“Madam, Master Bray wishes to see you.” I had not noticed the girl approach me.
“Very well, show him in.”
I tighten my robe, ensuring I am decent. Master Bray has seen me without my head covered before. He comes in, and I can tell instantly that he has news of import.
“My lady …”
“What? What is it?”
He clears his throat, assuming a pained expression.
“It seems that in our absence, an attempt was made to free the Lords Bastard from the Tower.”
“What? Are you sure? Who was behind it? The attempt was foiled?”
“It was, my lady. It seems the king got wind of it and sent orders for the Tower to be secured. Those who were apprehended now face the penalty for treason.”
“Who was behind it? Do you have names?”
“Erm, some middling folk, Madam: a groom of the stirrup, a pardoner, a sergeant, a wardrobe of the Tower ... Apparently they set fires, several of them, to draw the Tower watch into the city and leave the princes unguarded and the way clear for their abductors.”
Poor Bray; he is uncertain if this act should be applauded or abhorred.
“How close did they come?”
“Not close at all, Madam, but now the princes – the Lords Bastard - have been given new, more secure quarters. Madam, I feel I should add that rumour places Sir John Cheney at the head of the conspiracy.”
“Cheney?” I stare at him as my mind struggles to discover the root of this plot that has ruined everything. Cheney was Edward IV’s bodyguard, his master of horse. I recently watched him swear fealty to Richard … a little while before I did so myself. He loved the old king and would be loyal to his sons, to his family. Realisation dawns.
“Elizabeth! How could she? She has jeopardised everything by moving too soon!”
Bray struggles to keep up as I pace the floor of the chamber, fury raging in my heart. How could she do this? She has ruined her son’s chances of reinstatement. With the boys now under tight guard, there is not a chance of us laying hands on them … not unless Buckingham can be persuaded to our cause. And I have surely failed in that.
A few days later, news comes that the princes’ servants have been dismissed from the Tower. Swiftly on the heels of this information comes Dr Lewis. He arrives in a flurry of summer rain, shaking drops from his cloak all over the polished floor.
“My lady,” he says. “I hope you are well.”
“In body, if not in spirit,” I reply tersely, and he looks up at me, his brow quirked with questions.
“The queen sends her blessings.”
For a moment, I think he means Anne, but I quickly right myself.
“How is she after this recent set-back?”
It is difficult to speak without speaking, to infer much while stating little.
“She is … distraught and repentant, and requests your advice, your wisdom. She swears she will heed whatever you think best.”
Cynicism is close to sin, yet I cannot help it. Elizabeth will never listen; she is rash and acts on the dictates of her heart, not her head.
“Then I urge her to show caution. She must not act again without the sanction of everyone involved. Tell her that. I will try to discover the location of her sons, but I think she should seek peace with the king. It will be easier to take action as a free woman. If she swears allegiance to Gloucester, he will be merciful – he is not unjust.”
There is that conundrum again. The king is just, the king is forgiving – why then, can we not trust him?
“Can you not tell her that yourself?”
“No. I cannot visit sanctuary too often without raising suspicion. Since the failed plot to free the boys, the king’s spies will be alert for dissent. I do not want my name linked with hers; but fear not, my husband is a close confidant of the king. I can learn much from him. Tell her not to lose heart.”
September 1483
September blows in wet and chilly, bringing a sodden end to a pretty summer. There is nothing to do but read or sew or pray, and in these strange, uncertain days, I pray a lot.
Thomas is with the king, leaving me free to work with the queen toward our goal. I dare not visit her and I am afraid to write; all communication between us is passed verbally. This is a most unsatisfactory arrangement. I cannot see her eyes, cannot judge what she may be thinking, or predetermine her next move.
A week ago, a letter arrived by stealth from Morton assuring me that Buckingham is hooked, recruited to our side by promises of direct power over the boy king if he aids in his restoration. Since then, I have been beset with terror that his allegiance to our cause may be a trick; perhaps he is luring us into treason so that, at the last minute, he can reveal all to the king.
I do not trust him. I do not trust anyone. I am isolated by the intrigue, afraid to speak for the fear I will reveal my own treachery.
I sit down to write to Henry, hoping he will read the message hidden among my cheery enquiries after his health. I dare not speak plainly.
When the letter is finished, I will take the risk of fully informing my trusted messenger so that he may ensure it is delivered to its intended mark. When the letter is signed and sealed, I fetch a bag of coin from the locked coffer in my chamber and summon Ned. He has never yet ridden overseas on my business, but he is trustworthy. He would lay down his life in my service.
He arrives, slightly damp from the afternoon rain.
“You wanted to see me, my lady?”
“Yes.” I smile widely and beckon him into the room. He hesitates, gestures to the door.
“There is someone here to see you; I should come back later.”
“Who is it?”
“Your physician. Dr Lewis I think his name is.”
“Dr Lewis.” My heart flips alarmingly. “Yes, yes, come back in an hour, Ned; that will give us more time. I had better see what my physician wants.”
