Sacrifice (18 page)

   Maud’s heart ceased to beat. After a second it resumed, slowly. Her eyes followed the hawk to a bridge on the eastern side of the river, where a knot of horsemen were gathered.

   They were all clothed in steel, but only two wore arms on their surcoats. One, a tall, ruddily handsome man, displayed a white star against a red field.

   The other was big, far bigger than she remembered, a coarse-faced brute with reddish hair, an untidy beard, and the dead eyes of a practiced killer.

   Killer or no, he was still her kinsman, her last kinsman, and the white hawk was emblazoned on his chest.

   Maud abandoned her horse and ran towards the bridge. She slipped on piles of dung and rubbish, shoved aside any who stood in her way.

   She reached the horsemen, pursued by a storm of curses, and seized Martin’s bridle. He was deep in conversation with the knight of the white star, and looked down, bewildered, at the thin, lank-haired girl who had interrupted them.

   “What in hells do you want?” he demanded, “let go of my bridle. Damn it, is there no end to these street beggars?”

   Maud tried to speak, but the words died inside her. All she could do was bow her head.

   The dam broke, and Elizabeth Bolton found her tears at last. 

Chapter 17

The Tower, England, January 1485

God had given, it seemed to Sir Geoffrey Malvern, and now saw fit to take.

   He had taken away King Richard’s only legitimate son, Edward of Middleham. The boy, just seven years old, died in Yorkshire in the spring, and left his parents prostrate with grief. In Richard’s case, grief was joined by terror, for now he had no direct heir of his body.

  
No sons,
thought Geoffrey
. Not unless you counted Richard’s bastards. One, John of Gloucester, was due to replace Lord Dynham as Lieutenant of Calais. Bastards were of limited value. They could not inherit the crown.

Richard had been forced to make another of his nephews, John de le Pole, Earl of Lincoln, the unofficial heir designate. As a mark of his new favour and importance, de la Pole was showered with revenues and estates.

Geoffrey disliked the young earl. Handsome, vain and supercilious, with an inflated opinion of his own worth, he reminded Geoffrey too much of himself as a youth. 

Where in God’s name were the princes? Even now, months after their disappearance, it was the question on thousands of lips. Geoffrey had a fairly good idea of their whereabouts. He shivered. There were some things even he wouldn’t stoop to, and preferred not to contemplate.

   God had also seen fit to take away his niece, Kate Malvern. The girl had died in the peace of Whiteladies nunnery in Staffordshire, not far from his family seat at Malvern Hall.

   Her loss affected him more than he could possibly have imagined. She had been a sweet, inoffensive little creature, if a trifle stubborn, and the only one of his kin he could stand to be near.

   Like Richard, Geoffrey was also in dire need of sons. He was getting old. Fifty loomed on the horizon. His first wife had died of a fever after giving birth to a stillborn daughter, and his second showed no signs of conceiving.

  
I’m d
amned if I will leave Malvern Hall to one of my sisters, or their wretched spawn. I will burn the place to the ground first.

  
His thoughts wandered, but the king’s harsh voice cut through the fug.

   “Malvern, are you attending? We have need of your advice on Lady Beaufort, if you would be so kind.”

   Geoffrey started. “Yes, sire,” he said hurriedly, coughing to smother his confusion, “my advice, of course.”

   The other councillors regarded him with amusement. Sir Richard Ratcliffe, Viscount Lovell, and Sir William Catesby. Richard’s old servants, summoned to London to fill vacant seats on the royal council. 

   These three had inspired a satirical rhyme, scribbled by one William Collingbourne and pinned to the door of Saint Paul’s Cathedral. Geoffrey secretly thought it rather droll: 

“The Cat, the Rat, and Lovell the Dog, rule all England under the Hog.”

   He did well to keep his admiration secret. For writing this lampoon, and (more especially) sending messages of support to Richmond, Collingbourne suffered the unspeakable agonies of a traitor’s death. Witty to the last, he was reported to have muttered “Oh Lord Jesus, yet more trouble!”, when the executioner tore out his entrails.

   Despite the influx of newcomers, Geoffrey had managed to retain the King’s favour. It was a brittle thing, royal favour, even more so since Richard’s moods had become wildly unpredictable. The slightest mistake could see Geoffrey’s career thrown into the dust, possibly along with his head.

   “Ah, Lady Beaufort,” he said, his mind spurred into action by the impatient drumming of royal fingers, “I wished to raise the subject of her confinement. In my opinion, Majesty, the safest course would be to bring her to the Tower.”

   Why Lady Margaret Beaufort, mother to the pretender Richmond, had been spared the punishment meted out to other rebels and traitors, was a mystery to Geoffrey. Her name was among those attainted at Richard’s parliament the previous February, and like the others she had forfeited her titles and estates. These were transferred to her husband, Lord Stanley, who was ordered to place Margaret under house arrest and keep a close eye on her correspondence.

