Was Scrope right? Had he erred on the side of caution? If so, God help them all; that was not a mistake a man would get to make twice.
If only he knew what was happening in London! If only he knew whom he could trust…. Will Hastings, of course. He didn’t like Will as much as he once had; he’d seen Will falling-down drunk too often for that, could not help thinking that Will, too, had done his share in bringing Ned to so early a death, a death that need never have been. No, Will had not served Ned well, however much he’d loved him. But he was still a man to be trusted; that Richard never for a moment doubted.
So, too, was Jack Howard. He’d never let the government pass into Woodville hands so long as there be breath in his body. Suffolk, his sister Eliza’s husband? Not so certain. Suffolk had no liking for the Woodvilles, but he was, plain and simple, not a man to risk his neck for anyone or anything. Eliza’s eldest son Jack, Earl of Lincoln, was cut from finer cloth, thank God. Jack was a good lad, could be counted upon in any showdown with the Queen’s kindred. Still, though, he was only twenty, had no voice in council.
And the others? Tom Stanley and his self-serving brother? Not bloody likely. What was it Ned had once said?…“You can never go wrong suspecting a Stanley!” Essex was ill unto death. Buckingham had already shown where his loyalties lay; he was expected here at Northampton within the hour. Northumberland? A hard question, that. Northumberland had begged off from coming south, saying he thought he’d best keep watch on the borders, make sure the Scots did not seek to take advantage of English troubles. The common sense of that couldn’t be denied. And yet…and yet Richard could not forget how Northumberland had kept to his own estates in the spring of 1471, had not committed himself until he could be sure he was on the winning side.
And then there were the Woodvilles. Elizabeth’s two sons by Grey, her four brothers. That meant the clerics had the deciding votes in council. He had no qualms about the Archbishop of Canterbury or John Russell, Bishop of Lincoln. They were decent men, would act only in his nephew’s best interests. Rotherham, Ned’s Chancellor? A well-meaning man, but weak, easily swayed. Edward Story, the Bishop of Chichester—hard to say, but it wasn’t reassuring to recall he’d once been Elizabeth’s confessor. That left John Morton, Bishop of Ely. John Morton, who’d once hoped to be Chancellor under Marguerite d’Anjou. Too clever by half.
“Dickon?” Rob Percy was standing in the doorway. “The Duke of Buckingham has just ridden in.”
Dishes had been set before Buckingham, baked partridge with cold herbed jelly, a rissole of pork and roe pike, apple fritters, and almond cakes. He gestured for his servant to begin ladling the food onto his trencher, saying to Richard, “We can speak freely before Gilbert; he’s been mute since birth. I hope you don’t mind talking as I eat. I’ve been on the road since dawn, am famished!”
A cup of spiced hippocras had been placed at his elbow. He drank deeply and then said, “Tell me, Cousin, how much do you know about what’s been happening in London?”
“Damned little,” Richard conceded. “I’d hoped you might be able to tell me, Harry.”
“Aye, I can…. But you’ll not be liking it any.” Buckingham wiped his mouth with a napkin, glanced about at tense expectant faces.
“Your brother was laid to rest at Windsor a week ago Sunday, with all the ceremony befitting so great a King. Madame the Queen did not see fit to attend, however, remained behind at Westminster. I think you can guess why, and in truth, she wasted precious little time. The first thing they did was to persuade the council that a fleet should be equipped. To deal with French pirates, they did explain! And the command of that fleet? I’m sure it comes as no surprise that it did go to her brother, Edward Woodville.
“Nor was Thomas Grey idle. Since March, he’s been Deputy Constable of the Tower, and that office now served him well. He took possession of your brother’s treasury, gave half to Edward Woodville, and divided up the rest with the Queen.”
Richard’s face was without expression. “Go on,” he said tersely.
“They then met with the council, in the Queen’s presence, for all the world as if she were Regent, announced they thought it advisable that a large armed force should accompany young Edward from Ludlow to London.”
Richard caught his breath. “How large, Harry?”
“Nowhere near as large as they wanted, and for that, you may thank Will Hastings. He threatened to withdraw to his fortress at Calais if the boy’s escort were not limited to two thousand. The council sided with him on that, shaken by his threat, I think. Moreover, the thought of a Woodville army marching on London did prod even the most spineless into showing some backbone. The Queen did yield under pressure, did agree to the two thousand.” Buckingham paused.
“I’m not sure I want to know,” he said wryly, “but how many men have you, Cousin?”
Richard said nothing. The answer came from John Scrope. “Five hundred, if even that many.”
Buckingham grimaced. “Even with my three hundred, I can’t say I much like those odds!”
The silence that settled down over the table was broken finally by Francis. “You are remarkably well informed, my lord Buckingham.”
“I cannot afford not to be.” Turning hazel eyes upon Richard, Buckingham said softly, “Nor can you, Cousin. I’ve not told you all. Hastings released the contents of your letter to the people. It much impressed them, and it’s widely agreed in London that you should have the government. But the Queen and her kin do for the moment control a bare majority in the council. They argued that the government should be carried on by a regency council, not entrusted in the hands of one man alone.” He set his wine cup down with a sudden thud.
“I regret to tell you, Cousin, that the Queen prevailed. The council voted to disregard both custom and your brother’s dying wishes. They agreed, too, to the Queen’s demand that the boy be crowned at once. The coronation be set for this coming Sunday, and if you’ve not reached London by then…well, so much the better. Assuming, of course, that you do reach London at all!”
Richard stood up abruptly, pushed away from the table. Fool! Stupid, stupid fool! He should’ve known, should’ve expected this. There was no honor in that woman, not a shred of integrity or honesty. What cared she if she did tear the country apart? And should she succeed, should she get the government into her own hands during the boy’s minority, God help England. Marguerite d’Anjou would seem a veritable saint by comparison.
Shock was rapidly giving way to rage. His brain was suddenly very clear, very cold. If this was how she did want it, so be it. George had blundered blindly into a Woodville web, had even given her the knife to plunge into his back. But this time she’d not find it quite so easy. That he could promise her.
“Dickon?” It was Francis. “Dickon, what mean you to do?”
“I think,” Richard said grimly, “that it be time I did take Will Hastings’s advice…. Secure the person of my nephew and get to London.”
Anthony Woodville had been unable to sleep. By 4:00 A.M., he’d given up, had propped himself up in bed with a book. But he could not keep his mind on what he read.
Damn Lisbet for this! What ailed her, that she should be so set upon confrontation? It wasn’t necessary. Why couldn’t she see that?
He’d seen from the first that they could not afford to run roughshod over the nobility. They were too hated to rule alone, needed allies. Once Edward came of age, it would be different. But until then, Lisbet would have to wait to settle old scores, however little she liked it.
He was not blind to the pitfalls ahead. But as he saw it, their greatest danger was an alliance of the two most powerful men in England: Gloucester and Hastings. Self-preservation dictated that they come to terms with one or the other. Anthony’s choice was Gloucester, whose claims were legitimized by both blood and Ned’s own dying wishes.
He’d thought it prudent, therefore, to fall in with Gloucester’s suggestion, readily agreed to a rendezvous at Northampton. He had no ill
usions about Gloucester. The man hated the Woodvilles, blamed Lisbet for Clarence’s death. He’d do what he could to freeze them out of the government. But beyond that, Anthony did not think he’d go. He had a rock-ribbed sense of right and wrong, was not a man to sacrifice all for vengeance. And his influence would be of fleeting duration, in any event. Edward was young, but already with a mind of his own. Gloucester was not likely to have much luck with the boy. What was it the Carthusians said, “Give us a child till he be seven and he will be ever ours.” Well, he’d had Edward for ten years. No, Gloucester would find that well a dry one.
But then yesterday his nephew Dick Grey had ridden out from London, bearing urgent orders from Lisbet. Under no circumstances was he to allow Gloucester to join up with them. He was to get Edward to London at once. All depended upon that. He’d already squandered precious time by insisting upon celebrating St George’s Day at Ludlow before starting out for London. He mustn’t fail her again.
