by Jean Stubbs
‘My mother’s husband, Lord Stanley, is close to Lord Hastings,’ said Henry, speculating on a rift in the ruling party and wondering as to its possible outcome.
‘The Lord Stanley is not so close to any man that he cannot run away again!’ said Jasper drily. ‘And should Hastings fall he will not be there to watch it!’
But in this he was mistaken. For Stanley had spoken to Lord Hastings about the Duke of Gloucester’s separate councils: one, of which they were a part, held in the Tower; the other, of which they knew nothing, held at the duke’s house in Bishopsgate. And though Hastings had no doubts, Stanley worried and the evening before the Council in the Tower he dreamed a strange dream.
It seemed that he and Hastings hunted in a dark wood and were merry in the pursuit, when a wild boar charged from the undergrowth and tore them so grievously that the blood ran to their shoulders. As Stanley woke, shouting and sweating, an image of Gloucester’s cognizance of the silver board came to his mind. Forthwith he sent a secret messenger, a man he could trust with such words in his mouth; bidding Hastings ride with him that night, so they should be out of danger by daybreak.
The Lord Chamberlain rose reluctantly to hear the message. Then he yawned and laughed and scratched his head. For the queen’s son Dorset had inherited the late king’s mistress, Jane Shore; and when Dorset sought sanctuary Hastings had adopted her; and he wanted to creep back into the warmth of the bed and her white arms again.
‘Why, sirrah!’ said Hastings lazily, ‘has your master such faith in dreams? Either his own fear fetches up such fantasies, or these things rise in the night by reason of his day’s thoughts. Tell him it is plain witchcraft to believe in such visions.’
Seeing the man remained unconvinced, Hastings made his answer plainer still.
‘If this were indeed a token of things to come should we not make them true by our flight? And if we were caught and brought back — for those who flee lack friends! — then would the boar have good cause to slash us with his tusks, thinking we fled from our own falsehood!’
The messenger glimpsed the white flesh of a woman’s back, as Jane Shore stirred in her sleep and pulled the fine coverlet more firmly about her.
‘Either there is no peril,’ said Hastings kindly, ‘or if there be peril then if is in the going rather than the biding. And if we should fall in peril, one way or the other, I had rather it were through other men’s malice than our faint hearts.’
Jane Shore turned again, and her hand sought the empty place beside her as she called him. Hastings’ face softened. Reassuringly he patted the messenger’s shoulder as he dismissed him.
‘Therefore go to your master, sirrah, and commend me to him. Pray him be merry and have no fear, for I am as sure of the boar he mentions as I am of mine own head!’
Day had turned to night, and night to day again, as the royal cooks soared into a fantasy of subtleties and sauces for the coming feast. Beasts were axed by the hundred and fowls by the thousand, and wine ordered by the cart-load. And every tailor in London plied his needle until his back ached and his fingers were raw. The air was light with pomp and pageantry when Richard of Gloucester joined his lords shortly after nine of the clock.
‘I crave your several pardons for being so long away,’ he said pleasantly. ‘You must take my sleepiness to task for it!’
They all laughed and he turned to Bishop Morton, smiling.
‘My lord, the strawberries grow ripe in your garden at Holborn. I require you to let us have a mess of them — as a token of your goodwill.’
‘My lord,’ Morton replied, showing all his blackened teeth as he matched courtesy with courtesy, ‘I shall send my servant in all haste to fetch them.’
But his eyes were wary as he pondered the request. A token of goodwill he thought. Are we taking sides, then? And against whom?
‘I beg you to excuse me a little while,’ said Richard. ‘I am scarcely awake! But I shall be with you presently to discuss many matters.’
