walls of the Tower, his failure to produce the boys was opening fresh wounds in England’s half-healed flesh.

   In the midst of all this turmoil, the Duke of Buckingham quit the capital and hared off to his estates in the Welsh Marches. It seemed inconceivable that he had deserted Richard, the man to whom he owed everything. If so the usurper’s list of allies was growing thin indeed.

   John Howard was one of the few Richard could rely on with absolute certainty. It was for that reason Margaret sent Maud into the heart of Norfolk, to try and stir up her husband’s old retainers against their new lord.

   Maud had never visited this part of England before. Margaret had supplied her with enough money for the journey, a map, and a long dagger to replace the one she left behind at The Cardinal’s Hat.

   It was mid-morning, over an hour after she departed from Great Yarmouth, before the tall tower of Caister Castle became visible, rising from the trees to the north. Maud rode a little closer until the rest of the castle was visible, and halted to run her eye over it.

   Other than the impressive tower, which stood over a hundred feet high, Caister was a small place, crenellated and surrounded by a deep moat. The curtain wall still bore the scars of cannon fire, from a siege some fourteen years previously.

   Margaret had told Maud the history of the castle, and of its owners. Like her own family, the Pastons were minor rural gentry, though they had risen a little in the world thanks to their acquisition of the castle.

   Staunch Lancastrians, the Pastons suffered at the hands of ambitious neighbours. A previous Duke of Norfolk snatched the castle from them by force – hence the gunfire damage – and the family only managed to retake their property after his death. The current lord, Sir John Paston, strived to live peacefully and offend no-one.

  
Until now.

  
Maud pricked her horse’s flanks with her spurs, and bit her lip at the pain of saddle-sores as the beast lurched into a canter. Silently cursing all horses, she steered towards the castle gate.

   The gate stood open, and a sentry in a plain brown coat was slouched against the wall. He had a sturdy, red-faced, bucolic look about him, and watched Maud approach without much interest.

   “I wish to speak with Sir John,” she said, wincing as her horse jogged to a halt.

   The sentry sniffed and adjusted his grip on his spear. “Sir John don’t receive many visitors,” he replied in a thick Norfolk burr, “not these days, leastwise. Not sure he’ll receive you. What do you want with him?”

   Maud tried to keep her voice as low as possible. “Got letters for him,” she replied, “letters from London, and Lady de Vere.”

   That made him straighten up slightly, and he tried to peer under her hood.

   “Have you, now? Get off that old horse, then, and follow me.”

   Maud did as she was told, and led the horse over the wide plank bridge. She thought she sensed eyes watching her from the murder-holes bored into the walls flanking the gate.

   The sentry whistled at a couple of grooms playing at dice outside the stables. Grumbling, they got up and trudged over to take the reins of Maud’s horse.

   “Rub her down,” said Maud, “and give her fresh feed and water.”

   “Yes…master,” replied one of the boys, giving her a gap-toothed grin. Maud flushed under her hood. She had fancied herself a decent actress, but failed to deceive even these ignorant clods.

   The inner ward of the castle was a cramped square, with stables, a smithy and a barracks. The hall was to the right of the main gate, above the kitchens.

   “Stay here,” said the sentry, “while I see if his lordship is free. Try not to steal anything.”

   He lumbered away, leaving Maud to reflect on nothing worth stealing, unless she fancied taking one of the skinny hens scratching about in the dust.

   She looked around at the battlements. There were three men on guard duty, two with crossbows and one with an arquebus. Like their comrade on the gate, they were all stolid, red-faced types, not exactly in a state of martial readiness. One of the crossbowmen was seated on the walkway with his legs dangled over the edge, chewing on a bit of straw. He treated her to a wink and a lopsided grin.

   The peaceful country setting reminded Maud of Heydon Court, her family home in Staffordshire. A wave of sorrow washed over her.

  
No tears. I have no tears.

  
The sentry had made his way up the timber staircase to the hall, and now re-appeared in the doorway.

   “All right, then,” he called out, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, “lordship can spare you a few moments. No longer, mind. He’s a busy man.”

   Maud swallowed and climbed up the steps. Her stomach tingled with fear. She had retrieved Margaret’s letter to Sir John from her saddlebag, and it weighed like lead in her hand. The letter was sealed, but Maud suspected the content was enough incriminate writer and messenger several times over.

   The hall of Caister Castle was painfully reminiscent of the one at Heydon Court: a long chamber with a raftered ceiling and weapons fixed to the walls. A few hounds wandered among the rushes, sniffing for bones and bits of meat. Flies buzzed among the platters of old food on the tables.

   A couple of serving-men sat in one corner, gulping down bowls of broth in busy silence. Otherwise the hall was deserted, save for the master of the house sat at high table, deep in study of a thick, iron-bound ledger.

   Sir John Paston was a harassed-looking man, about forty, with neatly trimmed blonde hair and beard. He looked more clerk than lord, and Maud found it difficult to believe he once stood in the Lancastrian battle-line at Barnet, laying about him with sword and mace.

   “Damned accounts,” he muttered, snapping the ledger shut and laying aside his quill, “I never did have a head for figures. Nor did father. Hence our present difficulties.”

   The sentry had followed Maud into the hall, and taken up position behind her. He gave a discreet cough, and Sir John looked up, startled.

   “Eh?” he said, rubbing his eyes, “oh, yes. Our visitor. Step forward, sir, and push back your hood. I will have no faceless strangers in my hall.”

   Maud took a step nearer the table and reluctantly peeled back her hood. Sir John took a long look at her face, then snorted with laughter.

   “God bless Lady de Vere,” he said, “she never ceases to surprise. A girl, eh? Well, a girl can carry letters as well as a boy.”

   He stuck out his right hand, palm upwards. “Let’s have it.”

   Wordlessly, she handed him the letter and stood back while he read.

   When he was done, Sir John pushed back his chair and took a turn around the room. He looked agitated, and ran his fingers through his hair.

   Eventually he stopped in front of the hooded fireplace at the opposite end of the hall. A small fire burned low in the grate, just enough to take the edge off the morning chill.

   He spun around and pointed at Maud. “Lady de Vere has no right,” he cried, “no right at all, to demand more from my family. She desires me to raise the gentry of the shire, if you please, and lead them in arms against the Duke of Norfolk’s castle at Hedingham. While we lay siege, the rebels in Kent and Sussex and elsewhere will march on London and make short work of his royal master. A fine plan! A clever plan!”

   “It is intolerable – rank, witless folly! How can she ask this of us? What have we not risked in the past? My father died in penury, my mother almost died in defence of this castle, our servants were murdered, my brother and I shed our blood at Barnet…no, curse it all, the Pastons have done quite enough! I have a four-year old son, and mean to see him live to enjoy his inheritance. Let us have a quiet land and a prosperous one. I care not if a Yorkist or a stuffed woolsack sits on the throne.”