I, Richard Plantagenet: Book Two: Loyaulte Me Lie

by J. P. Reedman

  I would not sleep at all that night, I thought.

  But I did.

  Someone was shaking me none too gently. Disoriented, I groped for a weapon in the gloom, not quite remembering where I was or what had happened, only that demons had haunted me in evil dreams. Dreams of death, dreams of strife in which heads rolled…

  “Peace, Cousin Richard,” Harry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, breathed close to my ear. “It is only me, Harry…but news has come. I was right,” he continued triumphantly, “Rivers and his cohorts were attempting to entrap you, and, by extension, me.”

  I was on my feet in a flash, unshaven and baggy-eyed in the bluish light seeping through the shutters. I noted a small, unkempt man hovering in the corner; one of Buckingham’s by the swan badge. I cursed myself; I had not even heard the man enter. What had come over me, to sleep like one dead when treachery was afoot? Such laxity could bring swift death.

  “What is your news?” I rounded on the stranger. “What have you found?”

  “Tell Gloucester and leave naught out, Robert,” ordered Buckingham.

  The man bowed. “I am Robert Courcy, servant of my lord of Buckingham, faithful in many endeavours that cannot be freely spoken of. Last night a stockpile of arms was found hidden on the road to Stony Stratford. We believe the Lord Anthony and his companions intended to ambush you as you departed Northampton.”

  “I told you!” Buckingham fairly crowed.

  I swore under my breath. “Show me. I must be certain before any action is taken.”

  I dragged on my footgear, threw a cloak around my shoulders. The spy left the room with Buckingham and me following on his heels. Hurrying through the market square, teeming with my cousin’s men, we reached one of the hostelries near the slope of Bridge Street. Outside its doors stood a cart surrounded by a dozen guards wearing Buckingham’s colours.

  It looked a normal enough cart at first glance. A haywain, piled high with sheaves of bound straw. Some peasant’s livelode.

  “Look closer,” said Harry Stafford.

  I walked up to the cart, gaze raking over the bundles. There…between strands of golden straw, a glint of metal. Drawing my dagger from my belt, I slashed into the nearest hay-bale. The hay fell away, revealing a stack of swords, pikes, and halberds, all honed and lethal.

  “By the Blood of Christ,” I swore, eyes widening.

  I beckoned to one of my youthful squires, who had followed me from the Bantam Cock. “Return to the Inn. See to it that all my men are raised from their billets immediately. Tell them to put aside their mourning garb and make ready for conflict. Have fifty of them come to the The Old Bull Inn.”

  The lad ran off, streaking through the pre-dawn grey like a manic hare.

  I turned to Buckingham. “May I have use of your men, cousin? I want to pay a visit to my ‘dear friend’ Anthony Woodville before he wakes.”

  “Of course you can, my Lord,” smiled Buckingham, as easily as if he had merely offered me a goblet of malmsey. He gestured with a gloved hand to some of his surrounding soldiers. “To the Old Bull, men. Look sharp. A rat is about to be caught in a trap.”

  “What? What is going on? I demand you unhand me!” Bleary, his suave mannerisms lost, Lord Rivers was hauled from his warm bed in the Old Bull tavern. Two burly men of my lord of Buckingham’s retinue dragged him down the inn’s stairs, barefoot and flopping like a fish, to stand in front of Harry Stafford and me.

  “Richard! Harry! What…what is going on?” he cried, using our baptismal names with unbecoming familiarity. “Is this some kind of a sick jest?”

  “Were the arms we found hidden in a cart some kind of a jest?” I spat back.

  “Arms? I know nothing of arms, I swear it! Are you both mad, or drunk?” He began to look wild. “Let me go! This is madness. I have done nothing!”

  “Lord Rivers,” I said with solemnity and displeasure. “As Constable of England, I arrest you.”

  “Arrest me? Have you lost your wits? Richard, think what you are doing! I’ve never meant you harm. Harry, for pity’s sake, speak to him and make him come to his senses—We…we are kin, by Christ; you’re wedded to my sister.”

  Buckingham shrugged disdainfully, uncaring of Rivers’ pleas. “It was my men who found the cart. I cannot deny what I have seen with my own eyes.”

  “No! No!” Anthony Woodville was shouting. He began to struggle in the grip of his gaolers. “This is an evil ploy! It’s you…you, isn’t it?” He thrust a graceful, accusing finger at Buckingham. “You always bore my family hatred. My God…”

  “Anthony Woodville,” I said, my voice pure ice. “You stand accused of treason.” I gestured to the waiting soldiers outside. “Men, take him somewhere safe. Make sure he does not escape your custody.”