Many matters, Morton pondered. He smelled a change in the wind and looked about him. Buckingham, smiling sourly, seemed to know more than he should. Richard Middleton, a known supporter of the Protector, was watching Lord Stanley narrowly; and Morton remembered that they had long been enemies, having quarrelled over some estates. But why should Middleton look so covertly, and with an air of being about to come into his own? He was not and could not be as powerful as Stanley. Hastings, on the other hand, had never been more jovial — nor more bawdy! They were roaring at his jokes. But Hastings was too concerned with women to observe politics. Rotherham seemed mistrustful, but then he had made a grievous error in taking the Great Seal to the queen. Had I possessed it, Morton thought, I should have held it longer, to see how matters lay. He wondered what excuse he might make to retire, because though he did not know what was afoot he sensed something amiss. Then his quick ears caught the sound of armed men moving into position outside the door, and he resolved not to be found running away. Better to see all through to the end, and trust to his wits and his good fortune.
Between ten and eleven o’clock Richard returned, and his new mood silenced them. Flinging himself down in his chair he frowned round him. Many a man there, with the question of what ailed him already on his lips, observed that lowering countenance and did not speak. There was a long silence.
‘What are they worthy to have,’ Richard asked with cold ferocity, ‘that compass and imagine the destruction of me — that am so near of blood to the king, and Protector of his royal person and his realm?’
No one dared answer, except Hastings who was feeling genial after his night in Jane Shore’s arms.
‘They are worthy to be punished as heinous traitors,’ he declared roundly, ‘whoever they be!’
Richard’s eyes rested on him reflectively, but it was not yet Hastings’ turn.
‘I mean,’ he said, still more coldly, ‘yonder sorceress — my brother’s wife! — the mother of the king!’
A murmuring in the room divided Richard’s friends from those lords who still hoped that all might be well with both parties when the king was crowned. Morton moved unobtrusively away until he felt the comfort of a wall at his back. Middleton took up a position behind Stanley. Buckingham watched Hastings — who was clearly relieved that Richard only nursed a grievance against the queen.
‘You shall all see in what wise that sorceress, and that other witch of her counsel — Shore’s wife! — have by their sorcery and witchcraft wasted my body!’
Holding Hastings’ gaze he switched up a sleeve, and thrust out that arm he was at other times careful to conceal, though all men knew of it. For Cecily of York had suffered long and terribly at his birth, labouring him feet first into the world, and producing the runt of her great litter in consequence. Tales circulated of his being born hunch-backed, with teeth and hair, after two long years in the womb. A childhood illness had weakened the arm now quivering before them, so that it was thinner and shorter than its fellow. But any man there could have sworn to its efficiency on the field of battle.
So they stared at the wizened limb, which he presently covered up again, and pondered on the discrepancies of his accusation. No one hated Jane Shore more than the queen. Indeed had the queen not been in sanctuary surely Jane would have languished in prison. Still, strange circumstances bred strange friends.
Hastings turned over the charms of Mistress Shore in his mind and prayed no harm might come to her, but resolved on loyalty to Richard, tempered with caution.
‘Certainly my lord,’ he spoke up sturdily, ‘if they have so heinously done this thing then they be worthy of heinous punishment.’
‘What?’ cried Richard. ‘Do you serve me with ifs and buts? I tell you they have done so — and that will I make good on your body!’ Then he shouted, ‘Traitor!’ in a great voice, and crashed his fist upon the Council table.
A voice outside yelled ‘Treason!’ and the room was filled with armed men.
‘Arrest this traitor!’ R
ichard cried, and two soldiers pinioned Hastings.
‘What?’ Hastings whispered, staring at him. ‘Me, my lord?’
Middleton lifted his sword and struck at Lord Stanley, who dodged aside before he was cleft to the teeth. Hastings, horror-stricken, saw him fall to the floor, clutching at the table’s edge. The wound in his head poured blood on to his ears and shoulders, as in the dream.
‘Lay not your hands upon a man of God!’ said Bishop Morton sternly, as they attempted to seize him. ‘I shall go with you peaceably — though I know not what I have done.’
Rotherham, his mistake with the Great Seal lying heavily upon him, made no resistance as he was hustled out.
‘Now, my Lord Hastings,’ said Richard quietly. ‘Shrive yourself. Fetch a priest hither! No doubt you have other sins upon your conscience. It is not meet for a young king to be served by those who lie in sinful lust with a whore.’
