He Who Plays The King

by MARY HOCKING

  ‘What is she like?’

  ‘A beautiful young girl, so I am told.’

  ‘And had you been told otherwise, you would not have said,’ Henry retorted. ‘But ‘tis no matter; ugly or beautiful, I shall have to wed her.’

  As there was some way to go before this happened, he tried to put her out of his mind; but she crept back again and frequently caught him unawares.

  2

  In Brecknock, John Morton was gradually reversing the roles of prisoner and guardian and, in the course of long and earnest discussions, was well on the way to taking captive the Duke of Buckingham. The Duke admitted that he repented his espousal of the cause of Richard the Third, whom he now saw as an ambitious and evil man, quite unworthy to sit on the throne of England. The question then arose as to who was worthy to sit on that throne. It was evident to Morton that the Duke saw himself as the most worthy and he used all his considerable cunning to prevent Buckingham from putting his ambition into words, knowing that once Buckingham had declared himself his vanity would not allow him to withdraw. Gently, patiently, as befits a good priest, Morton led the Duke away from the path of temptation. His main argument was that the people who could effectively oppose Richard were the Lancastrians and they would only rally to the cause of a true scion of the House of Lancaster.

  Buckingham, in cunning no match for Morton, eventually wavered and remarked that he had for some time been sympathetic to the cause of the Earl of Richmond. Morton, having removed his man from temptation, then began the task of fitting him to his appointed role, for in the Kingdom all have a place.

  ‘Already there are many small fires smouldering,’ he said. ‘The name of the great Duke of Buckingham will set the country ablaze from Kent to Pembroke.’

  Buckingham found this imagery to his liking. Once such a fire was started, might it not be beyond the power of Henry, Earl of Richmond, to damp it down when he landed, a stranger more acquainted with life in Brittany than in Wales or England? ‘I will light this fire and see what happens,’ Buckingham thought. ‘Whichever way things go, I shall not be the loser.’

  Once reconciled to his role as firelighter, he was impatient to act, but Morton stayed him. ‘Fires may be smouldering, but how are they to be set ablaze?’ The name of the great Duke of Buckingham was not, it seemed, quite enough. ‘People are weary of fighting. Something stronger than mere discontent is needed to turn them against Richard. You yourself have discovered that he is an ambitious man, but ambition is hardly a fault in a king.’ He steepled his fingers and looked at Buckingham. ‘But there are crimes which people do not forgive.’

  ‘The murder of children is more grievous a crime than any,’ Buckingham said heavily.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Morton sighed.

  ‘Richard wanted the Princes out of the way,’ Buckingham continued.

  Morton tapped a thumbnail against his front teeth.

  Buckingham said, ‘He made . . . certain arrangements . . . before he left London; the children, I fear, are dead.’ He paused. ‘This is painful to me . . .’

  Morton made a fastidious gesture with one hand. ‘We need not speak of it, save to consider how best the matter can be related to the common people. It is our intention that they should know the kind of man who now sits upon the throne; to this worthy end it is permissible that we should construct a story which will be short and straightforward, allowing of no confusion in their simple minds.’

  The construction of such a story did not take long. The telling would take longer and here Morton had unexpected news for Buckingham.

  ‘You are not the only bearer of this sad tale. Before you returned here I had already been warned of the matter by a priest, Dr Christopher Ormond. He had reason to believe that King Richard planned the death of the children and will, therefore, recount your story well since he will be convinced of its truth. If you agree, we will talk to him. I should tell you, however, that he is of a rather contrary nature. It will be best that we do not appear to instruct him, but rather that we allow him to find his own way to our conclusions.’

  He had been wise to give this warning, for, as he had anticipated, Buckingham and Ormond soon discovered that they had no liking one for the other.

  ‘I want you to tell my Lord Buckingham what you have told me,’ Morton said.

  Ormond’s face was grey and he looked a sick man. He spoke monotonously. ‘For a time I instructed the young Princes in the Tower. But I did not please King Richard. One day,’ he raised his eyes to Buckingham’s cold blue eyes, ‘looking into King Richard’s eyes, as I now look in yours, I saw murder there. And he knew that I saw. He soon had me dismissed and before he could take any other steps against me I fled from London.’ He looked sombrely at Morton. ‘I came here to the one man I admired and respected above all others.’

  ‘And, alas, I did not believe you,’ Morton said softly. ‘The story was too horrible. But now I know better.’

  ‘The story is not now so horrible?’

  ‘Ten times more horrible now that I must believe it.’

  Then why do I not see ten times more horror in your face? Ormond wondered.

  Buckingham, growing impatient, said, ‘The children were smothered while they slept. I have this on good authority.’

  ‘Then I am too late.’ Ormond closed his eyes.

  Morton said quietly, ‘You were too late to save them, but their deaths must now be avenged and in this it is possible that you have a part to play. But no . . .’ He shook his head. ‘King Richard dismissed you, and this means that you have cause to fear him. You have taken enough risks already.’

  Buckingham’s impatience was palpable. Ormond realized that these two were concerned only with exploiting the situation to the full. What chance had the children ever had when all men of power were glad of their deaths?

  ‘. . . the world must know of such things . . .’ Morton was saying.

  So, Ormond thought, I am to be your tool and go from place to place telling of this terrible deed so that all shall know what manner of man King Richard is; yet you, my masters, are you any better than him?

  ‘You will do this?’ Buckingham had had enough of this taciturn priest. ‘Such service will be well-rewarded.’

  ‘No.’ Ormond shook his head.

  Buckingham moved sharply, but Morton checked him. He had formed his judgement of this man a long time ago and when eventually Ormond spoke again he was pleased to realize that he had not been mistaken.

  ‘I shall not do this for reward,’ Ormond said heavily. ‘But because I cannot do otherwise. Were I to keep this secret concealed, it would rot within me. For my own sake, I must spread my sickness around the countryside.’

  3

  Jasper Tudor said, ‘In a year, the throne of England will be yours!’ He was exultant. Letters had been received from the Countess of Richmond and from Robin Prithie each telling in its own way of the death of the children.

  Henry felt a thrill of pleasure, sharp, immediate, unusual for him. He noted the reactions of those around him. These children had, in life, made small claim on men’s hearts, but now what passions of love, tenderness and burning indignation they aroused! And if these men, some of whom were hard and cynical, talked like this, how much more would the common people be moved by such infamy? Then it would be woe to any man whose hands were stained by the blood of these innocents. As he listened, it occurred to him that his own fierce joy had been occasioned by the murder of the two children. He thought, ‘This is not seemly,’ and was anxious to correct an impression which might have awkward repercussions.

  ‘We will not speak of the death of these children today,’ he interrupted the eager talk. Faces turned to him in surprise, as he had intended that they should. He wanted those present to remember that the news of the Princes’ death had given him no pleasure. He said, ‘I would be alone,’ and departed to sit in the courtyard where they might observe him, alone and sorrowful of countenance.

  Work had recently been carried out on a new wing of
the building and the masons had left behind a large block of stone which provided an ideal seat on which to muse. It was mid-day and the sun cast no shadows. In the centre of the courtyard a small fountain erratically squirted jets of water. It was a peaceful scene; yet for all that it was so peaceful and the air unseasonably soft and warm, Henry shivered when the spray fell on him.

  He had come out here ostensibly to think of the young Princes and found that he was in fact doing so. He believed in examining the situations with which he was faced so that he might learn from them. Had he not learnt his lessons well he might not be sitting here now. ‘I have survived,’ he thought. ‘God has brought me to manhood so that I shall be remembered for my life and not for the manner of my death.’ But in spite of this comforting assurance, he found himself remembering how he had been hunted over bleak Welsh hills and desolate moors in Brittany; he felt again the choking fear as the pursuers closed in on him. But he had known good fortune, too. There had been times when he had asked for mercy and had found it. He hoped he would always remember this, that a time would never come when necessity pressed so hard that he would forget mercy. He shivered as the cold spray fell on him.

  From the long gallery came the sound of a flute. Music was known to please him and no doubt one of his musicians had been instructed to soothe him into a more reasonable frame of mind. He listened and after a time he began to weep, which was not his habit. There had been a time when he had not understood that it could ever be thought necessary to kill children. But now, although he deplored it, he understood, and it was as much for that understanding, as for the pity of it, that he wept.

  When the weeping ceased and there was only the music of the flute, he said to himself, ‘Well now! I had not meant to take sorrow this far when I came out here!’

  4

  ‘The Duke of Buckingham will lead your cause!’ The land stirred at the words and brought forth men from Kent and Surrey, from Devon and Dorset, from the Welsh Marches: surely the greatest army the land had ever seen. Buckingham gazed from the battlements of his castle in Brecknock as though he expected to see a vast human tide flowing towards him.

  It was not so, of course; these were a stealthy people, if you so much as turned your head away they dissolved into the mist. There was mist a-plenty today; it curled up from the river bank and hung thick in the valley. Autumn. They must strike soon while there was still movement in the rivers, some warmth in men’s hearts. Who wants to fight in winter? He had written to Henry, Earl of Richmond, urging him to invade without delay. What a long way he had travelled since his wife instructed him to write gracefully to Queen Elizabeth!

  He watched a buzzard soar leisurely overhead. So, too, my fortune soars, he thought. A flash of sunlight gladdened his heart. Further away, in open scrubland, a cloud of small birds rose suddenly from a knot of thorns, but he took no notice of their agitated clamour. Nor did he look towards the dark hills to the west. Here the air was clear of mist, but it was not from this direction that he expected men to flock to his army. The lowland people said that demons lived in those hills and that no man dared venture into them.

  On this October morning, however, three men looked down on the castle from the nearest of those demon-haunted hills. They were little dark men on little squat horses sitting so still one might have thought them asleep. But they knew better than Buckingham the movements of his bailiffs, the number of men recruited, whence they came and how equipped. Their eyes caught the wink of sun on steel, they heard horses’ hooves dislodging stones, and the uprush of startled birds told of the passage of men. At night they smelt the smoke of camp fires. They knew all the comings and goings in this country, just as others of their race had marked the progress of the men who had brought the child, Henry Tydder, across the mountains over twenty years ago.

  At night they lit no tell-tale fire, but softly they sang the mournful ballads of their people recording days of great glory in these hills. In the morning they thought of a time when the mountains shook with anger and the rivers flowed blood-red, a time neither past nor future, but their time.

  In the castle, Buckingham received reports from his stewards and was satisfied that the human tide was flowing his way; nevertheless, he emphasized that every man who could bear arms was to be brought in, ‘let none hold back.’

  Even while Buckingham was talking a great gale was sweeping through Crosby’s Place in London. The men at work on alterations gazed aghast at the Duke of Norfolk and wondered what bad workmanship had driven the Duke into such a temper. He shouted orders to the men with him and cursed at any who got in his way as he strode through the building, his face as lowering as the leaden sky.

  ‘I said that arch wasn’t ever meant to support that weight,’ one of the masons said, ‘Didn’t I say that?’

  ‘There’ll be terrible trouble if that’s what’s happened,’ the other mason said, and added admiringly, ‘He’s a bonny fierce man.’

  The Duke strode past followed by several scampering attendants; they went into the yard, mounted their horses and rode away. The dust swirled about for a time and then settled.

  ‘What was that all about, then?’ the first mason asked, disappointed that such violence should pass by and leave the world so tamely unchanged.

  The masons’ apprentice, who had been hovering about in the courtyard where he had no business to be, now came back full of excitement. ‘They sent word to the Duke that there’s an army marching on London!’

  ‘They may have sent word to the Duke,’ the first mason replied forbiddingly, ‘But they’d hardly have told you, would they?’

  ‘It’s true! “Men from Kent”, they said. I heard them.’

  ‘Oh, Kent!’ The two masons exchanged looks compounded of scorn and resignation and turned back to their work.

  The boy watched them for a while, then he said, ‘Do you know what? Before he rode away, the Duke said, “If it had to happen, better now.” And he smiled!’

  Scotch it now, Norfolk thought, while the rumour is still new and undigested; a few malcontents may rush into action, but most Englishmen like time to make up their minds. They hadn’t been given that time and this was a mistake; but who would expect wise judgement from Buckingham? The Duke of Norfolk had reason to smile. He enjoyed action. Once arrived at West Minster he despatched a messenger to King Richard who was now on his way to Lincoln. Norfolk had already taken some pains to ensure that there would be no insurrection in his own country of East Anglia; now it remained to deal with the men of Kent. He would have smiled still more broadly had he known that these men, impatient as they ever were, had come too early to the fight, thus jeopardizing their cause.

  The messenger rode north. The sun had started its long winter journey; it was pale by day but blood-red when it set as though each night it drew to itself more and more of the earth’s warmth. The nights were sharply cold. He was glad when he reached Lincoln just before noon. There was no difficulty in finding where the King was housed, all Lincoln knew the answer. John Russell, Lord Chancellor and Bishop of Lincoln, was now in London, but he had ensured that the reception accorded to the King should not fall short of that given him by the northern towns. The King and his household had just dined when the messenger arrived.

  Richard said, ‘Dear God, no!’ very quietly when he was informed of Buckingham’s treachery. He bowed his head and whispered, ‘Oh no!’ His face was twisted with nausea.

  The messenger did not know what to make of this, it seemed an odd way for a king to behave. But no sooner had this thought crossed his mind than the King drew himself up and began to rap out orders which took his bemused clerks by surprise. Soon summonses were being inscribed calling men to arms from all parts of the kingdom. The instructions were given with such rapidity and lucidity one might have thought the King had been waiting this event for some time and was glad to find it upon him. This, the messenger thought, was the way for a king to behave!

  While all this activity was going on. Lord Stanley hovered by th
e window, scratching his behind and musing on the ruthlessness of women. The Earl of Richmond was rumoured to be assembling a fleet and a look-out was to be kept for his ships. There seemed no reason to doubt that Stanley’s wife, the Countess of Richmond, had been active in this enterprise; that she should so arrange matters that insurrection should break out while Lord Stanley was accompanying the King showed scant concern for her husband’s well-being.

  ‘You look sick. I trust, my lord, you are not sick!’ Richard had despatched the last of the messengers and was now regarding Stanley with amusement as though he could read his thoughts.

  ‘I am sick for you, Sire,’ Stanley said.

  ‘For myself, I had rather you were not sick.’ He was still amused, but the signs of danger were there; Stanley had seen that strange merriment in his eyes before and knew how quickly it could give way to temper.

  ‘Sire, I and all the men I can muster are entirely at your disposal.’

  Richard regarded him as though he was a personal possession whose value to its owner was in some doubt. Lord Stanley looked dejected; but then the deep furrows of his brow and the pouches beneath the bloodshot eyes gave him a look of perpetual dejection. The pallor of the face was new, however, as were the beads of sweat along the hairline and above the upper lip. Richard nodded his head, satisfied that there was some use left in this dyspeptic old bloodhound.

  ‘With such support, how can we fail?’ he said lightly. ‘For you can muster . . . ten thousand men?’

  ‘You make mock of me,’ Stanley said hopefully.

  ‘It has been said that your son, Lord Strange, could raise such a number.’

  ‘The wild talk of a young man.’

  ‘Certainly he talks wildly.’