   Geoffrey found the King’s trust in Stanley baffling. There was bad blood between Richard and the Stanleys, stretching back to King Edward’s reign, and Lord Stanley had recently been imprisoned. Far from intercepting his wife’s treasonous letters to Bishop Morton in Flanders, he was more likely to help her write them.

  
House arrest
, he thought with contempt. In his opinion there were few houses strong enough to contain the flint-faced old harpy for long. The Tower was one of them.

   “No,” Richard said firmly, “we have treated her leniently for good reasons of policy. Lord Stanley is not our friend, and we may have need of him in times to come. Ill-treating his wife will only further alienate him against us.”

   Geoffrey did not press the issue, though he would have much preferred to see Margaret’s head on display at the Tower. It would have plenty of company. The heads of many convicted rebels and traitors, including members of Richard’s own household, had recently been added to the throng.

   How many more will Richard execute or imprison? He can scarcely hope to rule England, alone, atop a mountain of skulls, with just a couple of trusted confederates perched on his shoulder.

  
Richard needed the likes of Lord Stanley, and his brother Sir William. They, along with the Duke of Norfolk and the Earl of Northumberland, were the only major peers left in the realm. The dynastic wars had drastically thinned the ranks of England’s nobility, leaving just a handful of men clinging on to life and power.

   “To other matters,” said Richard, “and the war at sea. We understand the Duke of Brittany begins to regret his foolish actions.”

   “Indeed, sire,” replied Catesby, a thin-faced, darkly handsome man, “his fleets continue to suffer greatly at the hands of our privateers. Prizes are flooding into our ports. The duke fears we shall attempt a landborne invasion of Brittany, and has summoned all his subjects capable of bearing arms to military service.”

   “Excellent. Let the old madman stew. We would rather send troops to Hell than Brittany, but he should learn to fear us.”

   Richard’s anger with Duke Francis was borne of the latter’s decision to allow Richmond’s remaining followers to depart in peace from Vannes. He had even given them money to help them on their way to join Richmond in France.

   Upon hearing of it, Richard flew into a typically volcanic rage and hurled a goblet at Geoffrey’s head. Geoffrey, who had grown used to royal storms during King Edward’s reign, adroitly ducked the missile.

   “As for the pretender himself,” Richard added, “what of him?”

   Catesby ran a nervous tongue across his lips, and glanced at Lovell, handing the burden over to him.

   To Geoffrey’s amazement, Lovell seemed to have no fear of the King. “The latest is that Richmond’s court in Paris continues to attract dissidents,” he boomed in his deep tones, “one of them is Richard Fox. Your Majesty may remember that Fox travelled to Paris some time ago to study at the university.”

   “No surprises there,” grunted Ratcliffe, “Fox has ever hated the King, and preached against him. One minor clergyman more or less makes no difference.”

   Richard would not be comforted. He got up and paced restlessly back and forth, fiddling with the ring on his little finger.

   “Richard Fox,” he said, spitting out the name with venom, “Sir James Blount, Sir Edward Woodville, Edward Poynings, John de Vere, Jasper Tudor. Traitors all. My enemies multiply, while the list of my friends grows short.”

   “Tell me, my lords,” he added, turning to face the council, “have I not ruled well? Have I not tried to temper justice with mercy? Am I a bad king?”

   His councillors hastened to reassure him, Geoffrey’s voice among them. They spoke with conviction. Since Buckingham’s failed rebellion, Richard had been at pains to travel up and down the land, dispensing funds to religious houses and good laws to the people.

   Geoffrey appreciated the King’s shrewdness. Whether Richard acted through a genuine desire to rule well, or a cynical effort to gain popularity, would hardly matter to the average serf. Give money to the priests, and bread to the people, and he was unlikely to hear many complaints.  

   “Your Grace, I had not finished,” said Lovell, “there is more news from France, none of it good. My agents in Paris inform me that the pretender gathers troops. James of Scotland has already sent him a contingent of five hundred men archers and men-at-arms.”

   “The Scots have broken faith?” Richard screamed, “King James is supposed to be our ally! We swore a solemn treaty of peace and friendship. His heir is due to marry our niece!

   Lovell spread his hands. “The alliance between France and Scotland is an enduring one, sire. Sad to say, but King James appears to prefer the friendship of the French to ours.”

   “So he sends five hundred of his rascals to aid the pretender. Very well. We shall not forget this. When the time is right, we shall lead our forces into Scotland and issue such a chastisement as shall have King James begging for quarter.”

   Richard spoke with courage, but the stark reality was undeniable. His foreign policy was failing on all fronts. Brittany had turned against him, and France, and now Scotland. He was encircled by enemies, within and without.

