Some Touch of Pity

by Rhoda Edwards

  Then Harry, with a swift change of mood, which I was to notice many times in him, said, ‘I met my Lord Archbishop of York today, taking his barge at Palace stairs for York House in Battersea. He greeted me like a long-lost cousin…’ Here Harry got up and gave an imitation of Rotherham’s peculiar manner of combined cringing and superciliousness. I laughed outright. Harry seemed able to age thirty years at will; he shuffled about, heavy and stooping of frame, nodding his head like a popinjay on its perch, and washing his hands with invisible soap. ‘I enquired after the Great Seal,’ he said with a grin, ‘if it were safely tied up in its bag again! He looked ready to choke!’ I nearly choked myself, at the thought of Rotherham’s face. He’d been relieved of his office of Chancellor and Keeper of the Great Seal, because at King Edward’s death he had gone running to the Queen, offering her the Seal, so she might rule the kingdom as she chose.

  In the week before Whitsuntide, two huge grants were made under that Great Seal, in the name of King Edward V, by direction of his uncle the Protector, to Harry Buckingham. He was given the offices of Chamberlain and Chief Justice of both north and south Wales, constable of all the royal castles and steward of all royal manors therein. Being a made man, Buckingham began to spend his expected income. The numbers of his servants in London multiplied daily; they strutted about, flashing with gold Catherine wheels and Stafford knots on scarlet and black, like imps of Hell. They even appeared wearing the swan badge of Bohun, as if to draw attention to Buckingham’s claim on a sizable portion of crown lands. These had belonged to the wife of Henry IV, the Bohun co-heiress, and, with the demise of Lancaster, Harry had considered them his right, but King Edward had not. This caused a few raised eyebrows in council. I heard Hastings say to Lord Howard, ‘Well, Jack, we have a new “Prince” of Wales and our King not of an age to get his own!’ He sounded sour. So, already in mid-May, jealousies and rivalries began to be seen within our own camp.

  Fortunately our enemies were in disarray. The Queen and her son Dorset were holed up in Sanctuary like foxes. Soon after we’d arrived in London, Richard had discovered that a large portion of the royal treasure — jewels, gold and minted coin — had disappeared from the strong vaults at the Tower. Dorset, who was Deputy Constable of the Tower, had ordered its removal, without the knowledge of Lord Howard the Constable. Some of it had gone to sea with Sir Edward Woodville; the rest, we were certain, lay in coffers behind the Sanctuary wall. When he learned of this, Richard was more angry than I’d seen him in all these weeks. ‘He’s no better than a robber,’ he said of Dorset, ‘like his companions in Sanctuary. It’s the last time the Woodvilles line their purses at the realm’s expense. If I catch him, I’ll bleed him white.’ But Dorset lay low and did not run. We failed to catch Sir Edward Woodville when his fleet deserted him for our offer of pardons, and he fled to Brittany. Misfortune makes strange bedfellows, for there he joined the little group of Lancastrian exiles, who for ten years had lived in threadbare hope at the court of Duke Francis.

  Another cause of annoyance and embarrassment was the Queen’s determined retention of the little Duke of York in Sanctuary. This gesture of defiance made it plain that she regarded the Protector as the King’s gaoler, and held her younger son as a weapon to use in the event of harm befalling the elder. What harm she expected, with the King proclaimed and served not only by his uncle, but by all the lords spiritual and temporal, I could not imagine.

  The young King moved from the Bishop of London’s house to the Tower, both to prevent contact with his mother’s agents, and to await his coronation in the accustomed place. He was to be crowned on the twenty-second of June, a Sunday. It would be followed by a week of feasting and holidays, over the Nativity of St John the Baptist. Parliament was summoned to meet upon the twenty-fifth, and all the lords and commons were to be in London by the eighteenth, for the making of the Knights of the Bath and other ceremonies. Because of the dangers of the young King’s minority rule, once he was crowned, with no one having authority to govern, most of the lords were determined that Richard should be given that authority by Act of Parliament, and the Protectorate extended until the King’s coming of age.

