If Ankarette heard cries of passion in the room below, she would never have admitted it to Jane; she was always content when her mistress was happy. But she grumbled mightily to be woken by a loud knocking an hour after compline, and hoping the pompous steward Martin would open the front door, she hid her head under her bedcovering and ignored it. She was thus mortified when she heard Lord Hastings’s voice demand of the visitor, “Why the late call, sirrah? The watch will be alerted by all that racket.” She decided then to leave well alone, go back to sleep, and pretend she had never heard a thing.
The messenger stepped into the hall, and recognizing Lord Stanley’s cognizance, Will shepherded him into the empty kitchen. “Well, sir. What means this disturbance? It had better be important.”
The young man bowed and apologized. “My lord Stanley sent me to tell you that he has had a terrible dream.” He stared at the floor, embarrassed by his flimsy mission.
“Christ’s nails!” Will hissed. “A dream. Has the man lost his senses?” Then, aware now he was only in his shirt, Will waved him on. He wondered vaguely how the man had known to find him at Jane’s.
“I shall attempt to relate the dream word for word, as Lord Stanley instructed, my lord. He was dreaming of the council meeting on the morrow when a wild boar charged into the room and gouged both your and my lord Stanley’s heads with its tusks, and the blood ran down your faces to your shoulders. He said I should remind you that the protector’s badge—”
“Is a white boar. I know,” Hastings interrupted, shaking his head in frustration. “And I suppose your lord believes in this superstition? Pah! Well, I do not, in truth. A dream is merely a dream. Pray thank Lord Stanley for his well-meaning concern, but I am going back to bed. I give you a good night, sir.”
He held open the front door and saw the messenger safely out.
Jane had lit a candle for the sconce on the bedpost and was absently braiding her hair when Will returned. “Who was that, my lord?”
“That woman Stanley had had a bad dream, ’tis all.”
“Margaret Beaufort? Why would she send someone here?”
“Nay, I did not mean Stanley’s wife, Jane, I was referring to that lord’s womanly mind. He saw the dream as a portent. I grant you ’twas unusual”—he described it to Jane—“but fanciful.”
A shiver of fear ran up Jane’s spine, and she pulled the bedclothes up to her chin. “Fanciful indeed, Will. Perhaps you should not attend the meeting tomorrow?”
“Not you, too, Jane,” Will teased as he got back under the covers. “Stanley has a flea up his arse about these small meetings, ’tis all. He looks for meanings behind every event, every utterance, and he is curious why Gloucester insists on these splinter meetings. I think, like Gloucester, that small groups can accomplish more, and I certainly am more comfortable with Edward’s old councilors. Gloucester’s cronies are mostly unknown to us. Tomorrow we will all be together to discuss young Ned’s coronation. ’Twill be a merry meeting for a change.” He turned on his side and cradled Jane to him. “Now this old man needs his sleep or he will not wake in time to go and prove Stanley wrong in his fears.” It took Will longer than he expected to fall asleep, but he did not resent the time he had to cherish Jane’s body. He felt guilty he had not brought up the topic of her removal from the house she loved, but he wanted nothing more to spoil the solace he had found holding her in his arms following the disturbing meeting at Crosby Place.
Jane, on her part, sent a prayer to St. Elizabeth to keep Will safe. She did not admit to her lover that she, too, had a woman’s fear of omens and that it had occurred to her that the meeting would fall on Friday, the thirteenth.
“I am come to keep you company on the walk to the meeting,” Thomas Howard greeted Will at dawn the next day after being shown into the hall. “It is a pleasant enough day for a walk, my lord.”
Will clapped him on the shoulder and grinned. “And my waist could do with the exercise,” he said, patting his paunch. “Forgive me, my lord, I will not keep you but a moment. I have forgotten something important.” And he winked at Howard.
He went back into the solar, where Jane was seated on the cushions, playing with her little dog. She looked up when he entered.
“Did you forget something, my lord?”
Will knelt on the floor and took her face in his hands. “Aye, sweetheart. How could I go without one final kiss.”