The charges against Jane Shore and the queen might be trumped up, the arm be withered by something less than sorcery, but Richard’s condemnation of lust came from his heart. Hastings looked at the bright justice of chastity and could comprehend nothing more. He stared imploringly at Buckingham, who smiled and turned away.
‘By St Paul,’ Richard said impatiently, ‘I will not go to my dinner until I see your head off!’
The Lord Chamberlain held himself proudly as he walked on to the Tower Green. Since there was no block handy a workman brought a log of wood he had been using for repairs. Hastings drew one long last breath of the June air, and laid down his head.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Farewell, my own sweet son. God send you good keeping. Let me kiss you once more ere you go. For God knoweth when we shall kiss together again.
Queen Elizabeth to Prince Richard of York, The History of King Richard III, St Thomas More
Queen Elizabeth, mother of the young king and widow of King Edward IV, had dressed richly and with care for the deputation that waited on her on 16 June. And by her side stood Prince Richard, a small timid boy whose fair hair she smoothed from time to time with fingers that were heavy with rings.
Richard had sent Archbishop Bourchier to persuade her, as a man old in years and great in goodness and wisdom whom she might trust, to leave sanctuary. But her shrewd eyes singled out others, whose services stood high in the Protector’s esteem, and they had come with armed retainers.
‘The Duke of Gloucester commends himself to you, madam,’ Bourchier began, slightly ashamed of the role that had been forced upon him, ‘and desires that the young prince be given into his protection. The tender youth of King Edward takes no pleasure in ancient company, and with whom should he prosper better than his brother? Should you consider this a light matter, madam, I would say that sometimes, without small things, greater ones cannot stand.’
‘My lord,’ the queen replied coldly, ‘I doubt not that the Protector finds it very convenient to have both princes, but I trust this one in no keeping but my own!’ And she kissed the child’s cheek.
‘No man denies, good madam, that your grace of all folk is necessary about her children. And if you would come from sanctuary to a place more fitting for your state and theirs, you should enjoy their company. For evil words walk far, and mock the honour of the Duke of Gloucester and those about him, and he would that the king were crowned in his mother’s presence and with her good grace.’
She had not been nineteen years at court and learned nothing of policy.
‘I marvel greatly that my Lord Protector is so desirous to have this my second son in his keeping also,’ she said lightly, ‘for he has been sore diseased with illness and is but newly recovered. If nature miscarried him in his weakly condition the duke would run into a greater slander and suspicion. Nor do I intend, as yet, to come forth and jeopardize myself — as others of my family are jeopardized...’
John Howard broke in, crying angrily, ‘Why madam, is there any reason that they should be in jeopardy?’
‘Nay,’ she returned, outraged by his interruption, ‘nor why they be in prison, neither, as they are!’
‘Harp not, my lady, upon that string,’ Bourchier advised hastily. ‘Madam, these noble lords, your kin, shall do well enough, I doubt not. As to your gracious person there never was nor could be any manner of jeopardy. Madam, the Protector desires to have Prince Richard in his keeping, lest in a moment of folly — or womanly tenderness — you should happen to send him abroad. Then our enemies will speak ill of England, and we shall all be at variance again.’
She made a show of relaxing in her splendid chair, of putting aside an unimportant request. Spreading out her hands and admiring her jewels, she said serenely, ‘I purpose not to depart as yet. As for this gentleman, my son, I would that he should be where I am.’
She had not expected they would take this answer, and Bourchier gathered himself for the ultimatum.
‘Truly, madam, there be many that think he cannot claim sanctuary, for he has neither the will to ask it nor the malice to deserve it. Therefore, madam,’ though the words hurt him, diminishing his authority and that of the Holy Church, ‘they reckon no sanctuary is broken if they take him from here by force.’
She sat very still, looking regally upon him, and her words were as brittle as her smile.
