The chamber under the chapel was his favorite, a spacious well-proportioned room lit by three traceried windows, one of which was patterned with rose-tinted glass, and when Richard accepted his offer of hospitality, Francis had no difficulty in deciding which bedchamber should be set aside for Richard’s use.
He’d hoped to find Richard alone, for they’d had little chance for private conversation since departing Windsor ten days ago on the royal progress. He knew, though, that a King’s time was not his own, and he was not surprised by what he found—a chamber full of familiar faces. Jack de la Pole, Earl of Lincoln, the twenty-year-old son of Richard’s sister Eliza, was lounging in one of the window seats, engaging in a three-way conversation with Dick Ratcliffe and Thomas Howard, John Howard’s eldest son. John Scrope and the young Earl of Huntingdon were passing the time in agreeable disagreement about the intention of the Scots, and Rob Percy was amusing himself by dazzling George’s eight-year-old son with a sleight-of-hand involving walnut shells and dried beans; Edward’s eyes were growing progressively wider and Rob was laughing outright at the youngster’s astonishment. Against a far wall, Thomas Stanley was standing alone, isolated from the other men by more than distance.
In the midst of all this activity, Richard and John Kendall were sorting through a pile of letters that had been forwarded from London. Richard had one open in his hand; at sight of Francis, he smiled, said, “From my son. The fourth letter I’ve gotten from him in the past fortnight, and each one asks me the same question: When will we arrive in York?”
“And I’ll wager the only answer that would satisfy him would be ‘Yesterday,’ ” Francis quipped, and Richard laughed. He looked far better than he had in weeks, no longer like a man living on the edge of highly strung nerves, and Francis knew why. In the towns of Reading and Oxford, in the villages of the Cotswolds, Richard had found a heartening welcome, found the enthusiasm for his kingship that Londoners had lacked. And it would get better, Francis thought contentedly; Yorkshire would turn out for Dickon in numbers too great to count, would give him a welcome home that none would ever forget. He smiled at the thought, started to express it aloud, when John Kendall straightened up, said with a gasp,
“My liege, you’ll never believe what we have here! A letter from Tom Lynom, your Solicitor, seeking your permission to marry that…that Shore harlot!”
All conversation ceased. Every man in the chamber was staring at Kendall, staring in disbelief.
“Let me see that!” Richard demanded incredulously. Scanning the letter, he shook his head in baffled wonderment. “Damned if he doesn’t!”
“The man’s besotted!” John Scrope sounded disgusted. “The King’s Solicitor and Thomas Grey’s doxy…. The stupid ass, doesn’t he realize he’s putting his career to the torch?”
Dick Ratcliffe was frowning. “I know Lynom, and this isn’t like him. He’s just not a man to lose his head over a woman, especially a wanton like Jane Shore!”
“Say what you will about the woman, she draws men like flies to honey. And for the life of me,” Richard confessed, “I cannot see why!”
Jack de la Pole stirred at that. “Speak for yourself, Uncle!” he said cheerfully, drew a laugh from all but Thomas Stanley. Since Richard’s coronation, Stanley had thrown himself into the role of a loyal and prudent councilor with all the zeal of a reformed heretic, and he addressed himself now to Richard with an earnestness that just missed being obsequious.
“Shall I draw up for Your Grace a list of lawyers qualified for Lynom’s post?”
“No, I don’t think that be necessary,” Richard said coolly, hoping his dislike of Stanley didn’t show too markedly.
Picking up Lynom’s petition, he began to read it through again, as Francis nudged Rob Percy and murmured, “Fifty marks against that new grey gelding of mine that he does!”
“Done,” Rob shot back instantly, and they shook hands with mock gravity.
Richard folded Lynom’s petition, handed it back to John Kendall. He was trying to envision an unlikelier pairing than that of the serious self-contained Lynom and Jane Shore, the light-minded amoral butterfly. He couldn’t.
Ratcliffe was moved to intercede for his reckless friend. “He must love her beyond reason to risk so much for her.”
“Yes,” Richard agreed. “He must.”
