by Nigel Green
The empty horizon was mocking me, so I indicated that we should return to the castle. Followed by our escort, John Hoton and I descended from our position by the customs house and started to walk back up English Street. I ignored the sullen faces and hostile stares of the townsfolk as our escort elbowed them from our path. I was used to their enmity by now – too many of them had sympathised with the traitor Buckingham and, given the opportunity, would back Tudor now. Well, they were not going to get the chance.
As we passed the Church of Holy Rood, I wondered whether Catesby’s forecast of Tudor’s landing place was correct. Ratcliffe had doubted it. He had pointed out that Tudor would be more likely to land in Wales where, despite his long absence, his Welsh blood would attract support. Personally I doubted this, but conceded the possibility.
So we had taken precautions in Wales, but it was in the South of England, where support for Richard was weakest, that we had put in the greatest effort. I had created three military zones: John, Lord Scrope my neighbour and fellow soldier from Yorkshire held the South-West region; another Yorkshire man, Brackenbury, together with the loyal Duke of Norfolk held London and the South-East; while I took personal charge of the central zone. Ahead of us, the imposing castle gatehouse loomed and our escort fell back to guard the rear as Hoton and I entered. We halted in the courtyard and he glanced at me.
‘Do you want to continue your inspection of the castle?’ he asked.
I shook my head.
‘I’ve come to the conclusion that, in Tudor’s place, I would not bother trying to capture Southampton. It would slow him down and he needs to press on inland and muster his supporters in England.’
‘So how will you stop him?’ Hoton wanted to know.
I explained the strategy that I had designed for all three military zones.
‘Firstly, we work on the assumption that Tudor’s fleet is not intercepted and destroyed by our own ships, which have been patrolling the Channel since April, and that his army manages to land unopposed. So, as soon as we hear of a landing, we use the fast courier system to notify the king in Nottingham. He will immediately muster the main army.’
There was the sound of a disturbance from the gatehouse, but I paid it no heed. The guards there could deal with the mutinous townsfolk.
‘Now while the main army is concentrating in the centre of England, we slow Tudor down in the South. We attack their foraging parties and prevent sympathisers from joining them. Then we deny Tudor food and shelter.’
‘How?’
‘All livestock in their path are slaughtered; all habitations are torched. The enemy will find dead sheep polluting rivers and streams.’
I broke off as a mud-splattered rider forced his way through the fracas at the gatehouse and spurred his horse towards us. Even as he slid off his sweating horse, the messenger’s hand was inside his tunic.
‘From Master Catesby, my lord,’ he panted.
I seized the scroll and reeled in shock. How in hell’s name could it have happened?
‘Get your men ready!’ I ordered Hoton. ‘Tudor’s in Wales and is approaching Shrewsbury.’
He looked at me, mouth agape.
‘But how? You said that all precautions had been…’
There was no time for this. I tossed a coin to the messenger.
‘Refresh yourself quickly and return to Master Catesby. Tell him I need to know the numbers and composition of Tudor’s army. I also want his estimate as to their direction and state of morale. Now repeat what I have said.’
He did so immediately and I was impressed by his efficiency. Clearly Catesby had used one of his best people.
The messenger eyed me shrewdly.
‘You’ll be moving north, my lord. Where should Master Catesby send this information?’
I thought briefly. The recipient would have to be a man that I trusted completely at a point between here and Nottingham.
‘Tell him to send it to the Abbot of Our Lady in Abingdon,’ I told him. ‘His abbey is near Oxford.’
Despite the need for haste, our march to Nottingham was no mad scramble; to have hurried too much would have exhausted the men and lamed the horses. I needed time to think too. I let John Hoton dictate the pace of our ride north and, as I knew him to be prudent, unquestioningly obeyed his measured orders to ride, walk or rest the horses. I spent the time pondering what lay ahead. The hardest part was that, until I received Catesby’s second message, I had no hard facts. All I knew was that Tudor had inexplicably breached our defences in Wales. What would he do when he got to Shrewsbury?