  Rivers was secured in the old bastion of the castle along with many of his personal retainers. Then Harry and I were both into our armour and galloping along the road to Stony Stratford with all the speed we could muster, our forces of some six hundred men thundering after us. All mourning garb had vanished and we rode beneath our banners as if we headed into battle.

  Armed conflict might well face us somewhere on our journey. Who knew what surprises Anthony Woodville, no longer bound by loyalty to a dead King, had prepared for us along the road? Other perils might face us too: we followed the King’s Highway, but as unrest had grown in the harsh, rainy year of 1482 and Ned had languished, its safety had been compromised and rogues fared abroad, robbing and worse even in daylight hours.

  But it was not the lone vagabonds and outlaws I feared, no matter how desperate and bloodthirsty. It was those we thought were our own that brought me greatest disquiet. Anthony, of all men…the poet, the jouster. Now Anthony the liar and traitor. He had once been the King’s man; now he was solely a Woodville man…

  My mind worked feverishly. By all reports, Rivers had forces of some two thousand men; between us, Harry and I had a paltry six hundred. We must be careful, very careful here.

  Eventually Stony Stratford’s church towers appeared on the horizon, St Mary Magdalen’s dwarfing the lesser spire of St Giles. A wayside Chapel dedicated to St John flashed by and the lazar house that stood beyond the town boundaries, where men with rotted faces hoed the meagre gardens. Then Stonebrygge reared up, humpbacked over the flowing Ouse; our steeds’ hooves struck sparks from the cobblestones, as we crossed the river and entered the town precincts.

  Immediately before us, the great Cross raised to Edward I’s beloved Queen Eleanor soared toward the sky, all airy finials, shield-bearing angels and veiled queens; disturbed by the presence of so many galloping riders, the townsfolk shrieked and leapt onto its base for safety, hugging the age-pitted stonework in fear.

  Surging down Watling Street, my company reached the market place, brimming with multitudes of people, some about their daily business, others just gawking. Banners moved, men shouted; between jostling bodies, I caught glints of weaponry, armour. Companies of soldiers were moving out the square on its southern side, leaving town in the direction of London.

  Christ, let me not be too late…Where is the young king?

  “Over yonder, Richard!” Buckingham pointed across the square with a gauntleted hand. “There is our Lord King, surrounded by his Woodville kin and faithful servants! By the Tavern called the Rose and Crown!”

  I peered through the crowds, zigzagging to miss onlookers while still driving my horse forward. Some of the Woodville retainers reacted to our sudden presence with alarm and there was a suddenly flurry of pikes, and I knew the situation must be contained immediately lest we perish, sorely outnumbered.

  Wrenching off my helmet despite the risk of making myself vulnerable, I forced a bright and cheerful smile. “My Lord King,” I cried in a great voice. “No need for alarm! It is I, your uncle of Gloucester, brother to your lamented father whom I loved dearly. I have come to accompany you to London for your eventual Coronation.”

  The young King Edward, in the midst of being helped onto his
mount by his half-brother, Richard Grey, halted in mid-swing of a leg and craned his head around to stare. His mouth, a red bow, almost girlish, turned down in a pouting glower at the delay. His shoulders became rigid with displeasure beneath a sky-blue doublet pattered with golden lilies and lions.

  I gestured to my men and ordered Buckingham to do the same; as one, they all sank to their knees before their new sovereign. Harry at my side, we crossed through the kneeling ranks to within a few feet of the King, and then we both went down on our knees in homage too, there amidst the dung and dirty straw of Stony Stratford’s marketplace.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Harry grimace as his knee struck upon some dog’s turd mashed on the cobbles. “Fucking gong-farmers should be whipped for not doing their jobs!” he began wrathfully, but I shushed him, speaking low and firm:

  “My Lord Duke, it is not appropriate. Not now. Be grateful it did not soil your hand!”

  Edward, uncrowned king, took his foot from the stirrup and walked towards us, the sun making a halo of his shoulder-length curls. He was not as handsome as I remembered from our brief meeting last Christmas; encroaching adolescence had turned his fair hair brassy, his skin pallid and spotty. His eyes were very big and dark blue, his chin weak from his mother’s family. No matter, such was of no consequence in a King. If Rivers was not exaggerating, this young boy should prove both erudite and witty, a child genius, known for wisdom and courtesy beyond his tender years, and for his ability to converse with grown men on an adult level.