Dr Lewis always has the appearance of someone in a hurry. He closes the door behind him, and almost scurries to the hearth where I stand. He bows and gives me greeting while I wait impatiently for his news.
“You have word from the queen?”
“I do, my lady, and the bishop too. All is in readiness. Buckingham has rallied his men, your son and his followers are alert in Brittany. In October, they will make their move.”
My body suddenly feels more alive, as if the blood surges just beneath my skin; my heart races. I clench my fists. The time is soon. Henry will come home. With Elizabeth’s son on the throne and Henry wed to her daughter, he will be brother-in-law to the king, his lands and titles reinstated. It is good enough. I will be content with that.
“God will aid us. He will not fail us, for our cause, the cause of King Edward, is just.”
He bows in acknowledgement and takes his leave. We cannot fail, not now. Francis of Brittany has pledged us ten thousand crowns, and five thousand mercenaries and ships. With that, together with the large portion of the treasury provided by Edward Woodville, we are more than well equipped. Soon, at last, my son will be home. There is no need to send the letter now; by the time it reaches Brittany, he will be here with me.
The next few weeks drag by. On the 18th of October, we have arranged for a rebellion in Kent. Our hope is that this will distract Richard from the heart of the matter. For, at the same time, Buckingham will rise in the west and my son, arriving from Brittany, will join him. Everything is arranged in fine detail.
We keep our heads down, pretending loyalty to King Richard. I make a great show of riding about the country visiting friends; being conspicuous in London; writing to the queen at Middleham and pretending to be anxious for her return. My life is now entirely comprised of deceit.
October 1483
“My lady!” Ned bursts into the chamber unannounced but I do not reprimand him. I know his news is pressing.
“What is it? What has happened?”
My women sit watching open-mouthed at the intrusion and my unwarranted res
ponse to Ned’s yell. Taking him by the upper arm, I propel him from the room into a small antechamber. He is breathing hard, as if he has been running.
“I saw Dr Lewis. He is in a proper state, my lady. The men of Kent, they have risen too soon.”
With a hand to his chest, he coughs. For once, I do not even think of his health.
“Oh, my God … what else do you know?”
“They marched on London, but Norfolk intercepted them. They are under interrogation. If they talk, my lady, the whole scheme will fall apart.”
“Henry. I must get word to my son.”
“How, my lady? They’ve already sailed!”
We stare at each other. We are helpless; there is nothing I can do. Henry will be sailing into a trap.
“Ned.” I grab his sleeve. “Ride for the coast. The port of Plymouth. Get a message to the ship. Warn Henry not to land.”
I spin round and dash into the other room, into my chamber, fumbling for the key to my coffer. Ned follows. I thrust a bag of coin into his hands. He looks at me, fear and excitement fighting for dominance.
“You can do this, Ned. I trust you above any other.”
He bows fleetingly, turns on his heel and runs from the room. I move in a waking nightmare into the other chamber. Jane and Elizabeth look up from their sewing.
“Is everything all right, my lady?”
No, I think. No, everything is not all right.
I keep to my rooms, applying myself to sewing and praying; reading, although I do not see the page. Instead of admiring the bright illuminations or absorbing the philosophies of the text, my mind writhes with conflicting thoughts. I even pray that Thomas will return home; at least he would have reliable news.
London is alive with rumour. While violence breaks out to the south, King Richard sends his men to hunt down the perpetrators. He names Morton and Dorset as traitors, offers a thousand pounds for Buckingham’s capture, and the king, beset on every side by treason, names him ‘the most untrue creature living.’
I can discover no firm news. Some say that Buckingham has been taken and that his plot against King Richard is the talk of the taverns. And then a message from one of my own arrives, confirming his capture, King Richard has him under interrogation at Salisbury.
Please God, I pray, please do not let him speak against us. Let him remain true to our cause, even in death.
There is not a hope that Buckingham will live. We have all seen King Richard’s retribution against his betrayers. The treachery of Buckingham - his cousin, his erstwhile friend and ally - will be on a par with that of Hastings. None of us expect leniency now, and we are all aware that, if our involvement in the plot is discovered, we will swiftly follow him to the scaffold.
I sit and sew, outwardly calm, inwardly tempestuous.
November 1483
As soon as the doctor enters I sense something is wrong. His eyes are wide, and sore as if he has been weeping. I jerk my head to tell my women to leave me and draw him close to the hearth.
“What is it?” I whisper, somehow afraid, unwilling to hear his answer.
“Have you heard any news, my lady?”
“No, nothing solid, not for a week or so. Why? Has something else gone wrong?”
“I fear so, my lady. Dreadfully wrong.”
He swallows and shakes his head, his jowls vibrating, and his eyes sorrowful.
“I had it from a reliable source that Buckingham is claiming the boys are dead.”
For a moment, time seems frozen. My mind turns blank and a loud ringing begins in my ears, making it difficult to think.
“Boys?” I repeat dumbly.
“The princes, my lady. He says they were murdered on the order of the king.”
“NO!” I stand up, pace away, turn at the wall and hurry back again. “This cannot be true. Gloucester would never stoop to that; he is a godly man. If he cannot stomach lechery, he would never countenance murder.”