  *

  On Thursday, June the fifth, Lady Anne arrived in London. Richard had by now moved from Crosby’s Place to the greater convenience of his mother’s riverside house of Baynard’s Castle. The next day, Anne sent word asking me to come there to see her. She wanted my honest opinion on affairs in London. She had the situation summed up for herself.

  ‘Francis, my husband is in great danger.’

  ‘Yes.’ She had to look up a little into my face. She wore black and white still, in mourning for King Edward. This magpie colouring did nothing for her looks. Richard, whatever else he saw in her, did not marry a beauty, no Helen, whom wars were fought over. At the best of times, she hasn’t much colour, but that day she was unbecomingly pale, and smudgy about the eyes. Bluish veins showed through the delicate skin at her temples and over her ears. In the soft hollow at the base of her throat, there was a mark, the colour of mulberry juice. I think she’d tried to hide it with some paste, but the heat had made the colour show through. I didn’t want her to think I’d noticed this small evidence of private lovemaking. As my shadow moved across her face, the pupils of her eyes swelled, then shrank again as the sun fell into them. In those clear grey eyes so many motes of colour swam: dark blue, sea blue, green, amber, brown and even black. The lashes were the colour of a thrush’s feather, and cast a shadow. Her nose, a little too long and high-boned for perfection, was slightly shiny. I felt protective towards her without finding her particularly desirable, for I was more familiar and at ease with her than with my own sisters, being her own age and brought up with her. I’d have preferred to see her smile. When she was a little girl, she had looked as meek as a mouse, until one noticed the cheek dimpling when she smiled, and that firm, neat, uptilted chin. Her elder sister Isabel had attracted more attention, being prettier, but it was Anne who occasionally reflected her father’s proud image. Like all the Nevilles, she was fiercely loyal to her kin, and most of all to Richard. When he was with her, she bloomed into something approaching beauty. When he touched her or held her in the dance, she would turn in his arms languidly, with a graceful movement, as if all her bones had softened, a movement any courtesan would give her jewels and finery to be able to imitate. The bawl of a passing waterman came suddenly through the window, and she turned her head, quick as a wary bird. There was apprehension in every line of the tautened neck, the hands that had clenched at her sides. I didn’t like to see her frightened; she was usually so unruffled. ‘Francis, have I come to London to be made a widow?’

  I took hold of her hand gently. ‘Hush,’ I said. ‘You mustn’t say such things, Richard has lived with danger all his life.’

  ‘This is different. It might not be now, or even soon. What will happen in five years, when the King is eighteen and wants his revenge for all this?’

  I could not answer her; the truth was too ugly. I led her to a chair, sat her down, and made her drink some wine. The wide eyes regarded me over the edge of the cup. ‘I haven’t said any of these things to Richard,’ she said. ‘I don’t want him to know how afraid I am — it would worry him so much, and God knows, he’s overburdened with worry already.’ I stood looking down at her bent head. Through the gauzy linen of her hennin veil, the bones in the back of the white neck showed. The fingers holding the cup were extremely slender, with very small nails cut close as a child’s. Why, I thought, are some women so very vulnerable? In four days, she would be twenty-seven; she looked younger.

  ‘Five years is a long time,’ I said. ‘So much can happen in five days, weeks, months. The situation is unpredictable. Don’t lose hope, Anne. Will you remember this — whatever service I do for Richard, I will do for you also.’

  Within three days, Anne’s fears were justified. The Queen was discovered to be plotting to murder Richard and Buckingham, to seize the King, to release Rivers and Grey a
nd to set up herself as regent. Richard’s personal danger was, of course, lessened as soon as the plot was discovered, but he sent urgent letters to the Earl of Northumberland, who was still in the north, asking him to bring armed men quickly to London. Sir Richard Ratcliffe took letters to other northern lords, and to the City of York asking for support. It had become clear by now that the Queen intended to stir up a situation that would probably result in rebellion and bloodshed; she had too many enemies among the lords of the realm, who would not accept her rule. There was only one way to stop her — by immediate, forceful action.

