Sacrifice (2 page)

   All changed on a warm April morning, when the door swung open and Blount entered to bring him the joyous, impossible news.

   Blount was a grave, solid man in middle age, soured by years of guarding important prisoners, and not at home with levity. His craggy face glowered with disapproval as Oxford capered awkwardly around the room and laughed until the tears flowed down his bearded cheeks.

   “Dead!” the earl shouted, punching the air, “dead from a chill, after a fishing trip! A fishing trip!”

   He clasped his hands and gazed out of the room’s single arrow-slit window, at the dank marshland beyond the castle.

   “I am dreaming,” he said wistfully, “this must be a dream. Edward cannot be dead. Such a big, vigorous swine. He was barely forty!”

   Blount sniffed, and noisily cleared his throat. He was a martyr to colds, thanks to the freezing sea-air and mists that swept in from the Channel, and went about with a permanently red nose.

   “For shame, John,” he said gruffly, “you are speaking of the late King of England, God rest him.”

   Oxford turned to face him. “Not my king,” he spat, “my king died in the Tower, ten years gone.”

Blount sniffed again, and gestured at his escort to leave. They, a couple of sergeants in royal livery, shot dark looks at Oxford as they trooped out and closed the door behind them.

   “I advise you to conceal your joy,” said Blount when they had gone, “His Majesty King Edward the Fourth was much-loved, and his death has come as a great shock. They say he grew corpulent in his latter days, and cared little for his health.”

   “You mean the fat pig debauched himself,” retorted Oxford, “and stuffed and swilled and whored until his body broke down. Oh, joyous day! And his son is but twelve years old.”

   Blount frowned again. Oxford ignored him and sat down on a window seat, his mind aflame with possibilities.

   King Edward could have reasonably expected to live at least another ten years. Time enough for his heir, another Edward, to grow to manhood and be ripe for kingship when his father died. There were none left to challenge the Yorkists, save a few dissidents in Brittany, and Edward V could have looked forward to a long and peaceful reign.

   This vision of Hell – for so it was to Oxford – had been overturned by Edward’s premature death. From a chill, of all things! The giant warrior Edward of March, victor of five bloody battles, had succumbed to a measly cold.

   Oxford stared at his palms. They were callused from constant exercise with weapons in the tilt-yard. He had kept up his strength and skill at arms over the long years of imprisonment, in the faint hope of renewing the fight against the hated House of York.

   “What will happen now?” he asked. “When will Edward’s brat be crowned?”

   Blount coughed, and looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know. The young king was at Ludlow when his father died. For all I know he is still there. His mother’s family will wish the coronation to go ahead with all speed.”

   Oxford threw his greying head back and brayed with laughter. “You can wager your last halfpenny on that,” he cried gleefully, “the little turd is their only security. If the Woodvilles lose control of Edward and his brother, they lose everything. Damned upstarts. Edward of March, long may he rot, was a fool to marry his Woodville whore.”

   “Please, John,” said Blount, looking pained, “moderate your language, at least in my hearing. You talk of the king in waiting.”

   Oxford gave him a shrewd look. He had long since taken Blount’s measure, and knew himself to be his gaoler’s mental superior.

   Slowly, over the years, as well as cultivating Blount’s friendship, he had extracted concessions from him: allowing greater freedom of movement in the castle, regular exercise in the tiltyard, even the occasional meal with Blount and his family, followed by a private game of chess. Oxford always won the chess, though he was careful to allow Blount to make a fight of it.

   “I have suffered defeat after defeat, James,” he said, “I lived to see my father and brother executed, my mother humiliated, my king murdered, his son butchered on the field, and all my friends slain. My wife lives in poverty and has to rely on the charity of others to survive. I will never see her again. If I do not show the proper respect towards those who destroyed me, then I beg forgiveness.”

   Oxford smiled inwardly as Blount went red in the face with embarrassment. He could play the man like a lute. Therein lay his best – his only – chance of freedom.

   Later, after Blount had departed and left him to enjoy his breakfast in peace, Oxford mulled over the extraordinary news of King Edward’s death.

   Please God
, he prayed silently,
let there be turmoil. Let Prince Edward’s coronation be delayed. Let the Woodvilles quarrel with each other, and with the Duke of Gloucester. Let there be civil war, and let the Yorkist dogs tear other to pieces.

  
Duke Richard of Gloucester. Over his porridge and bacon, Oxford contemplated this man, the last of old York’s sons.

   Which way would Gloucester spring? The news of Edward’s death would have shocked everyone, including his brother. However, great magnates did not have the luxury of mourning for long. Gloucester was now the most powerful man in England. His actions would determine the fate of the realm.

   Of all the Yorkist lords, Gloucester was the one Oxford despised the most. He had hated King Edward, regarded him as a usurper and a regicide, but there was a personal edge to his feelings for Gloucester.

   Some years back, the young duke had barged into the nunnery at Stratford le Bow, where Oxford’s mother was residing, and demanded that she sign over her lands to him. The aging, sick Countess, a widow since the execution of her husband and Oxford’s father, refused.

    In response Gloucester had her dragged from house to house by his armed retainers, while her confessor was traduced as a hypocrite and false priest by his crony, John Howard. Terrified and defenceless, the Countess at last consented to sign the release and sold her estates to the duke for half their annual value. A year later she died, worn out by a life of sorrow and loss.

   The recollection of this grubby episode still had the power to make Oxford weep. He had been in France at the time, disgraced and exiled, and could do nothing to help his mother.

   If there was one thing that sustained him through his black moods, one scrap of a reason to cling onto life, it was the prospect of revenge on Richard of Gloucester.

   “Revenge,” he said aloud, looking around his comfortable prison, “what revenge can I hope for, locked up here?”

   None, was the answer to that, or had been, until the wonderful news of King Edward’s death. If Oxford had gauged his man correctly – if, as he suspected, the great show of loyalty to the crown that Gloucester had made during his brother’s reign was a clever sham, concealing hungry ambition – then there was a sliver of hope. The accursed House of York might yet be overthrown, and a true king placed on the throne at last.

   Oxford was a practical man. He knew the royal House of Lancaster was spent. No true prince of the old blood existed.

   No true prince…his thoughts turned, as they often did, to a certain exiled nobleman residing in Brittany. An obscure figure, with the blood of the Beauforts as well as ancient Welsh stock in his veins.   

   He poured a cup of wine and raised it in a toast. “To Henry of Richmond,” he said, his voice echoing around the lonely chamber, “rightful King of England.”

Chapter 3

Northampton, 28
th
April 1483    

Power was the only fact. That lesson had been dinned into Richard of Gloucester’s head from a young age. It dominated his thoughts as he led his retinue south from York to Northampton. He had delayed his departure, partly to assemble a following from among his northern retainers, and partly to absorb the sobering news from London.

   A messenger sent by Lord Hastings had arrived in York, hot on the heels of the news of King Edward’s death, to inform Richard of events in the capital. The Woodvilles, the late king’s upstart in-laws, were making decisions without bothering to wait for the arrival of Richard, even though Edward’s will had named him Lord Protector.

   Richard’s sorrow for his brother was tempered by concern for his own safety. So far as he was concerned, Edward had spent the last few years of his life courting death, indulging in a riotously debauched and licentious lifestyle that ruined his health and shamed England before the world. Edward had been encouraged in this wanton self-destruction by the Woodvilles, who saw their opportunity in his early demise.

   So much was Richard’s opinion, confirmed by his agents at court. How often he had cursed his brother’s blind folly, and dreaded the day that Edward was no longer alive to check the unholy ambitions of his in-laws.

   Richard’s paranoia mounted as he travelled further south, away from the northern heartlands that formed his power base. He felt secure in the north. As head of the Council of the North, he had built up lasting friendships and alliances among the clannish, fiercely independent northern gentry, and made himself popular by passing good laws and keeping the peace.

   He was certain the Woodvilles wanted him sidelined. Once they had control of the young Edward V, that could be achieved without much difficulty. Edward had been raised in the household of his Woodville uncle, Anthony Rivers, at Ludlow. He would require little persuasion to strip Richard, the uncle he barely knew, of his title as Protector, and banish him from council.

   It was the stuff of Richard’s nightmares, and the Woodvilles wouldn’t stop there. They would come after him, like a pack of wolves, and have him attainted on some trumped-up charge of treason. The bill of attainder would be forced through a packed Parliament. Soldiers would come north, to seize Richard’s lands and castles and take him into custody.       

   After the fall, the humiliation. They would drag him to London in a cage and consign him to the Tower. He would end his days on the scaffold, shivering in his night-gown on some cold morn, watching the executioner sharpen his axe.

   Richard woke up, trembling like a man in the grip of a fever, his skin soaked with sweat. The damp sheets clung to his naked chest.

   His bedchamber was lit by a single candle, burning low in a sconce on the wall. Grey morning light filtered through the wooden shutters over the window. He sat up in bed, breathing hard, and cringed at the horrid shapes his shadow cast on the wall by candlelight.

   By the time his ally, the Duke of Buckingham, arrived at Northampton at midday, Richard had banished evil dreams and regained his composure.

   It was well that he did, for Buckingham was not one to respect weakness. His father and grandfather had both met their deaths fighting for the Lancastrians, but he followed a more subtle course.

   He greeted Richard affably, and the two peers exchanged a warm embrace before sitting down to supper at the inn Richard had requisitioned.

   Buckingham was straight to business. “Rivers has assembled a large force of Welsh men-at-arms at Ludlow,” he said, “and the Queen has ordered him to fetch Edward without delay to London.”

   He sighed and shook his darkly handsome head. “We should have moved swiftly. Once Edward is with his mother, she will never let him out of her custody. Our opportunity is gone, my lord.”

  “I have brought my own retainers from the north,” Richard said acidly, “they are more than a match for anything Rivers can bring up from Wales.”

   Buckingham spread his hands. “What do you suggest, then? That we attack Rivers as he marches to the capital? A pitched battle is hardly the best way of ensuring the king’s safety.”

   A tense silence reigned as Richard’s mind grappled with the problem. He had to get Edward away from the Woodvilles and into his own custody. That was paramount.

   Sadly, Earl Rivers was no fool. An accomplished diplomat and soldier, charming, distinguished and intelligent, he would take no chances with his royal charge. 

   He also had no reason to suspect Richard’s designs. Since receiving the news of his brother’s death, Richard had behaved impeccably. He had sent letters to Queen Elizabeth and her hated Woodville kin, assuring them of his good intentions, and summoned the nobility of Yorkshire to swear fealty to Edward V at York. No-one save his few intimates, and Buckingham, could have the slightest notion of what he intended.

   “We shall send word to Rivers,” he said slowly, gazing into the other man’s eyes, “and suggest that he meets us on the way to London, so we can help him escort Edward to the capital.”

   Buckingham looked doubtful. “You think he would fall for such a ruse? Walk straight into the lion’s jaws?”

   “Had he been another of his kinsmen, I would have said not. But Rivers is an honourable man, and knows me for the same.”

   “He doesn’t know me at all,” Buckingham pointed out.

   “No,” said Richard, “but he will trust my assurances. Unlike you, my lord, I have a reputation.”

   He said the last with some bitterness. Richard had built up a strong reputation for honour and chivalry, and was reluctant to cast dirt on it.