He Who Plays The King

by MARY HOCKING

  Edward’s mind was cold as ice. He thought: they will wait until the others are out of earshot. He slid quietly from his horse and pulled his brother down beside him. Then the ice broke and terror surged up. ‘Run!’ he urged. ‘Run to the woods!’

  In that darkness they would have done better to have gone to earth, but terror drove them stumbling forward with shaking limbs over ground on which they made no more headway than if it had been treacle. Their pursuers, who had paused to grab a lantern, could hear them thrashing about in the heather. Edward ran, dragging his brother with him. The effort to keep ahead of terror was too much; it was a relief when the men came close. He flung his arms round his brother and bore him to the ground; he lay on top of him as the men stood over them. In the tiny pause that followed he felt the terror would cleave him in two. But when it happened, it was such a little thing; after all that fuss, such a little thing, just a blow in the back, nothing to have been so frightened about. His father slapped him on the back and shouted, ‘You shall have my cloak, Edward. Look how fine you are!’ It was warm and dark, his fingers scrabbled at it, trying to pull it from his face, but it was too heavy. He coughed and nurse said, ‘And again! Let’s have it all up.’ He wanted his mother, she was there somewhere beyond the cloak; his fingers stretched out, but he couldn’t, couldn’t quite . . .

  The men dug a shallow grave in a small clearing in the wood. They worked by the light of the lantern and this attracted many creatures who came to stare just beyond the ring of light. They buried the children at first light and not a cock did crow.

  3

  On his progress a King must show himself to the people so that they can see with what wisdom and benevolence they will be governed.

  ‘If King Richard be as good at doing as he be at promising, then we have a right good King and no mistaking.’ This remark, overheard in an inn at Reading, well summed-up the impression which the King had made in the towns through which he had passed on his progress. The people had yet to be won; but they were well-disposed to the new King and prepared to give him a fair trial. They marked his piety, respected his love of learning, and agreed such attributes would do no harm provided they did not distract him from his avowed intention of bringing law and order to the realm and dealing with the complaints of the poor (by whom they took him to mean themselves). They also enjoyed the festivities put on for his benefit and were relieved when he modestly refused the sums of money offered to him. This gesture greatly diverted Henry, Earl of Richmond, when it was later reported to him. ‘For myself,’ he said gravely, ‘I had rather not so offend the people.’

  Richard, however, was much in earnest. He offered what he intended to fulfil; most important of all, he offered himself in the sure knowledge that no one was better fitted to rule than he.

  After visiting Reading and Oxford, he was well-content by the time he reached Minster Lovell where he stayed with his friend Viscount Lovell. It was here, on a hot, sultry day, that he was joined by Buckingham who had ridden straight from London on his way to his Castle in Brecknock. A little less than three months had passed since their meeting at Northampton, They had accomplished much together in that time and had now been apart but a few days; yet as they greeted each other some warmth was lacking. Perhaps it is that early friendships seldom need renewing whereas the friendships formed in later years can scarce stand a separation. Whatever the reason, Richard was not at first disposed to talk in private with Buckingham. That countenance which had glowed with such unalloyed enthusiasm now seemed tarnished by the London air; the eyes stored rumour, the lips were impatient to spill out news of dissension. As though warding off some deeper evil that he saw in that face, Richard began to talk of his plans to Lovell and his companions.

  ‘The country has had too much of strife. We must put this behind us. Many of our poorer subjects, through no fault of their own, have lost goods and property, and these must be compensated.’ His concern for the poor had not prevented him spending lavishly on his attire and Buckingham’s eyes dwelt enviously on the cloth of gold robe with its beautiful collar encrusted with gems and pearls. ‘We must set an example to those lords who are not of our mind and who continue to abuse the people. I am told, for example, that the goods of people charged with felony are often seized before conviction . . .’

  ‘You will have to take your time, Dickon,’ Lovell warned, knowing that persuasion was not one of Richard’s gifts, and doubting the wisdom of some of the more far-reaching of the proposed reforms.