‘Ah, sir, the Protector fears nothing but that this prince should escape him.’ She turned to his argument, making savage play of it. ‘So a child cannot ask for sanctuary?’ she cried. ‘Why, the law makes me his guardian! If I can ask the privilege for myself I may ask it for the child also. You may not take my horse from me, in sanctuary, may you take my son from me?’
They were silent, knowing her to be right, and yet right was not enough. She knew this as well as they did, and her composure began to fall from her, piece by piece. An involuntary clasping of the jewelled hands, a brightening of the shrewd eyes, an unbending of that shrewish majesty.
‘In this place was my other son, your present king, born and laid in his cradle,’ she said hurriedly. ‘This is not the first time I have sought sanctuary. For when the lord, my husband, was banished from his kingdom I fled here, being great with child. And when my lord returned safe again I went from here to greet him, and he took the babe in his arms and gave thanks to God.’ Her voice almost betrayed her, but she stiffened herself. ‘I pray God that my son, the king’s, palace be as great a safeguard to him as this place was to me! Whoever breaks this sanctuary may God condemn!’
No one spoke, and then she began to rave against the Protector: a relentless outpouring of fact and fury, of truth and clever supposition.
‘Madam,’ cried Bourchier, terrified to listen, ‘I will lay my body and soul for the security of this young duke, if you will deliver him. No man means him harm. Do you think, madam, that all save you lack loyalty and truth?’
The queen rose from her chair and paced slowly up and down, helpless. She searched their faces for friendship. Bourchier, she knew, was an honourable man. There were others. She found sympathy here, good faith there, some kindness. And above all else she had no choice. She took the child’s hand in hers, though his fingers went to his eyes.
‘My lord, and all my lords, I am not so unwise as to mistrust your honour. I purpose to give you such proof of it that, if you lack honour, you shall turn me to much sorrow, the realm to much heaviness, and yourselves to much reproach. For here is this gentleman,’ and she pushed Prince Richard forward, bidding him keep up his head like a prince and not to look so woefully.
But she had still something to say that they should remember, and she spoke as a queen.
‘We have had experience that the desire for a kingdom knows no kindred. The brother has been the brother’s bane.’ They digested this with some discomfort, remembering treacherous Clarence. ‘Each one of these children is the other’s defence, while they are asunder. For what wise merchant adventures all his goods in one ship? All this not withstanding, here I deliver him. Only one thing I beseech you. You think I fear too much. Be you wel
l aware lest you fear too little!’
She took the child’s face between her hands, and kissed his eyes and cheeks, that were wet with tears as her own.
‘Farewell, my own sweet son. God send you good keeping.’
The boy stood there bewildered, his little velvet cap in his hands, staring up at the great lords who surrounded him with bows and smiles. Very slowly the queen turned her back and walked away, though he beseeched her not to leave him and every plea wrung her. So, attempting to comfort the child, and ashamed of causing so much grief, they escorted him to his uncle.
Richard of Gloucester awaited their coming in the Star Chamber, pale and grave, but when they presented the prince his demeanour changed. All his charm went out to this finely-dressed little fellow with the smeared and blubbered face.
‘Now welcome, my lord,’ said Richard, ‘even with all my heart!’
And as the child stopped in mid-sob he swung him up into the air, crying, ‘What, Dick? So sorry a countenance and about to see your brother? Edward awaits you, lad, and there is a new bow and arrows for you. See how well you can shoot against the king!’
Then he popped a comfit into the little mouth and kissed him heartily, and set him down again.
‘You must smile in the streets, Dick,’ he said, pushing him gently and playfully, ‘for the people like a merry prince. First you shall ride to the Bishop’s Palace where the king will greet you, and then both to the Tower to await the coronation. Then shall you be second gentleman in all the land.’
Caught between a hiccup and a bit of the comfit, Prince Richard said, ‘But what of you, my lord duke? Are not you the second gentleman, being Protector?’
‘Aye, Protector indeed — but only as these good fellows are, to keep you safe!’ said Richard gaily, pointing to the mastiffs who were lying out of the heat of the sun.