Dr Lewis splutters, unable to form an answer, and I plunge on without listening. “And what would it serve him? He has the crown; the world accepts the boys as bastards. To have them kil-” I cannot say the word. “-would only serve to stir up hate against him. Gloucester may be many things, but he is no fool.”
“I hope you are right, my lady. I – perhaps he feels that in view of the latest uprisings, he would be better placed without them.”
I steeple my hands over my nose, fixing my eyes upon his.
“In my experience, Gloucester has only ever acted violently in rage … he cannot feel anger toward little boys.”
“I wonder … should the queen be told?”
Elizabeth.
This news will finish her. She has lost too much to bear this so swiftly on the heels of our recent failure. If they are dead, it will take away her fight, her reason for living.
Panic rises in my throat; I will drown in it if I cannot scream. I take a deep breath and blow out slowly, puffing out my cheeks, forcing my mind to the matter in hand.
“Say nothing yet. Let me discover the truth of it first. It may only be a rumour. I hope to God it is.”
When he is gone, I push away the thought of little Richard lying murdered in the Tower, and apply my mind stringently to practicalities. I cannot afford to break now.
I must act, but how, I cannot imagine. If only Thomas would come home. I sit by the fire, staring into the flames, wishing with all my heart that I had remained loyal. If my part in this catastrophe remains undiscovered, I swear I will never plot against the king again.
Perhaps I was rash. Gloucester is not so bad. I do not believe he would harm his nephews; he loved his brother too well. Perhaps he would be a good king if we only gave him a chance.
I look up from the hearth as a girl enters and hands me a letter which, by its seal, hails from my husband. With my mind still on my troubles, I break the seal. The words plunge me straight back into a violent hatred for the king.
I am sorry to inform you, Margaret, that your brother, John Welles, has been arrested in the company of other conspirators. The king regrets that he has no option but to imprison him, and remove his titles and lands for perpetuity.
Surely, it can get no worse than this. My brother attainted? He will curse me, for it was I who led him into this tangled mess. Because of me and my determination to fight injustice, his own children will never see their rightful inheritance, or their rightful position at court. Misery heaps upon misery.
Failed. I have failed in all my attempts. I should have listened to Harry; did he not always warn me not to meddle? Oh Harry, how I wish you were here.
The letter drifts from my fingers and falls upon the cold ashes scattered around the hearth. I am alone and beaten. I cannot imagine I will ever hold my head high again. With my face in my hands and tears on my cheeks, I beseech God to vent justice upon King Richard and all his heirs.
It is dark when something wakes me. I part the bed curtains and peer into the shadowy chamber. I shiver as memories of the previous day bring dread rushing back. Somebody is standing before the hearth, his bulk outlined by the dying embers, his sword hilt glinting.
“Thomas?”
I slide from the bed, take two steps toward him and then stop. If it were Harry, I would run to him, leap into his arms, sure of my welcome, safe in the sanctuary of his care. But it is not Harry, he is dead. My husband is now Thomas Stanley, and I can tell by the set of his shoulders that he is displeased. I decide to pretend I have not noticed.
“I was not expecting you,” I say, as if nothing has happened since our last meeting. Groping for my wrap, I slide it about my shoulders and move closer to the fire.
“I have been sent by the king.”
“Do you have news? London is beset with rumour and one cannot tell truth from lie.”
He shifts from one leg to the other, his sword clanking at his hip.
“Can you ever?”
“Can I ever what?”
“Tell truth from lie.”
I
hesitate, give a shaky half laugh, and then decide that sobriety is more in order.
“What do you mean?”
He thrusts his face close to mine.
“Buckingham is dead. He has been deep in deceit for some time, spreading lies about the king. He was content at first, glad of the favours provided by Richard … until someone whispered sedition into his ear and turned his head with promises of something more.”
“Why are you telling me? I had nothing to do with it.”
“There you go again. More lies.”
I open my mouth to contradict him but he holds up his hands, continues with his tirade. “I know you are involved, Margaret. It has your mark all over it. We know your son came this close,” he holds his finger and thumb an inch apart, “to landing on our shores. He could not have done that without assistance, without money. How did you think to get away with it, and why? The king and I have lately been discussing your son’s pardon, his return and reinstatement, but he will not get it now. No, your meddling has ensured that his exile will be permanent.”
A sob escapes me. He is right. I am a fool. I should have been patient.
I fumble for a kerchief and dab my eyes.
“That’s it; cry as much as you want. You will not soften me with your hollow tears.”
I make no reply but perch on the edge of a chair, attempting to stop unstoppable misery.
“Your friend Morton has fled the country and is, no doubt cosied up with your son, plotting more trouble. They have hung you out to dry, and ‘hung’ may yet be the right word for it. The king knows all about you, Margaret.”
I stare at him, blinking my sore eyes, my throat choked with fear. I am going to be imprisoned, or worse. Oh God, give me the strength to bear it if I have to die for this.
“Will he send me to the scaffold?”
The Beaufort Woman: Book Two of The Beaufort Chronicles Page 30