  Buckingham reflected grimly that all the common people wanted was a strong king. Show a man your mailed fist and he will respect it!

  ‘Time is something one cannot take for granted.’ Richard had always been impatient and now was increasingly inclined to live as though each day was his last. The energy he had displayed on his progress had already worn out Lord Stanley, who had taken to his bed with a stomach ailment and begged to be excused the morrow’s celebrations in Gloucester.

  William Herbert, who was acting as Richard’s secretary in the absence of John Kendall, now brought a letter for signature. As Buckingham watched the lighted taper applied to the sealing wax something inside himself seemed to melt and flow hot through his veins. Only three months ago, it had been Richard, Duke of Gloucester, and Henry, Duke of Buckingham. But now . . . He thought how the name ‘Richard’ appended to a document could confer honour on a city, send a man to the scaffold, detain another at his pleasure, ransack the coffers of the wealthy, set an army on the march . . . A wave of burning nausea came over him as the pen scratched on the parchment; he could not bear that ‘Richard’ should have so much more power than ‘Henry’. He moved to the window alcove. It had begun to rain, warm summer rain falling in great drops on the sun-baked earth. A few small birds fluttered about excitedly.

  ‘And what news do you bring us?’

  Richard was speaking to him. Buckingham turned to him with an effort and said hoarsely, ‘News for your ears, alone.’

  Richard raised his eyebrows, not pleased; he had no appetite for bad news at this time. He found another matter on which to instruct Herbert and then must add a note in his own hand to a letter already written. His mood was incalculable and Buckingham, who seldom thought ahead, wished he had prepared himself better for this meeting.

  When they were alone in a little room off the hall normally used by the clerks, Richard said, ‘And now, what is this dread news that you have to impart? Is Mistress Shore not confined in Newgate, Elizabeth Woodville not in sanctuary at West Minster?’ His tone was amused, but he made it plain that he was in no mood to listen to idle rumour and would not be grateful to the bearer of serious news of conspiracy.

  Buckingham, left with no choice but to displease, said, ‘The Princes, Sire.’

  Richard said, ‘Ah, yes,’ as though he was summoning half¬forgotten figures from a distant past. ‘I proposed to send them to Sheriff Hutton in the charge of my nephew, the Earl of Lincoln, was not that it?’

  ‘You proposed to send them to Pontefract and left the arrangements to me.’

  ‘Ah, well.’ Richard looked at him with some reserve. ‘I have changed my mind.’

  Buckingham watched a pool of water collecting on the window ledge. The rain was coming down heavily now, darkening the room.

  Richard said, ‘You do not approve of this proposal?’

  ‘You will never be secure while they live, any more than your brother was secure while Henry the Sixth lived. I speak, not to please you. Sire, but being prepared to risk your displeasure because I have such great concern for you.’

  ‘And my brother’s other children? His daughters. Am I to do away with them, also? For if I do not, then may I not be endangered by the Princess Elizabeth? No! This matter must be allowed to rest on the issue of their illegitimacy, not on the disappearance of the whole brood! If you have lost your sense of proportion, at least keep your sense of humour.’ He was in doubtful humour himself and there was no little malice now directed at Buckingham; the ma
n who had been raised high must be taught that there was a point beyond which he might not presume. ‘Would you have me spend my time inventing reasons for their disappearance one by one? How many daughters are there . . . let me see, three, four . . . What arrant nonsense! I have better work to do. And when it is done the people will give me their loyalty because they see that I am a good and just ruler.’ He rapped the table sharply with his knuckles to emphasize this.

  Buckingham said, ‘It was not of goodness and justice that we talked that day at Northampton when we had to put a stop to Rivers’ ambitions.’

  ‘What is that to us now?’

  ‘To me it is everything!’ Feeling always came spontaneously to Buckingham when he needed it; now it surged up and he spoke as one deeply moved. ‘We were so at one on that occasion speech was scarce needed between us; we looked in each other’s eyes and read a common purpose there. We were not poets, visionaries, judges, but men who saw their situation clearly and knew what must be done. We were strong and resolute.’