Remembering, Anthony shook his head in bemused unease. How could a woman be at one and the same time so pragmatic and so reckless? Lisbet was far from a fool; why, then, was she so intent upon courting disaster?
What sort of lunatic advice was she getting? He had no choice now but to go along with her panicked plotting, but he felt sure he’d have been able to talk some sense into her had he only been there with her when Ned died. As it was, she’d had no one to turn to. He was fond of his brothers Edward and Richard, but neither was overly endowed with brains. Brave men, the both of them, but if it were to be raining wine, they’d be out there trying to catch it with those newfangled Italian forks. His youngest brother Lionel, newly named as Bishop of Salisbury, was bright enough, but Lionel had a dangerous love of intrigue for its own sake, was not one to counsel restraint. As for his nephews, Dick Grey would no more think to gainsay his mother and brother than he would to take vows, and Tom…Tom had ever been afflicted with flawed vision, could see only what he wanted to see.
With confidants like that, little wonder Lisbet had entangled herself in such high-risk conspiracies. Did she fully realize the consequences? Why was she so terrified of Gloucester? He wished he could believe all would go as planned, that she’d not overreached herself, that—
“My lord?” For some moments, his servants had been moving about the chamber, setting out his clothes. His barber was standing ready with razor and hot towels. One of the men had just unlatched the shutters; it was he who’d called out.
“My lord, something seems to be amiss. I think you’d best come to see.”
Anthony wrapped a sheet around himself, joined the man at the window. In the diffused light of an uncommonly misted morning, men were moving into the marketplace, men-at-arms wearing the Stafford Knot of the Duke of Buckingham and the Whyte Boar of Gloucester. As Anthony stared down in appalled understanding, they took up position in front of his inn.
It was dawn when Richard reached the village of Stony Stratford. As early as it was, men-at-arms were milling about in the street, loading up balky pack animals, trading curses and complaints. It was clear he was just in time; his nephew’s cavalcade was about to depart.
It gave Richard cold comfort to have his suspicions thus confirmed. He could think of nothing now but how thin a margin of error he was allowing himself, risking all upon the element of surprise and his assessment of Dick Grey. If he’d guessed wrong…
“Hold the men here, Harry,” he said, and then spurred his stallion forward down Watling Street. He was recognized at once and men hastily moved aside, let him pass through their ranks. He could feel their eyes, startled and speculative, burning into his back as he drew rein in front of his nephew’s inn.
Edward was standing before a magnificent cream-colored stallion, preparing to mount. Richard saw surprise upon his face now, followed swiftly by uncertainty. He came forward readily enough, however, as Richard dismounted and knelt before him.
“Your Grace seems surprised to see me. Were you not told I’d be meeting you here this morn?”
Edward shook his head, looking at once both bewildered and wary. “I was told only that we were to depart for London at first light. Is my Uncle Anthony with you?” He raised a hand, peered toward Richard’s waiting men. “I don’t see…”
“No, he is not.” Richard dropped his voice, said for Edward’s ear alone, “I must talk with you, Edward. Shall we go inside?”
At that moment, Dick Grey appeared in the doorway of the inn, and Richard had the satisfaction of seeing his face suddenly lose all color, go as sickly white as freshly skimmed milk.
There were only the five of them in the chamber: Edward, Richard, Buckingham, Dick Grey, and Edward’s Chamberlain, Thomas Vaughn. Richard would rather have spoken to his nephew alone, but Dick Grey had insisted upon entry and he’d been reluctant to make a scene before the boy.
“Uncle, I…I don’t understand. Why did not my Uncle Anthony accompany you?”
“Edward, what I have to say to you be bound to cause you some pain. I deeply wish it weren’t so, but it cannot be otherwise. It be about your father. He died before his time, lad. He need not have died so young, should have had so many more years….” Richard stopped, swallowed. A fortnight was not time enough to come to terms with Ned’s death; even a lifetime might not be enough.
“He was cheated, Edward, cheated by men who cared only for what his favor could gain them, cared not at all that they were helping him dig his own grave. These men, if left to their own devices, will play the same game with you as they did with your father, with my brother. Already they seek to thwart Ned’s dying wishes, to deny me the protectorship he—”
“Protectorship?” Edward jerked his head around, stared at his half brother. “My father named my uncle Gloucester as Protector? Dick, be that true?”
“No! That is…you see, Edward, we…your mother…felt it best that…”
“I see….” Edward’s poise was remarkable for a boy of his years; as a King’s son, one of the first lessons he’d learned was that of self-control. But too much was happening, too fast. His mouth had begun to tremble; he bit down on his lower lip, turned back toward Richard.
“Uncle, I didn’t know. But…but surely you be mistaken about my Uncle Anthony. I cannot answer for any others, but I know he’d never act dishonorably….”
Without meaning to, he’d struck a nerve. For Richard, time was suddenly open-ended, fluid, past and present merging into a long-ago October eve at Middleham. He looked at his nephew, hearing himself say those very words to Warwick, in defense of Ned. For an unnerving instant, he found himself able to identify so completely with the boy that pity closed his throat, made speech impossible. It was Buckingham who answered for him, said brusquely,
“They have kept their dealings in these matters far from Your Grace’s knowledge.”
“Don’t listen to them, Edward,” Dick Grey said suddenly. “You trust me, don’t you? Trust your Uncle Anthony?”
Edward’s eyes flicked toward Grey, back to Richard. He said now, with a hint of shaky defiance, “I do trust my Uncle Anthony. Why cannot he be the one to guide me, he and my mother?…”
“Because,” Buckingham snapped, “the governing of a kingdom be not woman’s business, be for men to do. As for Woodville—”
“Harry,” Richard said quickly, warningly. “Edward, your father did think it best that I be the one to counsel you. Surely you do want to abide by his wishes.”
That gave Edward pause. “Yes…” he agreed, sounding more polite than positive.
“Well, that be all we seek to do here today, to make sure that his will shall be honored. To do that, it was necessary to detain your uncle in Northampton, but no harm has come to him. You can see for yourself when we do return to Northampton this morning. Now, perhaps you’d like to wait in your chambers while we make ready to depart?…”
It was courteously posed as a question. In actual effect, it carried the weight of an order, and Edward was adult enough to see it as such, to comprehe
nd that a choice was not being offered him. He nodded, made a stiff retreat that had in it an unexpected and rather touching dignity.
Richard moved to the window, saw that the men below in the courtyard were his. They were still vastly outnumbered by the young King’s escort, but the latter seemed little inclined to offer resistance, seemed to be waiting for orders that were not going to come. Turning back to Dick Grey and Thomas Vaughn, he said abruptly, “As of this moment, you both be under arrest.”
The two thousand Welshmen in Anthony Woodville’s service had been dismissed, told to disperse back to their homes. Bewildered, bereft of leadership, they did.
All at once, Richard realized how hungry he was. He’d bypassed breakfast, had eaten next to nothing the night before. Now he could think of mundane matters like food again, sent a servant down into the inn kitchen, and the cooks, eager to please, soon set before him a plate of rice pancakes and Brie tarts. But after a few mouthfuls, he pushed the plate away. His appetite was suddenly gone; he found himself seeing again that stricken look on Edward’s face as he fled the chamber. How could Ned’s son be such a stranger to him? And the boy’s obvious love for Anthony Woodville…. Christ Jesus, how were they to deal with that?
“My compliments, Cousin. I see why you’ve won for yourself such a name on the battlefield.”
Buckingham had come into the chamber, stood grinning down at him. “Well planned, brilliantly executed, and entirely successful!”
“And lucky,” Richard said, gave a brief smile. “I owe you much, Harry. Once before you dealt yourself into my affairs. This time it came damned close to costing you your life. I’ll not be forgetting that, I assure you.”
Buckingham shrugged. “I’ll not deny that I do want a voice in your government, and why not? By blood alone, I’m entitled to it. But it be more than that. I know the Woodvilles too well, the snakes in our Eden. I’d move Heaven and earth to see them brought down into the dust where they belong, and you’re the one man strong enough to do it. So you see, Cousin, it was never a question of choosing sides. The choice was made for me, nigh on sixteen years ago.”
The Sunne In Splendour: A Novel of Richard III Page 91