Jane was touched. “But, Will, you kissed me before you went to greet Sir Thomas. You are becoming as foolish as a spellbound young lover,” she teased.
“Aye, I think I am bewitched,” he teased, smiling. “Come kiss me, my little witch.”
Their lips met in a gentle kiss: Will’s was born of contentment after years of aching for her; Jane’s of kindness and a love born of friendship.
“I love you, Will,” she said, pulling away and looking up into his eyes.
Will’s heart leaped, and he tightened his hold on her. “There is naught so precious as a love that is reciprocated, my dearest. I leave you mine as I take yours with me. You have made me the happiest man on earth today, my Jane.”
Then he kissed her again and at once decided that now was the moment to break the news. “When I am gone, I want you to think about finding another house. This one, in truth, belongs to the Crown, and I have no right to keep you here.” Seeing a fleeting disappointment cloud her expression, he laughed at her. “Do not fret, my dear. We will find one with a garden down to the river. Be of good cheer.” Jane smiled, and he was satisfied. “Now, I must go. I shall be back before noon, I promise,” he said as he opened the door to rejoin Howard.
“ ’Tis what you always say, Will Hastings,” Jane teased. “I shall believe you when I see you, and not before.” They shared a laugh as she gently pushed him out into the hall.
“Then I shall have the last laugh, my dear,” Will said and blew her another kiss.
“Lead on, Sir Thomas,” a jaunty Will told his friend. “The sooner we get there and do our business, the sooner I can return.”
The two men walked and talked as the wharfs came to life along Thames Street and yawning citizens left their beds and went about their daily routines. Approaching the Tower gate from Tower Street, Will recognized a priest exiting All Hallows Church and hailed him.
“Father John, it has been an age since we last met. How do you fare?” Will asked, cheerily.
Before the cleric could elaborate on how much his hips ached these days, Howard said impatiently, “Why linger, Lord Hastings. Unless you have need of a priest for some reason.” Seeing Will’s puzzled frown, he laughed. “Nay, you have no need of one yet.”
“Let us pray you are right,” Will replied, and they all enjoyed the joke. “We shall continue this conversation anon, Father.” Behind his hand, he added, “This young man is impatient to sit in a dull council meeting, and I should not detain him from it.” In good spirits, Will and Thomas proceeded through the several gates and into the Tower’s inner bailey.
The handsome White Tower, enlarged and beautified by Henry the Third, almost glowed in the soft rays of the rising sun as several councilors arrived at once and climbed the steps to the entry.
“God give you a good morning, Stanley,” Will greeted the former king’s steward. “I trust you slept better after your nightmare?”
Thomas Stanley grunted. “I hear you were unmoved, my lord. I confess in the light of day it assumed a less threatening vision, but still, I shall be wary,” he vowed, seeing Buckingham watching them, “as should you.”
John Morton, his piggy face pink from the exertion of so many stairs, waved to Will and waddled his way to a chair. “Good morrow, Lord Hastings, and God has given us a beautiful morning to plan the coronation, has he not?”
Thomas had moved on to greet his father and Archbishop Rotherham, and Hastings scanned the room, perplexed. Those present comprised his usual small group of Edward’s stalwarts. “I thought this was to be a full meeting of the council, my lord Buckingham.
Where are the others?”
Buckingham came forward and explained that Richard had changed his mind and sent Bishop Russell and the other councilors to meet at Westminster. “My lord of Gloucester will be here shortly,” he promised. “Let us go in, shall we?”
After discussing a few items, Will remembered to ask John Morton about his well-known cultivation of strawberries. At that moment, they heard voices coming from the outside staircase, and conversation stopped when the protector entered with Francis Lovell on his heels.
“Good morrow, my lords,” Richard said, pleasantly. “I pray, do not let me interrupt your train of thought. What were you discussing?”
Will noticed Richard was holding his left arm stiffly, as though it was compromised, but as all soldiers had old wounds that pained them from time to time, he thought nothing of it. He also knew the duke was prone to backaches. He laughed. “I am ashamed to say ’twas not state business, your grace. I was asking if Bishop Morton’s famous strawberries had ripened yet.”