  Richard said, ‘So are we still. Tell me your news.’ His voice was soft, but his eyes said, ‘Beware!’

  Buckingham, who was now intensely eager to recapture that lost identity of interest, felt himself betrayed by this cool, dispassionate stranger. He held his head high and answered, ‘When we last spoke of the Princes you left matters in my hands. Did you think I would not act, when all our understanding has been proved in action?’

  ‘So, you acted. Well?’

  ‘You asked that the Princes should be transferred to Pontefract. I took you at your word, as I have ever done.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They set out for Pontefract, three nights ago.’ Buckingham had had little idea up to this moment what he would say, but the words came readily enough, so readily that while he spoke he believed. ‘It seemed better to me that they should travel at night, their movements unobserved by any who might wish to harm them. They were accompanied by a small party of men who were recommended to me by Sir James Tyrrell, who serves you well. On my way here, however, I received disturbing news. Two of these men, both of whom should even now be proceeding with the Princes, were seen in London by one of my most trusted men who had reason to be searching an inn near the docks. I sent a messenger with orders that they be taken into custody, and I also sent word to the Chancellor. Then I came here to inform you as speedily as I could.’ When he stopped speaking he could feel a pulse thudding in his throat.

  Richard watched Buckingham, his face impassive, three fingers of his right hand pressed lightly against his lips. Eventually he said: ‘You think some harm may have befallen the children?’

  ‘I fear so.’

  ‘Why? What could it profit such men to harm the Princes? Unless they seek an early grave, for such will be their fate should this prove true.’ He still spoke quietly but his face was white, his eyes ominously bright.

  ‘It is said that the Earl of Richmond has let it be known that he will make no move while the Princes live.’

  ‘It is said! It is said!’ Richard mimicked, then struck the table with the flat of his hand so that it shuddered beneath the assault. ‘The murmurings of a man of little consequence in Brittany do not dispose of Princes! Who plotted their death here? Who?’

  ‘We do not know that they are dead.’

  Richard turned away. ‘Yet we talk as though we know it. Would we had been more careful in our speech, you and I.’ The anger seemed suddenly to have drained away as though something which was necessary to sustain it was lacking. After a moment, he said, ‘Perchance they had an accident, or one of them fell ill? These men but rode to find help.’

  ‘I am afraid it is worse than that. My tale is half-told. It seems that the route which the party took was not the route to Pontefract.’

  Richard stared at him; and Buckingham, his resentful pride roused by the distrust in Richard’s eyes, boldly met stare for stare. Richard burst out, ‘It is their mother! This is another of her wicked schemes. She means to challenge me even now.’

  ‘I have always said this was a danger, while they lived.’

  ‘You have been so concerned with it you have lost your judgement.’ Richard’s anger flared up again. ‘But for your hasty action they would still be safe in the Tower. You have been in such haste to bundle them out of London you may well have bundled them out of life!’

  ‘Dickon, believe me, all that I have done, I have done for you. I looked in your heart and saw what was written there.’

  ‘You go too far! No one, no one can know such things!’ The reply, which came unbidden to his lips, was so worded as to suggest that there are things too dark for knowledge; confused, he put his hand across his eyes and so did not see the look of triumph on Buckingham’s face. When he was more composed, he said drily, ‘Who else knows of this?’

  ‘That they are gone from the Tower, Brackenbury knows; and, as I said, I sent word to the Chancellor.’

  Richard began to pace the room which was small for such exercise. ‘If one of them was ill, the party may well have had to change its route; perhaps we despair too soon. But some action we must take so that all shall know how deep is our concern.’

  He called Lovell, who seemed not to know what to make of the matter. The news had come at an inconvenient time and none of them was disposed to look too far ahead. Eventually, Richard sent instructions to the Chancellor:

  ‘Right Reverend father in God, right trusty and well-beloved, We greet you well, and whereas we understand that certain persons have taken upon themselves . . .’