“What mean you to do?”
“I fear I’m not doing him a service, but if he wants her as badly as that…” Richard paused. “I suppose I shall have to let him marry her,” he said, and laughed at the astonishment so plainly written on their faces. Francis laughed, too, and nudged Rob again.
“Pay me!” he said.
Occasionally just before a storm, there is a deceptively tranquil lull, a brief time in which the winds die down and the sky seems about to clear. Later, remembering Tom Lynom’s lovesick request and Richard’s indulgent response to it, Francis would think of those laughter-filled moments as just such a lull, one that gave way all too soon to trouble, of a sort none of them could have anticipated.
The Duke of Buckingham had remained behind in London; it had been agreed beforehand that he was to rendezvous with Richard at Gloucester. There they were to separate, Buckingham riding on into Wales, Richard continuing north to Tewkesbury. Buckingham’s arrival that night at Minster Lovell was unexpected, created some problems of accommodation, for he’d sent no word ahead. He demanded at once to be taken to Richard, despite the lateness of the hour, and as soon as they were alone, he told Richard that his brother’s sons had vanished from the Tower.
“…and so two servants slept in the lower chamber and one attendant up in the bedchamber with the boys. There were no other guards; after all, what need was there? The Tower itself was secure.”
Buckingham was speaking faster than usual, seemed reluctant to meet Richard’s eyes. Francis was accustomed to the younger man’s mercurial shifts of mood, but never had he seen Buckingham so openly edgy. He was not surprised, though. Buckingham had personally picked the men serving as Edward’s attendants; some of the responsibility, therefore, was his.
Jack de la Pole had been summoned, like Francis, to hear Buckingham’s account. He now said impatiently, “We can go into that later. What story are the men telling, the two who slept below?”
“They claim their ale must have been drugged, say they sat down with a flagon in early evening and remember nothing else till the next day, waking up on the floor in their own vomit. After coming to, they went upstairs and found both boys and the other servant gone. In a panic, they went to Brackenbury, the Constable of the Tower. He ordered a discreet search of the Tower grounds, turned up nothing, and came to me, since I’m now your Lord Constable.”
“I don’t understand,” Richard said slowly. “I can see that they could have been taken from the Garden Tower without attracting undue attention. But how could they have been smuggled out of the Tower itself? It’s guarded at night, the gates locked. It makes no sense, doesn’t seem possible.”
“The fact that they’re gone proves that it is.” Buckingham shifted in his chair. “Perhaps they bribed a guard, had a boat waiting on the river. Or waited till daylight, till the gates were opened. The alarm wasn’t given for hours, after all. I can only guess how it was done. But it was done, and what matters now is not so much how as why and who.” He leaned toward Richard. “Two possibilities come at once to mind.”
“The Woodvilles?” Francis said, and Buckingham nodded.
“Thomas Grey is still at large, and so are three of Elizabeth Woodville’s brothers. Who’d have a stronger motive? And they’ve the money, as well, to finance such a scheme, what with having gotten half the royal treasury away free and clear to Brittany.”
“And the other?” Richard said tersely.
“Someone in the pay of the French King. He was more than willing to use Édouard of Lancaster against your brother. I daresay he’d be no less willing to use the boys against you.”
Some of Richard’s initial shock was ebb
ing. “If we’re going to find them, we need more than speculation. Let’s start with the men who claim to’ve been drugged. How do we know they speak the truth? Does their story hold up under questioning?”
Buckingham shrugged. “Both Brackenbury and I interrogated them at some length, could catch them up in no contradictions.”
“What about the doctor…Argentine? Where was he that night?”
“Gone. I dismissed him last week.”
Richard was startled. “I gave no such order, Harry.”
“I know, but I took it upon myself to issue one in your name.” Buckingham sounded faintly defensive. “He was no friend to you, Cousin, was poisoning the boy’s mind against you.”
“Well, perhaps…. But what of the man who disappeared? Was he the one who gave the others the ale? I thought as much. What’s his background, Harry? What can you tell us about him?”