Morton, seated between Stanley and Rotherham, nodded. “And I told them they were indeed ripe and that I should send for some for everyone after the meeting.”
Richard smiled. “Very well, then. Shall we proceed with the discussion at hand: the coronation.”
Will sat back and observed how quickly Richard made decisions, agreeing to this and opposing that, all the while giving thoughtful reasons for both. He would have made a good king, Will was thinking absently, when with sudden insight, he realized that Richard had every right to be king for, certes, young Ned was a bastard and ought not to wear the crown. Had he been wrong to keep silent all these weeks—or indeed years? A few beads of sweat broke on his upper lip as he pondered his vow to Edward. Nay, it was the right thing to do. He had given his word to see Ned crowned. Besides, he had no intention of sullying his dearest friend’s honor by disclosing a foolish deed done in Edward’s youth. Eleanor Butler was dead, Elizabeth was queen, and Ned would be crowned and rule well with Richard and Will close by his side.
“Lord Hastings, did you hear me?” Richard’s impatient voice interrupted Will’s ruminations, and he turned his attention back to the protector. “Did you wish Doctor Morton to send for strawberries or not? He is willing.”
“Aye, with pleasure,” Will answered, noticing a change had come over Richard. If Will had been superstitious, he might have believed the duke had been able to read his thoughts. “Strawberries would be a welcome change from”—he picked up a wizened piece of fruit from the bowl on the table—“dried plums.”
Without warning, Richard scraped back his chair, stood, and announced his departure. There did not seem to be any reason for the haste, but he left the room with Buckingham following closely behind, and those councilors remaining looked at each other perplexed.
“Strawberries must disagree with him,” Morton said, shrugging. “Now, where were we?”
Not an hour later, the men heard the sound of running footsteps upon the White Tower staircase and Richard stalked in, his face as sour as spoiled milk. All at the council table rose as one, startled to see him again so soon. He surveyed the room, his eye lastly falling on Will.
Then Richard pointed to his left arm. “There is sorcery afoot, my lords. Look at my arm, it has no feeling. ’Tis useless.”
As Richard was looking at him, Will answered good-naturedly, “I have experienced the same numbness after waking from a deep sleep, your grace. Mayhap ’tis nothing serious.”
“ ’Tis witchery, I tell you,” Richard snapped, rubbing the arm, “and I blame it on the queen and her accomplice, the harlot Jane Shore.”
Will’s legs felt weak, but he held on to the table and stared, horrified, at Richard. “Jane Shore is no accomplice and certainly no witch!” he averred. “Why accuse her, my lord?”
“She consorts with that sorceress, that spawn of Melusine, Elizabeth Woodville,” Richard almost spat. “Do not pretend you did not send your leman with messages to the queen. The lawyer Catesby witnessed one of her visits.”
Before Will could recover his astonishment, Richard thundered, “I would ask each of you, my lords, what would you do if you discovered a plot to destroy me, the protector of the realm and guardian of the king? A heinous conspiracy conceived by one I thought was a friend.”
Will felt no fear for himself, as he was innocent of any wrongdoing, but he quickly assessed who else at the table might be guilty of betrayal. He dismissed Jack Howard and his son, Thomas; they were solidly behind Richard. He knew Morton and Stanley were closely tied through Stanley’s wife, Margaret Beaufort, the Lancastrian countess of royal lineage and mother of the exiled Henry Tudor, whose ambition for her son was no secret. Morton had served Lancaster until it was expedient to change coats and follow York, and Stanley was known to be easily led. As well, Will had heard that Margaret Beaufort had been seen entering the lodgings at Westminster Abbey on more than one occasion. Perhaps these three were plotting with the queen to overthrow Richard. It was the only possibility, Will concluded.
“I am waiting,” Richard barked. “What would you do?”
All were speechless for a moment, whether from fear, Will could not tell, but on his part his innocence prompted a response. “I think I speak for all present, your grace,” he said, his expression grave and his voice sincere. “The cowards should be punished as all traitors must.”