  He thought for a moment, not wishing to be specific, and then continued:

  ‘. . . an enterprise as we doubt not that you have heard, are now apprehended, we desire that our Council shall try them and proceed to the due execution of our laws . . .’

  After the letter was signed and despatched he talked long with Lovell. Should they send men to follow the route to Pontefract, gathering what information they could? What value was this, if the party had not gone by this route? Also, ‘If we do this, we make that public which it is wisest to keep private,’ Richard said. ‘At best, we appear foolish, at worst, villainous.’ They decided to wait until they had received news from the Chancellor and Brackenbury.

  It was early evening and the rain had stopped at last. Richard walked in the garden. The sun had come out and beyond the formal lawn the meadows steamed. A blackbird was singing. Richard was filled with an intense yearning that all might be well with the children. The lawn shimmered with little drops of light. He remembered seeing grass like this after rain in his childhood, and since then there had never been time to look at such sights again. Suddenly, yearning carried his senses away and he flung himself down on the grass and licked it as though he thought he might gather some part of its wonder and purity to himself. After a time, perhaps a few seconds, though it seemed much longer, he recovered and got hastily to his feet, brushing down his cloak and carefully wiping his face. ‘We may well have good news tomorrow,’ he muttered. ‘For who could wish to kill these children?’ He remained walking round the garden for some time, trying to calm himself. When the dusk came, however, it brought a feeling of despair so strong that he was driven indoors to seek out Buckingham.

  ‘You were right to remind me of how we joined together in such great undertakings.’ Now it was he who strove to rekindle their friendship. ‘You must understand that, if I seem to have little time, it is because I must turn to good account all our past enterprise and boldness. If I seem distant, or am unaccountably cold in my response to you, it is because I must now bend everything to fashion the future that we dreamt of, that we made possible between us. In fact, dear friend, I am most loyal to you when I seem most removed.’

  That we made possible, Buckingham thought; but it is you who are the King. Aloud, he said, ‘I will indeed remember this.’

  The next day he rode to Gloucester with Richard and there they parted cordially.

  Chapter Fifteen

  1

/>   The news of the death of the Princes had not yet reached Brittany. It was with the death of an older king that the Earl of Richmond and his friends were concerned. King Louis of France was dying and seemed determined to stir up as much mischief as possible in the short time left to him. The Earl of Richmond offered as good an opportunity as any for making trouble in England, and so Louis pestered Duke Francis to give him custody of the Earl. Duke Francis, now intermittently insane, appealed to the King of England for men and arms.

  ‘The result of all this death-bed bargaining will be to make life unsafe for me here without in any way furthering my cause.’ Henry had a cause to lose now, and was the more angry that it should be prejudiced by an artificial quarrel between a dying king and a deranged duke.

  It seemed perverse, to say the least, that while France and Brittany were in decline, England should flourish. The King of England, so reports said, was everywhere welcomed and fêted; one of his bishops had written, ‘I never liked the conditions of any prince so well as his; God hath sent him to us for the weal of us all.’ When he reached York (by which time, Henry thought wryly, he must be well on the way to being canonized) his reception was overwhelming, and on the occasion of the investiture of his ailing son as Prince of Wales, the people of York seemed determined to demonstrate that here in the north King Richard was securely enthroned in the hearts of his people. All of which made dismal tidings for Henry.

  Then there was the ever-present question of the Princess Elizabeth. Would King Richard arrange a marriage for her to ensure that this prize did not fall into the hands of the Earl of Richmond? Henry, who in Richard’s place would certainly have made such an arrangement, found himself divided on the subject of Princess Elizabeth. He did not want to marry her, but could not bear the thought that she should be given to anyone else. Women, apart from his mother, had played but a small part in Henry’s life; he trusted them no more than men and understood them rather less. If God could have found some other instrument for the creation of man, Henry would have been well pleased. Nevertheless, he saw the importance of Elizabeth, and when Jasper, in what was becoming a favourite phrase, said, ‘The white rose shall be grafted onto the stem of the red rose,’ Henry no longer protested, but asked: