Leon Garfield's Shakespeare Stories

by Leon Garfield

  “I pray you all, tell me what they deserve,” Richard demanded harshly, “that do conspire my death by devilish plots of damned witchcraft, and that have prevailed upon my body with their hellish charms?” He fixed his stare upon Lord Hastings.

  “I say, my lord,” muttered Hastings, his happiness freezing on his face, “they have deserved death.”

  “Then be your eyes the witness of their evil!” shouted the hunchback; and, dragging up his sleeve, displayed his arm, all shrunken, withered and brown. “See how I am bewitched! And this is Edward’s wife, that monstrous witch, consorted with that harlot, strumpet Shore, that by their witchcraft thus have marked me!”

  “If they have done this deed, my noble lord—” whispered Hastings, in sudden terror.

  “If?” screamed Richard. “Thou protector of this damned strumpet, talks thou to me of ifs! Thou art a traitor! Off with his head! Now by Saint Paul I will not dine until I see the same!” He turned to two gentlemen who were plainly eager to please him: “Lovell and Ratcliffe, look that it be done; the rest that love me, rise and follow me.”

  With one accord, the company rose and followed the furious little hunchback, leaving the dazed and broken Hastings with his executioners.

  “Come, come, dispatch,” said one impatiently: “the Duke would be at dinner; make a short shrift: he longs to see your head.”

  With a groan of despair, Lord Hastings suffered himself to be led away. When he had gone, the Bishop of Ely’s servant, sweating from haste, came in with a bowl of bright red strawberries for his Grace, the Duke.

  The Lord Mayor of London, his shining chain of office jingling and dancing on his portly bosom, and accompanied by no less a gentleman than Sir William Catesby, hastened to the Tower. His attendance had been requested by the highest in the land: the noble Dukes of Gloucester and Buckingham.

  Little pearls of anxiety trickled down the Lord Mayor’s crimson cheeks, brought on by both the heat of the day and the worry of the times. Since the death of the King, there was a great uneasiness about a land being governed by a child; and citizens had been speaking out against the Queen’s party and against the Duke of Gloucester. There was a general fear of tyranny, oppression and ruinous war; and now, the sudden execution of Lord Hastings, without examination or trial, was a great scandal, and cause for concern.

  The two Dukes were waiting by the draw-bridge of the Tower. They both looked weary, like soldiers after a battle; but it was only to be expected, for they carried on their shoulders the heavy burdens of state. Before the Lord Mayor could speak, they told him about Lord Hastings. They were free and open; they held nothing back. Lord Hastings had been a dangerous traitor. The safety of the realm had been threatened.

  “The peace of England,” confided the Duke of Gloucester, clasping the Lord Mayor’s hand warmly between his own, “enforced us to this execution!”

  People said harsh things about the Duke of Gloucester, but the Lord Mayor, having met him, found all the talk to be quite mistaken. Though small and unfortunate in his bodily appearance, the Duke was a most excellent, true-hearted gentleman, not in the least high and mighty, and with no trace of deceit or guile about him. He took the Duke’s word for it about Lord Hastings without question; and when the Duke of Buckingham, drawing him to one side, murmured that it might be no bad thing for England if a man like the Duke of Gloucester were to be king, the good Mayor nodded his fat head in whole-hearted agreement.

  The Duke looked pleased; and then, to the Mayor’s great pride, the noble gentleman linked arms with him and confided something not generally known. There were doubts about the little Prince’s right to the throne. It was suspected (and strongly suspected!) that King Edward, the child’s father, was himself a bastard and should never have worn the crown! The Mayor was shocked, amazed; and when the Duke suggested he should gather the aldermen and leading citizens and persuade them to beg the Duke of Gloucester to become England’s rightful king, he readily agreed. He had never felt more important in his life.

  Away he went, propelled into haste by the Duke of Buckingham, who filled his trembling ears with the Duke of Gloucester’s many virtues. As quickly as he could, he gathered together the aldermen and as many leading citizens as he could lay hands on; and, in hasty procession, led them to Baynard’s Castle. There, he had been informed, the good Duke of Gloucester would be found at prayer.

  “Ah, ha, my lord,” cried the Duke of Buckingham, as they reached Baynard’s Castle, “this prince is not an Edward: he is not lolling on a lewd love-bed, but on his knees in meditation!” and sure enough, the good Duke of Gloucester was to be seen at a window with a holy clergyman on either side of him. And one of them, the Mayor was honoured to see, was his own brother, Doctor Shaa! He was overcome. Never had he seen a prince displaying such modesty, such humility, and such downright holiness!

  “Long live Richard, England’s worthy King!” shouted the Duke of Buckingham, and threw his cap into the air.

  “Amen!” cried the Lord Mayor, and, with vigorous wavings of his arms, encouraged the aldermen and citizens to shout likewise: “Amen! Long live Richard, England’s worthy King!”

  Three women, all in black, stood before the Tower. One was the Queen, another was the Lady Anne, now the hunchback’s wretched wife, and the third was the old Duchess of York, his unlucky mother. The day was dying and the Tower loomed darkly against the bloody sky. Somewhere within its grim bulk were the two little Princes; but by order of the Duke of Gloucester, they were not to be seen, even by their mother.

  “O my accursed womb,” wept the old Duchess, striking at her belly with frail, despairing fists, “the bed of death! A cockatrice hast thou hatched to the world whose unavoided eye is murderous!”

  As the women stood, staring up at the ancient fortress, a gentleman approached the Lady Anne. “Come, madam,” he murmured, “you must straight to Westminster, there to be crowned Richard’s royal queen.”

  “Go, go, poor soul,” said the Queen, to her unwilling successor, “I envy not thy glory.”

  The Lady Anne sighed. Since her wedding to the crooked Duke, her life had been a misery to her. “For never yet one hour in his bed did I enjoy the golden dew of sleep, but with his timorous dreams was still awaked,” she whispered. “He hates me . . .”

  “Come, madam, come,” urged the gentleman. “I in all haste was sent.”

  Sadly, the women parted. The Queen was last to leave. She looked back to the Tower, where her children were imprisoned. “Pity, you ancient stones, those tender babes,” she pleaded. “Rough cradle for such pretty little ones, rude ragged nurse, old sullen playfellow for tender princes, use my babies well.”

  King Richard in glory. Trailing a vast velvet robe, like heavy scarlet wings, he hopped and hobbled across the royal chamber, as if he would fly up the steps to the throne. Awkwardly, he mounted, and seated himself in the sacred place. Dukes and lords stood watching him; and he watched them. He was frowning. Though he wore the crown there was something still gnawing at his soul. He beckoned to his friend, Buckingham, who came and knelt beside him.

  “Shall we wear these glories for a day,” he asked softly, “or shall they last . . . ?”

  “For ever let them last!” answered his friend.

  But Richard shook his head. “Young Edward lives—think now what I would speak.”

  “Say on, my loving lord,” murmured Buckingham, unwilling to commit himself.

  “Why, Buckingham, I say I would be king.”

  “Why so you are, my thrice-renowned lord.”

  “But Edward lives.”

  “True, noble Prince.”

  “Cousin, thou wast not wont to be so dull. Shall I be plain? I wish the bastards dead. What say’st thou now?”

  “Your Grace may do your pleasure.”

  “Tut, tut, thou art all ice. Say, have I thy consent that they shall die?”

  Buckingham looked about him. Was it possible they had been overheard? “Give me some little breath, some pause,” he
muttered uncertainly, “before I positively speak in this.” He rose, bowed and withdrew. His face was pale. Even he shrank from the murder of children.

  Richard stared after him. “High-reaching Buckingham grows circumspect,” he murmured thoughtfully. He summoned a page. Did the boy know, he inquired, almost idly, of any gentleman who might be bought for money. The page knew of just such a gentleman. His name was Tyrrel. Quietly, Richard bade the boy call him hither.

  Before he was king, he had been consumed only with a desire for the crown; now it was his, he was filled with a dread of losing it. He must be secure. His wife, Anne, was in his way. He needed a better marriage . . .

  Lord Stanley, a man he did not trust, approached the throne. He bowed, but not low enough. He had news. The Marquess of Dorset, the Queen’s kinsman, had fled to France and joined forces with the Earl of Richmond, of the hated House of Lancaster, who was in exile there.