Richard’s gloved fist hammered down on the heavy wooden table, making the goblets jump, spilling inkhorns and scattering parchments. “Then punished they will be!” he declared, glaring at Will and shouting, “Treason!”
As though prearranged, men-at-arms appeared out of nowhere, causing chaos in the room. The lords, who were still standing, were rudely pushed aside as the soldiers rushed at Will, locking his arms behind his back. Lord Stanley was knocked to the floor, and hitting his head on the corner of the table, blood flowed from a gash to his head. Seeing Stanley bleeding reminded Will instantly of Stanley’s dream. He suddenly felt cold as he watched, helpless, as the injured councilor was pulled to his feet. Across the room Morton cowered against the wall, but he, too, was apprehended, as was Archbishop Rotherham.
His skin the color of the gray stone wall behind him, Will struggled with his captors before insisting: “I am innocent of any wrongdoing, my lord duke. I swear on your brother’s grave. What is it you think I have done?”
“You have betrayed me, the council, and the English people.”
Will frantically tried to imagine the nature of his betrayal. Richard was a reasonable man; he would listen to the truth—to reason. “I ask again, Duke Richard, what is this betrayal? I confess that I have lately taken Jane Shore as mistress, and I swear ’tis the only thing I have done that might displease you, but that is hardly betraying anyone except my wife. Besides, have you forgotten your past—” He bit his tongue; no need to rile an already rabid dog.
Richard glared at him. “Your morals disgust me, my lord. I long ago rejected my sinful past, but your liaison with my late brother’s harlot is not reason for arrest. You have betrayed England by your silence and your conspiracy.” He turned to the men-at-arms. “Take these three to a cell,” Richard commanded them, pointing to the two bishops and the bloody Stanley. Even in his confusion, Will noted the trio did not resist. Were they indeed guilty of conspiring? But he was not a part of it; he had to convince Richard that he was not part of any plot.
Richard spoke a few words to Thomas Howard, who bowed and retired, giving Will a sad look as he left. Will did not notice; he was confounded by the reference to Jane and the queen, and wondered if Jane, too, had been arrested. But his own danger seemed far more imminent.
Alone with Richard, Buckingham, and Jack Howard, Will felt certain he could assert his innocence and be heard. He began in a level but serious tone.
“I have never had discourse with those three lords outside council meetings, Richard. I swear. If they have done wrong, I am ignorant of what it is. I am and always have been a loyal supporter of th
e house of York, first serving your father and then your brother, as his closest advisor and friend. ’Twas I who wrote to you at York begging for you to come to London immediately, have you forgotten? Why would I betray you? And in what way have I done so? I deserve to know, if I am to be imprisoned for it.”
Richard leaned both arms on the table. Will noted, staring, that the left one seemed just as strong as the right now. It seemed far from useless. Had that just been an excuse to accuse Jane of witchcraft; or worse, could Richard have his sights set on the crown?
The protector leveled his cool, slate eyes at Will. “You want to know what you have done?” he repeated. “You withheld from me that my nephews were bastards. Were you prepared to see an illegitimate son of my brother wear the crown, flying in the face of all the laws of this land?”
Will tasted the bile in his mouth and tried to swallow. So that was it, he thought, Edward’s secret was out. But how did Richard discover it? No one else knew except . . . dear God almighty, Stillington! And then the image of the bishop of Bath and Wells’s litter arriving at Crosby Place the night before rose clearly in his mind.
“I can explain, my lord,” Will said, trying to control his panic. “My oath, renewed to your brother on his deathbed—”
Richard banged his fist on the table again. “I will not listen to your lies or your oaths. You have no excuse. Your loyalty now is to me as protector of the crown, not to my dead brother. I have lain awake all night pondering your reasons for keeping this terrible secret from the people of this realm, and I can only deduce that by conspiring with the queen you seek to displace me and resume your position as the king’s closest advisor.”
Will shook his head vigorously and tried to ease his guards’ viselike grip on his arms. “Nay, Richard, you have it wrong. I have never thought to displace you, and I have never communicated with the queen in sanctuary. I swear my silence has all to do with the promise I made your brother. The secret of the precontract was safe with me—”
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