He had two choices. Assuming he had attracted considerable support in Wales, he could head straight down Watling Street towards London. I chewed my lip nervously. Richard’s army would not be fully mustered, but he would be unable to ignore the threat to his capital. In this scenario, we would be forced to fight against a rebel army whose numbers would undoubtedly exceed our own. But Tudor had another choice, which would favour us. If he had not got the support he needed by the time he reached Shrewsbury, he would not dare to try for London. He would probably head to the North-West and try to enlist the support of his stepfather, Lord Stanley. But he would get an unpleasant surprise because…
‘Halt!’
Hoton’s sharp command caused me to jerk hard at my reins and, looking up, I followed the direction of his pointed finger. Ahead of us in the distance, a large party of horsemen were heading north.
He wheeled round.
‘I can’t make out their banners, my lord. Can you?’
‘No.’
He narrowed his eyes.
‘We’ll treat them as hostile then and, since they easily outnumber us, we’ll try to avoid them.’ He raised his voice. ‘Dismount and rest!’
It would delay us, but it was the safest choice. I slid off my horse wearily. All over England, I reflected, men would be stirring and moving purposefully towards the centre of England, but to fight for whom? I recalled a discussion I had had with Broughton uneasily.
‘You mean everyone would have still supported Gloucester if he had been content to remain as protector?’ he clarified.
‘Yes.’
‘Course they would,’ he slurred. ‘No one would have backed Tudor. That’s why he never dared to invade until Richard became king.’
I trusted Broughton as I trusted no other man, but I found it hard to believe that men could think in this way.
‘Are you sure?’
He looked at me sadly, pitying my ignorance.
‘Come down from the lofty heights of the court, Francis, and see facts the way ordinary men see them. Richard of Gloucester split the supporters of the House of York when he became king. He may not have found the promotion from protector to king difficult, but it was hard for a number of other people.’
I made no response, and he traced two circles in the spilled wine thoughtfully.
‘Then again,’ he murmured, ‘two young princes might have been little problems for Gloucester, but they became large ones for many of his subjects.’
‘But would you risk your life and your lands fighting for an unknown Welshman? Henry Tudor has no right to the throne.’
Broughton shrugged.
‘How much of a right does Gloucester have?’ he asked quietly. ‘Francis, I don’t know who will fight for Tudor, but then I can’t say who will fight for Richard either.’
‘Abingdon, my lord!’ Hoton pointed ahead.
I grunted in acknowledgement.
‘Do you reckon that Master Catesby’s messenger will have arrived there yet?’ he asked conversationally.
I shrugged. I was in no mood to talk. Ever since I had thought back to what Broughton had said, I had recalled a number of other conversations and incidents and none of them had cheered me. For a start, Broughton’s assessment had been devastatingly accurate. In taking the crown, Richard had divided the followers of the House of York; support for him was ebbing away as the malicious rumours against him multiplied and spread. I susp
ected that by now our regime was a minority one, and one which was growing progressively weaker. For all that, Richard’s own position was tenable provided the great nobles backed him. The problem was that too much power was concentrated in the hands of but three of them, so it would be the troops of the Duke of Norfolk, the Earl of Northumberland and Lord Stanley who would comprise the majority of our army. Catesby doubted the loyalty of Lord Stanley though, arguing that he would be unnatural to fight against his stepson, Tudor. Ratcliffe and I disagreed. We argued that Lord Stanley had proved loyal to Richard since his coronation; he had made no attempt to support his stepson at the time of Buckingham’s revolt and, we pointed out, there was no evidence to suggest that he was going to do so now. While Catesby had agreed grudgingly, we were all privately suspicious of Lord Stanley’s intentions, which was why, when matters came to a head, neither Ratcliffe nor I had known what to do.
‘So what do we do?’ asked Ratcliffe frantically. ‘Stanley’s asked permission to leave court and administer his estates.’