  Richard brushed the news aside. He had other matters on his mind. He summoned Sir William Catesby. Catesby came and knelt before his master. Richard beckoned him close. “Rumour it abroad,” he murmured in Catesby’s ready ear, “that Anne my wife is very grievous sick; I will take order for her keeping close.” Catesby stared. “Look how thou dream’st!” muttered Richard angrily. “I say again that Anne, my Queen, is sick and like to die. About it!” Catesby stumbled away.

  It was in Richard’s mind to marry Elizabeth, his niece and daughter of King Edward. It was a bold plan. “Murder her brothers, and then marry her—uncertain way of gain!” He shrugged his shoulders and peered about him. There was a fellow who had slipped in among the throng, a restless-looking gentleman who was plainly trying to catch his eye. Beside him, hovered the page. Richard looked at him inquiringly. The page nodded. This was the man. The page whispered to his companion; and the man came quickly forward and crouched beside the King.

  “Is thy name Tyrrel?”

  “James Tyrrel, and your most obedient subject.”

  “Art thou indeed?”

  “Prove me, my gracious lord.”

  “Dare’st thou resolve to kill,” murmured Richard, “a friend of mine?”

  “Please you; but I had rather kill two enemies,” answered the loyal fellow.

  “Why then thou hast it; two deep enemies,” whispered the King. “Tyrrel, I mean those bastards in the Tower.”

  The page had chosen well. Tyrrel was a fellow after Richard’s own heart. No hesitations, no doubts; he nodded eagerly, and hurried away.

  Back came the Duke of Buckingham, all smiles. It seemed he had thought better of his previous evasiveness. But he was too late. Richard was no longer interested. Instead, he spoke of Dorset’s flight to the Earl of Richmond.

  “I hear the news, my lord,” said Buckingham; and then that arrogant and greedy gentleman presumed to remind the King of his promise. “I claim the gift,” he said, bringing his face so close that the King could smell his sickly breath. “The earldom of Hereford, and the moveables which you have promised I shall possess.”

  “I do remember me,” said Richard, as if Buckingham had not spoken, “Henry the Sixth did prophesy that Richmond should be King, when Richmond was a little peevish boy.”

  “My lord!” muttered Buckingham, growing red in the face.

  “How chance the prophet,” mused Richard, almost to himself, “could not, at that time, have told me—I being by—that I should kill him?”

  “My lord, your promise for the earldom—”

  Richard looked at him coldly. “I am not in the giving vein today. Thou troublest me. I am not in the vein.”

  With that, he rose, and, followed by his court, left the chamber.

  “And is it thus?” whispered Buckingham, trembling with anger. “Repays he my deep service with such contempt?” Then he remembered the fate of Hastings. He grew cold. He left the chamber, and with all the haste he could command, fled from London while his head was still on his shoulders.

  Good news and bad. Tyrrel had proved an honest fellow. King Edward’s two brats were dead. Pillows had been pressed on their sleeping faces, and forced down till their little strugglings had finished. Then their sweet little bodies had been buried . . .

  Now the bad. The foolhardy Buckingham had raised an army in Wales; and much worse, the fat Bishop of Ely had abandoned his strawberries in Holborn and gone over to the dangerous Earl of Richmond.

  But good again. He was a widower. Anne, his Queen, was dead. Her life had been a misery to her; it was a kindness to have helped her out of it.

  The good outweighed the bad. The way to marry his brother’s daughter, Elizabeth, was now free from all impediment. He rubbed his hands together. “To her go I, a jolly thriving wooer,” said he cheerfully. He scented himself with roses and put on his gorgeous velvet gown that flowed after him, like a sea of blood. Then, in royal splendour, he set out from the palace, accompanied by the warlike music of trumpets and drums.

  Suddenly the music ceased. Two shouting women had stopped it. One was the Queen, the other was that tedious old crone, his mother, the Duchess of York. They had learned of the deaths of the little Princes.

  “Tell me, thou villain-slave, where are my children?” shrieked the Queen.