   Worse, his enemies had found a champion to send against him. Geoffrey’s loyalty to Richard had not wavered during Buckingham’s rebellion – he was far too much of a coward to risk joining such a desperate venture – but he had his doubts.

   Richmond’s power was still feeble, and his army consisted of a handful of exiles and a few hundred Scottish mercenaries. Crucially, though, he had the friendship and support of the Marshal of France, Philippe de Crévecoeur, Seigneur d’Esquerdes, known to English sailors by the more manageable name of Lord Cordes.

   Geoffrey gnawed a knuckle. Lord Cordes had recently been appointed commander of the huge French military base at Pont de l’Arche in the valley of the Seine. The base was stuffed full of mercenaries, professional soldiers from all over Christendom. If he persuaded the French council to give a few thousand of them to Richmond…

   His thoughts wandered again. Geoffrey forced himself to concentrate. This was happening far too often recently. He slept badly, and sometimes felt as though a mist crept over his brain, smothering his thoughts.

   Getting old.
It was high time to retire to his country estates and enjoy the fruits of success. Richard would not let him go until Richmond was destroyed, and so Geoffrey found himself in the strange position of longing for a battle.

   So long as he stayed well to the rear, of course.

   “Majesty,” he said, thinking it was time he made a contribution, “if we cannot rely on the goodwill of foreign powers, then we must look to the defence of the realm. I propose that Your Majesty withdraws from London to Nottingham, which has the advantage of being located in the heart of your kingdom. From there you can march to repel an invasion from any part of our coasts.”

   He sat back, pleased with himself and the impressed looks on the faces of his fellow councillors.

   Nottingham had the added advantage of being close to the north, where Richard drew much of his popular support. Geoffrey knew that the north country had a sentimental as well as practical appeal to the King, and deliberately played on it.

   Richard pulled at his lower lip. “Yes,” he said after a while, “well said, Sir Geoffrey. London is far too close to the sea. We shall go to Nottingham, and there await the pretender.”

   He balled his right hand into a fist. “Let him come soon. I shall cleave the Welsh milksop from chops to groin with my good axe. Then, my lords, we shall know peace in England.”

   His councillors broke into spontaneous applause. Geoffrey flapped his hands together with the rest, though with more forced enthusiasm.

  
A storm is coming across the Channel
, he thought fearfully,
and we shall do well to survive it.

Chapter 18

Hammes, January
1485

Martin was choked with rage. It drove him on, fuelled him, inspired him, filled him with a crazed, ghoulish energy that his friends found alarming. Gone was the selfish, embittered mercenary of old, determined to bury his past and live out his days in exile.

   In his place was a man shocked into action. The reunion with his niece, Elizabeth, had skewered Martin more effectively than any pikestaff. The image of her wan face, streaked with dirt and tears as she poured out her dreadful tale, would live with him until his dying day. 

   Shame upon shame, guilt upon guilt. Martin had been ignorant of the fate of his surviving kin after Tewkesbury. Elizabeth told him everything. She was merciless, and every appalling revelation blew holes in his fragile shell of arrogance and pride.

   His sister, mutilated and confined to a nunnery. His last surviving brother, executed for crimes unknown. His niece, raped by Yorkist soldiers when just a child, and afterwards employed as a whore in a Southwark brothel.

   “I might have done something,” Martin said when she had finished, “but I ran away. I abandoned them all.”

   “Yes,” she replied flatly, “you did.”

   Martin’s first thought, after he had finished vomiting, was to kill himself. Suicide, he decided on reflection, was just another escape. His soul deserved to burn, and would in due course, but he had to make amends in this world first.

   Now he crept through the marshes south of Hammes Castle, sword in hand, his eyes fixed on the nearest Yorkist banners to the north-west.

   Martin was one of thirty men, under the command of Sir Thomas Brandon, despatched by Richmond to get the remainder of the garrison to safety. Brandon was another refugee from England, fled to take shelter in the pretender’s court.

   After the defection of their captain, Sir James Blount, the garrison had declared for the pretender. In response, King Richard ordered the loyal Yorkist garrison in Calais to retake the castle.

   Some three hundred men marched out of Calais and laid siege to Hammes. They were too few to surround the place completely, and Brandon had bravely volunteered to try and creep through their lines undetected.

   His men were also volunteers. In a bid to get away from his niece, whose very presence reminded him of his failures, Martin had been among the first to join.

   “If I die outside the walls of Hammes,” he explained to her, “at least it will be in the service of Lancaster. No-one can say I did not fulfil my duty at the last.”

   “I am coming too,” Elizabeth said fiercely, catching at his arm, “I will not be left alone again. Let us fight and die together.”