‘The timing is curious. At court we can keep an eye on him, but let him go and he may join Tudor if he chooses.’
‘I know that!’ howled Ratcliffe. ‘So what do you suggest, Francis?’
I was saved the necessity of answering as at that moment Catesby sauntered into the council chamber. He had clearly overheard us, as an amused smile lit up his features.
‘If you forbid Lord Stanley to return to his estates, it is, of course, just possible that the perceptive peer might conceive the idea that you don’t entirely trust him,’ he began in his normal teasing voice.
Ratcliffe snorted impatiently.
Anyone could work that out!’ he snapped. ‘But let him go and he could lead 6,000 men to back Henry Tudor when he invades.’
Ratcliffe glared at his rival.
‘What’s your suggestion then?’
Catesby waved his hand airily.
‘Let Stanley go,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Show him you trust him.’
Ratcliffe snorted.
‘Even from you that’s foolish in the extreme.’
‘Foolish?’ Catesby regarded him with an amused smile. ‘Yes, I suppose you would see it that way. But then, of course, we all have our limitations.’
I interposed myself between the two of them.
‘Tell us your whole plan.’
Catesby grinned malevolently.
‘We’ll release Lord Stanley, Francis. We’ll let him return to his estates, but on one condition.’
‘Which is?’
‘His son, Lord Strange, comes to court in his place before Tudor’s invasion.’ He smirked. ‘We’ll call him a guest, of course, but others may see him as a hostage.’
Catesby shrugged fair-mindedly.
‘Naturally men will always disagree on terminology, but we’ll all agree on one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
He clicked his fingers delightedly.
‘Is it not obvious? Why, at the precise time that Lord Stanley declares for Henry Tudor, his son will be dispatched to the divine realm.’ His eyes twinkled as he beamed at us. ‘How likely is it that Lord Stanley will join Henry Tudor now?’
‘Knowing that if he does so he’ll be causing his own son to be executed?’ Ratcliffe said slowly.
‘Executed!’ Catesby’s voice was shrill with surprise, and he gave Ratcliffe an amazed look. But then he raised his hands in apology.
‘My dear Ratcliffe, you must forgive me, but I do not know how it is that, even after working alongside you for two long years, your lack of vision still has the capacity to astonish me.’
‘What are you proposing?’ I asked horrified.
Catesby gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder.
‘Something more likely to catch the imagination, wouldn’t you say? After all, Lord Stanley might see his son’s martyrdom as an acceptable price for securing the throne for his stepson, Henry Tudor.’
‘I would very much doubt it.’
‘But why take chances, Francis?’ Catesby’s genial chuckle filled the chamber. ‘Now, put yourself in the place of Lord Stanley and tell me are you going to rebel against the king when you knew that such an act would cause your son to be blinded?’
I winced.
‘Then castrated.’
Ratcliffe shut his eyes.
‘Before being put on the rack to be finished off!’ Catesby’s glittering glance swept over us. ‘Now surely you will agree that such a threat with its lengthy – or should I say lengthening – conclusion will prove a sufficient deterrent.’
‘There’s a message for you, Francis.’ John Sante, the elderly Abbot of Our Lady rummaged through an untidy mass of scrolls on the table next to him.
I waited in a fever of anxiety, but eventually the short-sighted Abbot recognised the royal seal and passed the parchment over.
I skimmed through it quickly. Predictably Catesby’s information was detailed. Tudor had already entered England at Shrewsbury and was moving slowly in an easterly direction. So, Tudor lacked the numbers to march on London. That was excellent news. I read on, cheered. Despite reports of Tudor’s army numbering more than 10,000, Catesby’s own assessment put the rebel numbers at around 5,000. Reports from deserters, he added, indicated that the majority of these were French and Scottish troops. So Tudor had not added significantly to the numbers he had landed with. This was far better than I had hoped for. I glanced through the rest of the report in delight, but there was nothing of substance.