Buckingham looked uncomfortable. “Well, actually, I know very little,” he admitted. “I took him on my steward’s recommendation, saw no need to check into his past—”
“What do you mean you don’t know? Christ, Harry, you were the one who offered to replace Edward’s attendants with men we could trust!”
“And I had every reason to think we could trust this man! Look, Cousin, I know this has hit you hard, but I don’t think it fair to put the blame on me. Every man has his price; it’s hardly my fault if someone found his. Now, my steward handpicked the man, will have all the information we need about his past, his family, whatever. When I get back to Brecknock, I’ll question him at once, get the answers you want.”
Richard bit his lip. Accusing words would come all too easily tonight, and once said, could not be forgotten. Yes, Harry had been negligent, but so had he. He should have chosen Edward and Dickon’s attendants himself, shouldn’t have waited, should have sent them north before he left on progress. Jesú, why hadn’t he?
“You do that, Harry,” he said curtly, saw that Buckingham resented his peremptory tone, but that was the least of his worries at the moment. Where were they? In whose hands?
“Who else knows?”
“Brackenbury, of course. And Jack Howard and Chancellor Russell. No one else…so far.”
Richard pushed his chair back, came to his feet. After a moment’s reflection, he crossed to the door. John Kendall had already retired for the night, but one of his scribes responded at once to Richard’s summons.
“Seat yourself, Will,” Richard directed. “I’ve a letter to go tonight to my lord Chancellor.”
Buckingham half rose from his seat. “Cousin….”
Richard had begun to pace. As the scribe waited patiently, he mentally formulated and rejected sentences, searching for words oblique enough to be safely put to paper and yet clear enough so that Russell understood his meaning. “Whereas we understand that certain persons of late had taken upon them the fact of an enterprise…” Yes, Russell would comprehend.
Turning back to the scribe, he began to dictate rapidly, a brief cryptic letter directing his Chancellor to discuss the “enterprise” alluded to with members of the council, to begin an investigation, and to appoint a commission to try persons as yet unnamed.
“Given under our signet at this manor of Minster Lovell the twenty-ninth day of July,” he concluded, and listened critically as the mystified scribe obediently read the letter back.
“Thank you, Will. That will do.”
Buckingham had been listening in growing agitation. With the scribe’s departure, he burst out, “Christ Almighty, Cousin, you can’t do that! You can’t let this get out!”
“What other choice do I have?”
“You haven’t thought this through. If you had, you’d see at once that the worst thing you could do is to make this public!”
“And what are you suggesting that I do, Harry? Say nothing, pretend all is well? Don’t you think that sooner or later the boys will be missed? That people won’t wonder why they’re no longer seen about the Tower grounds? How do you expect me to account for their disappearance?”
“Cousin, listen to me. The boys were put in your care. That makes you responsible for their well-being, their safety. You don’t see the implications in that? You don’t realize the risk you’re taking? There are already too many men in London who think Stillington lied about the plight-troth, lied at your bidding.”
He saw Richard stiffen, said swiftly, “We’re talking truth, Cousin; the stakes be too high for anything less. You think on those suspicious whoresons, the ones who’re convinced you usurped your nephew’s crown. Now you want to tell them that your nephews have suddenly and conveniently disappeared, vanished from the Tower under circumstances you can’t explain? You truly want to tell them that?”
Richard’s shock was such that he could only stare at Buckingham, all defenses down. It had not occurred to him that men might put so sinister an interpretation upon his nephews’ disappearance.
His sister’s son was no less stunned, reacted with outrage. “That be ridiculous! None who know my uncle would ever believe he’d harm a child, least of all his brother’s children!”
Buckingham gave Jack a look of poorly concealed contempt. “Must we waste time in stating the obvious? We’re talking of men who don’t know your uncle, of men who’d believe the worst of Our Lord Jesus Christ Himself! We’re talking of die-hard Lancastrians, of malcontents and men in the pay of Henry and Jasper Tudor and the French King. You think such scum would scruple to make use of the most blatant lies?”