  We’d made the discovery of the Queen’s plot a little before her allies were found out. She had suborned her old enemy, Lord Hastings, into her conspiracy. We were first warned of it by William Catesby, a lawyer who had frequently worked for Hastings, and who had taken alarm at his master’s dangerous plans. Lord Hastings, Catesby said without relish, had a new bedfellow — Shore’s wife. I’d heard it said that he had hankered after her ever since she became King Edward’s mistress — there’d even been tales that they had shared her, three in a bed! If he’d hoped to have her after the King’s death, he’d been disappointed at first, for she went straight to the Marquess of Dorset. It was well known she’d declared herself the ally of her lover and his mother the Queen. Dorset did not scruple to use her as a means of turning his old enemy Hastings from friendship with Richard, nor, it seemed, to send her into another man’s bed. Will Hastings had landed like a greedy wasp in the honey trap.

  In a couple of days, we had all the evidence we needed. Mistress Shore was well watched. Her days were spent plotting in the Sanctuary with the Queen and Dorset, her nights in Hastings’s bed. Their aim: to set up a new Protector — Lord Hastings himself. He was doomed; Richard could not let him live.

  On Friday the thirteenth of June, an unlucky day, a council meeting was convened in the Tower, for nine in the morning. It was a day of brilliant sunshine, hot already by nine. As I came in from the glare, and climbed the shadowed stone stairs of the White Tower, the contrast of the heat outside with the cool interior was enough to make one shiver. In the council chamber there was the quivering tension one feels before a storm; it made my skin twitch. Everyone suspected that Richard had discovered something, but none dared to be absent from the meeting. There were others known to be in the plot, those who felt they did not fare as well under the Lord Protector as they had under King Edward.

  When seated, I looked round the table, noting the chief among them. Rotherham, Archbishop of York, who’d lost his position as Lord Chancellor, was looking nervous. His face, which has a great deal of flabby, surplus flesh, resembled a cream cheese standing in a strainer, the whey oozing out of it. He kept wiping it, and his dewlapped neck, with a handkerchief the size of an altar cloth. Morton, Bishop of Ely, who was chagrined because he’d wanted the office of Chancellor himself, and it had gone to the Bishop of Lincoln, is a very different sort of man. He’s quite as old as York — over sixty, I suppose — but looks younger, thinner and harder. His face is sharp and beaky, like a bird of prey, and he has a quick pouncing manner to match it. A lack of front teeth made his rather prim little mouth look lipless, cut at either end by deep, vertical lines. Old vinegar chops, 1 thought, twice as clever as Rotherham, and twice as dangerous; he moves men as he might move pawns on a chess board. Dr Oliver King, the most innocuous of the ecclesiastical bunch, had been King Edward’s secretary and now had his nose put out of joint by John Kendal, Richard’s own secretary, who was very clearly taking his place. Lord Stanley, one of the older lords, an important man in the north west, was known to consort with this trio, though he also cultivated Lord Howard, who is most firmly Richard’s man. Stanley keeps a foot in both camps. He greeted me pleasantly, but his forehead was glistening like a skinned grape. I thought he would prefer to be seated with the Protector’s men rather than with Lord Hastings’s allies. All the company were strained, and lacking in conversation, murmuring desultorily to their immediate neighbours. The windows of the chamber were closed, and trapped bluebottles smacked and buzzed hopelessly against the panes.

  When Hastings came in, 1 was shocked. He had aged ten years overnight, which meant that he looked nearly as bad as Rotherham. Christ! I had thought him a handsome man. The bloodshot eyes had discoloured bags under them; the firm, cleft chin had developed flaccid jowls, like some ancient hound. He appeared to have been shaved hastily. Straight from Mistress Shore’s bed, I had no doubt, after a taxing night. He was also afraid. He looked like a man who had played all his cards, who is left empty-handed at the end of his game.

  Harry Buckingham entered, in a swirl of black and violet velvet, bringing into the room a strong scent of ambergris. His eyes travelled, as mine had, from face to face. He had the air of a man expecting something to happen, as we all did, but he seemed the only one to be pleased about it. He spoke to Bishop Morton first, in a mildly obsequious way — youth deferring to ecclesiastical age — which only those who knew Harry well might construe as mocking. ‘I rode past your lordship’s garden in Holborn this morning,’ he said. ‘You have a fine crop of strawberries this year. This sun is ripening them to perfection.’

  ‘I will make your Grace a present of some of them,’ Morton said, smoothly, as if we were all sitting down to a convivial dinner.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Dr Morton. I must confess, your strawberries tempt me to the sin of gluttony. The Lord Protector would no doubt appreciate some of them too, he is very fond of strawberries.’

  ‘I am delighted to do him a service.’ The Bishop looked as if he were about to add a Benedicite, and I thought he’d make as good a player as Harry. I hope Hell fire roasts his corrupt and stinking marrow!

  When Richard came in, he left armed men outside; we could hear the clash of metal on the stairs. His face was as bleak and inflexible as stone. He still wore black, which did nothing to soften his aspect. He looked as if he’d had as bad a night as Hastings, but lacked the defeated air of the older man. His face said: beware, push me no further… Every muscle in it was stretched tight. At the sight of him, Hastings’s face crumpled still further into dissolution. Having given us a formal, toneless good morning, he took his seat at the head of the table. There was a short, uncomfortable silence, while Kendal placed some papers in front of his master. Richard had picked up a pen, and was pulling the filaments away from the quill, one by one. Suddenly we were interrupted by the captain of guard, who came in hastily, leaned over Richard’s shoulder and whispered urgently to him. He rose and quickly left the council chamber. Buckingham followed him. We could hear the low, tense voices, the running feet on the stairs, a few barked orders from below, outside. The flies were still buzzing in the window.

  Buckingham came back after what seemed like an hour, but was in fact about twenty minutes. Richard followed, and his face, when he sat down again, was frightening. He began to speak at once, in abrupt sentences with short pauses between them. ‘Five days ago, my lords, we had dared to hope that the threat of war was removed from this realm, that England might continue in the peace my brother fought to preserve. No more bloodshed, as my Lord Hastings would say, than you’d get from a cut finger.’ His voice grew quiet — the moment when the cannon is primed, the powder waiting.

  Rotherham was busy at his face with his handkerchief. My heart was thumping, and my shirt sticky against my back.

  ‘It seems, my lords,’ Richard went on, ‘that we were deluded. The enemy has found itself new allies. They would murder the Protector, and the Duke of Buckingham his cousin. They would seize the King’s person. In this last half hour armed men have been restrained from doing so — here in the Tower, under my nose! They would meet any who opposed them with force. They would have armies out in England once more, in the name of another evil Queen.’ He was speaking faster all the time, and louder, beating on our ears like a drummer. ‘Do you remember, my lords, how Margaret of Anjou’s men looted and raped from Tyne to Thames? Does my brother’s reign, his achieve
ment of peace, now mean nothing?’ A passion of anger was pouring out now. Faces stared at him, every shade of red from rose to empurpled crimson, then white with shock. Suddenly he stood up, as if he’d been tied to his chair and just managed to break free.

  He began to speak again. Words shot from him like bolts, harsher and more furious every second. ‘These Woodvilles care nothing for England. They’d give us bloodshed again. War between brother and brother, father and son!’ It was an anguished yell. Then he did something that startled us out of our skins. He pulled back the sleeve from his left arm, baring it to the elbow, breaking the fancy lacings, turning the upper side to face us. Though he’s small, the muscles in it stood out like cords, the old scar twisted across them like a white snake. He’d begun to shake from head to foot. ‘This — was done to me at Barnet…’ His right hand closed over the bared arm. ‘Worse was done to many others — too many others. Did I shed my blood in battle for nothing? Did my friends — your friends, my lords — die that day so the Queen and her family might live in whoring luxury all their lives? They have lived like maggots off the poor carrion we left on two battlefields — on the wasted lives of my friends — in both armies, for that’s how civil war rends us — your friends, your fathers! They who intend it should cringe before God! Fourteen years ago, I risked my life to bring England out of it…’ He let go of his arm, and the marks his fingers had made were red across the white scar. That terrible, rending voice went on, bursting out of him like blood from a torn artery.

  ‘I ask you, what sin have they committed, these men who plot to drown England in blood? What is their punishment? They sit here in our midst. Look at their faces if you doubt me… You!’ The word hurtled across the table like the thwack of a clothyard shaft. Rotherham jumped as if hit at twenty paces, then huddled back in his chair, terrified.