‘I am commanded to join the king and his army at Leicester!’ I told John Sante.
He eyed me gravely.
‘I trust that everything is satisfactory?’ he enquired.
‘Of course.’
He made no response, but his courteous silence pricked my conscience. John Sante had known my family a long time and, having worked with him on a couple of occasions, I knew him to be both intelligent and discreet.
I handed him the scroll. He studied it myopically and at length returned it to me.
‘It would appear to be a straightforward matter,’ he said quietly. ‘Surely 5,000 rebels cannot prevail against the might of England. Nevertheless, I shall pray for you, Francis.’
I thanked him and knelt for his blessing. When I rose, he smiled at me and pointed to Catesby’s scroll.
‘There is one phrase in Master Catesby’s report that puzzled me,’ he began.
I handed him the scroll and he pulled it close to his eyes. Satisfied that he had selected the right sentence, he pointed at it. I read it carefully for, in my haste, I had overlooked it and now it made my blood ran cold.
‘I trust that our northern contingent will join us soon…’
Alone in my guest chamber, I read and re-read the line that the short-sighted Abbot had spotted. On the surface, it was a mere factual statement that our men in the North had not joined the main army yet, and this was what I had told John Sante. But Catesby was never superficial – the key sentence was a coded warning. Catesby did not believe that Northumberland and his men were coming to join Richard’s army. I cast my mind back wearily to the time when Catesby had first shared his misgivings with me.
‘I hear that Northumberland is unhappy,’ Catesby simpered.
‘Dear God, why’s that? He’s already benefited far more than anyone else through Richard being king.’
‘The ingratitude of our loyal lord beggars belief,’ agreed Catesby indignantly. ‘But it could, of course, be connected to the fact that he has not retained responsibility for all three marches in the North.’
‘He’s not competent enough.’
Catesby narrowed his eyes.
‘I could not agree with you more. But naturally, as a lawyer, I feel obliged to point out – with the utmost reluctance you understand – that in every dispute there are always two viewpoints.’
He gave me a sideways glance.
‘You’ve heard, of course, that the Council of the North is another problem for Northumberland?’<
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‘I hadn’t.’
‘I’m surprised. Well, apparently there’s a rumour that the Earl believes that its sheer existence impinges on his authority.’
‘He’s a member of it!’
‘Do you know, Francis, I’d have to say that it’s not precisely the same as heading the Council of the North.’
‘Well no, John of Lincoln – the king’s nephew – leads the council. Now I admit that he has limitations, and people don’t like working with him.’
‘Oh, but I have complete confidence in our understanding Earl of Northumberland’s ability to tolerate the inexperienced Earl of Lincoln,’ Catesby hurriedly assured me.
‘You do?’
‘Certainly!’ Catesby gestured expansively. ‘His tolerance is renowned throughout the land. He’ll put up with the king’s nephew as enthusiastically as he welcomes his monarch’s visits to the North. I am reliably assured that at the end of each visit our hospitable earl implores his beloved monarch to extend his stay.’
I realised that he was mocking me now. Northumberland had hoped to have the North to himself when Richard became king and hated his presence there.
‘By the way, Francis, there is one matter you could clarify for me,’ Catesby continued merrily. ‘With your knowledge of the North, I mean.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Excellent!’ he beamed. He took my arm and we moved forward slowly. ‘You’ll forgive me from mentioning it, but I was reflecting just now what an excellent impression you would make in a court of law. You seem so honest.’
I waved away the compliment.
‘What’s the question?’
‘Am I right in thinking that our noble king is from the Neville family and that Northumberland’s family are the Percies?’
‘You are.’
‘So succinctly put!’ Catesby cried delightedly. ‘Juries would love you, Francis! No “ifs” and “buts”, just the plain truth every time.’ He chuckled delightedly and I laughed too at the ridiculousness of the suggestion that I could charm juries.