As little as Francis liked to find himself allied with Buckingham, he could see no help for it. “There’s some very ugly truth in what he says, Dickon. I’d not see you subjected to such vicious gossip if it can be helped. And I think perhaps…just perhaps…it can.”
Richard swallowed; there was a sour taste in his mouth. He wouldn’t lie to himself, knew all too well that he’d never be able to endure slander of that sort. As it was, he’d found it all but intolerable these past few weeks, knowing that there were those who believed he’d made use of a lie to take the throne from his brother’s son, and knowing, too, that there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.
“How, Francis?”
“Suppose we say nothing, while quietly doing what we can to locate the boys? One of two things be bound to happen. Either we find them or they surface somewhere. Once they’re safe out of the country, there’ll be no point in keeping their whereabouts a secret, after all. The whole idea be to make use of them to stir up rebellion, so it’ll be crucial to let it be known that they’re no longer in your custody. I’d hope we find them before they can be gotten abroad, for their sakes as well as ours; I’d not like to see them used, exploited. But if the worst does come to pass, and we discover them living at the French court, at least none can besmirch your name, Dickon, can twist their disappearance into something it’s not for political purposes.”
“Lovell’s right,” Buckingham chimed in feverishly. “If you’ll not heed me, listen to him! You mustn’t let word of this get out, not yet. Later—as Lovell says—it won’t matter, but now it’d be disastrous!”
Richard gazed at Buckingham, not fully understanding the other’s urgency, but impressed by the passion in Buckingham’s plea. Harry rarely showed so much emotion; he must feel very strongly about this, in truth. Were he and Francis right? What would he gain by revealing Edward and Dickon’s disappearance now? Wouldn’t that be playing into the hands of his enemies, sowing suspicions that might not be so easy to uproot? What could he lose, after all, by waiting? With luck, the boys might be found before anyone even discovered they were missing.
A strained quiet had settled over the room. Accurately reading assent into Richard’s silence, Francis crossed to the sideboard, began to pour drinks for them all. Richard accepted his without comment, nodded almost imperceptibly when Buckingham assured him that John Howard had already begun making queries, would assume personal charge of the search. It was only then that Richard remembered about his nephew�
��s pet spaniel.
“Dickon had a dog, Harry, a small spaniel. What of it? No one heard it barking?”
“The dog….” Buckingham was frowning. “What did Brackenbury tell me about the dog?” His face cleared. “I remember. It died two days before their disappearance.”
“Died?” Richard said sharply. “How?”
“Just what you’re thinking…poison. Brackenbury says at the time it was taken for granted that the dog had gotten hold of something tainted, maybe poison set out for rats. Now we do know better, of course. They couldn’t take the dog with them, but you couldn’t expect a ten-year-old boy to understand that, to leave the dog willingly. And so…” Buckingham shrugged, said with a twisted smile, “You have to admit it was clever, spared them no small measure of trouble with the boy, whining and not wanting to go without the dog. No, unfortunately for you, Cousin…for us…they seem to have thought of everything.”
“I don’t see much to admire in poisoning a little boy’s dog,” Jack said cuttingly, but even he was taken aback by the violence of Buckingham’s reaction.
“Just what do you mean by that? I never said anything of the sort, and you damned well know it! What sort of trouble are you trying to stir up?”
Jack was not intimidated. “Well, what did you mean, then? We’re talking about the abduction of two youngsters, ten and twelve, boys who doubtlessly went willingly with their abductors, at least one of whom appears to’ve been their own servant. It wouldn’t take a bloody mastermind to pull that off, as you seem to think, just good timing and a fair amount of luck!”
“Men like you make me sick, in truth,” Buckingham said, so venomously that Jack started to rise from his chair. “You just take it for granted that you’re dealing with fools, don’t you? Well, there be a Welsh proverb you’d do well to heed, that a man who underestimates his enemy is a man on his way to his own funeral. Now you do as you please, but that’s not a mistake I mean to make. We’re dealing with a first-rate intelligence and unless we do own up to that, our chances of finding those boys will range from slim to none!”
The Sunne In Splendour: A Novel of Richard III Page 101