  “Thou toad, thou toad, where is thy brother, Clarence?” screamed his mother, and much else besides. Furiously the King commanded the music to strike up and drown the accusing voices. The trumpets blazed, and the howling women were reduced to frantic white faces with mouths like empty black Os, shouting nothings!

  They gave up their useless clamour, and the King signalled the music to cease.

  “Be patient and entreat me fair,” he warned; and his mother bowed her head.

  “I will be mild and gentle in my words,” she promised.

  “And brief, good mother, for I am in haste.”

  “Art thou so hasty?” she asked bitterly. “I have stayed for thee, God knows, in torment and in agony.”

  “And came I not at last to comfort you?” said he, and mockingly opened his royal arms as if to embrace her.

  She shrank back in horror. “Thou cam’st on earth to make the earth my hell!” she cried; and all her hatred for her murderous, misshapen son burst out in a flood of bitterness. “A grievous burden was thy birth to me: tetchy and wayward was thy infancy; thy schooldays frightful, desperate, wild, and furious; thy age confirmed, subtle, sly and bloody—”

  Richard scowled. He’d had enough of his mother’s disagreeable screechings. He raised his hand for the trumpets to drown her out—

  “Hear me a word,” she demanded, “for I shall never speak to thee again!”

  Richard shrugged his shoulders; and in gratitude for his forbearance, his mother cursed him, and prayed that he should fall in battle. “Bloody thou art; bloody will be thy end!” she prophesied; and, turning away, she departed, her black gown flapping like a harpy’s wings.

  The Queen was about to follow, when Richard detained her. “Stay, madam: I must talk a word with you.” He had not forgotten the purpose of his expedition: to secure the Lady Elizabeth as his wife. This meeting with her mother might prove advantageous. True, he had just murdered her little sons, but he was confident that with a little flattery, a little show of repentance, and a few worthless promises, her frantic outpourings of grief would soon be cut down to . . . sighs.

  “I have no more sons of the royal blood for thee to slaughter!” cried she.

  “You have a daughter—”

  “And must she die for this? O let her live!” pleaded the Queen wildly. “I’ll corrupt her manners, stain her beauty, slander myself as false to Edward’s bed—”

  “Wrong not her birth; she is a royal princess.”

  “To save her life I’ll say she is not so!”

  “Her life is safest only in her birth,” said Richard gently. “I love thy daughter, and do intend to make her Queen of England.”

  She stared at him. His shameless villainy was beyond belief! She began to rail and rage against him, crying out th
e bloody catalogue of all his misdeeds—

  “Look what is done cannot be now amended,” said Richard, when she paused for breath. “If I did take the kingdom from your sons, I’ll give it to your daughter . . .”

  It was a fair and reasonable offer, but the wretched woman would not have it: she was still distraught over the loss of her sons.

  “Harp not on that string, madam,” said Richard, losing patience; “that is past.”

  “Harp on it still shall I, till heart-strings break!” she wept. Wearily, Richard sighed; and put forward all the excellent reasons for the marriage: the Queen’s family would be secure, England would be at peace—

  “Yet thou didst kill my children.”

  “But in your daughter’s womb I bury them,” murmured Richard, “where, in that nest of spicery, they will breed selves of themselves to your recomforture.”

  The Queen shook her head. All her fire and fury was spent. “Shall I be tempted of the devil thus?” she whispered.

  “Ay, if the devil tempt you to do good.”

  “Shall I go win my daughter to thy will?”

  “And be a happy mother by the deed.” He opened his arms. “Bear her my true love’s kiss,” said he, and, enfolding her in his embrace, kissed her cold lips tenderly, like a son.

  “Relenting fool, and shallow, changing woman!” he murmured, as the beaten Queen departed, dazed and forlorn.

  The marriage would undoubtedly secure him; but before it could take place, other matters began to clamour for his attention. Suddenly the land had begun to stir and heave with the maggots of rebellion. News came in of uprisings in Kent, and armed men gathering in the west. As he crouched on the throne, Richard’s looks were fierce and his thoughts were bloody. It seemed as if his mother’s curse was being visited upon him—

  “Richmond is on the seas!”

  It was that slippery gentleman, Lord Stanley, who brought the news.

  “There let him sink, and be the seas on him!” said Richard contemptuously. “What doth he there?”