  It turned out, not altogether unexpectedly, that Rivers was exaggerating.

  Glaring down at us, the young King stamped his foot and folded his arms defensively. “Where is my uncle Anthony? I want my proper uncle. He said he’d buy me boots in Northampton, and maybe some toys…Then he was going to tell me about his jousting, he always likes to talk about jousting, and how he’s the best jouster in the whole world!”

  “Your Grace,” I tried to keep my voice calm, soothing. “I regret to inform you that there has been trouble; a plot discovered against me, whom your late father appointed as Lord Protector of the Realm.”

  “I don’t care about that!” the brat screamed, his white face turning a shade of unbecoming red.

  People were beginning to stare. Richard Grey, mercifully making himself useful, attempted to calm the lad. “Your Grace—my beloved brother—let us go within the Rose and Crown. I am sure the Duke of Gloucester will enlighten us of these unfortunate events in a more private place.”

  Edward stomped over to the inn, his half-brother rushing at his heels like some kind of guard dog. I rose and so did Harry Stafford. Face wrinkled in disgust, he brushed at the straw and dung clinging to his soiled knees. “You go and comfort the King, Richard. I will deal with Rivers’ men. They look a rather dispirited and dull lot, and without Rivers here they are leaderless. I will do my best to convince them to return to the Welsh Marches.”

  “Anything more I should know?”

  “Aye, Richard Grey, you’ll have to do something about him. Beyond any doubt, he was in on the plot with his uncle Rivers. His arms were found on one bundle of weapons in the cart. And Thomas Vaughan, the old man, the chamberlain; I am reliably informed he aided with financing this treachery. They are all guilty.”

  I nodded in understanding, and went into the Rose and Crown behind the King. He would not speak to me, just sat in a chair, tapping his finger dispiritedly on the arm and brooding. I tried to explain again that all was not well in the realm but he seemed to have become deaf as well as mute.

  Frustrated, I just stood there, feeling increasingly irritated and uncomfortable, hot in my armour but unable to voice any complaints lest it be taken as an affront to my sovereign. Richard Grey, another broad-browed, tow-headed Woodville, loomed behind his half-brother, glowering like a gargoyle, moving only to get the royal boy drink, sweets, bread. Minutes began to feel like hours.

  Suddenly a shadow darkened the door, and I sighed in relief as Buckingham swept in. Sidling up to me after making a perfunctory bow in the direction of the King, he whispered in my ear, “It is done! The rabble is off like homeless sheep. And you will never guess, Richard, my friend—we found three more cartloads of harness and arms. Three! We have been very lucky this day, I’ll wager.”

  “What are you talking about?” Edward miraculously found his tongue again. He glowered at us both, kicking the heels of his shoes angrily against the legs of his chair.

  Thud, thud, thud, the sound echoed through my head annoyingly. If he had not been the King of England, I would have taken my hand to him like any other unruly child disrespectful to his elders.

  “We will talk about more evidence for the plot, your Grace,” I informed him. “The plot against my Protectorship…against my very life. I regret to bring unsettling news to your ears, but your kinsman Anthony Woodville appears to be the main instigator of this outrage—along with Lord Richard Grey and Sir Thomas Vaughan.”

  Grey’s imperious glare melted and his jaw dropped. He made a choking sound and clutched at the back of Edward’s chair, nearly spilling the King onto the flagstones. Vaughan, standing by the fireplace and until this moment looking rather bored, waved his hands in a panic and began to protest, “I am an old man, and I’ve only done my duty to his Grace!”

  I went to the door leading outside to the square. My men and Buckingham’s were arrayed in a circle around the Inn, while almost none of Woodville’s could be seen. Other than a few stalwarts, most had beaten a hasty retreat just as Harry had said. The Boar and the Swan completely overwhelmed the little town. I beckoned in two stout captains, pointed to Grey and Vaughan. “Arrest them. Quickly!”

  Young King Edward’s hands whitened on the arms of his chair as his half brother and Thomas Vaughan were surrounded by armed soldiers and hustled out of the chamber. The old knight left with some decorum retained, but Grey was screaming like a girl.

  “How dare you!” Edward cried, banging his fists on the chair’s carven armrests. “They are my kin, my friends. I don’t know you. I don’t like you! I don’t want you to be Protector. My family and my Mother the Queen can do as well…”

  Harry Stafford’s eyes narrowed to mean little slits. “The Queen is a woman, and women have no place in the running of the realm. Such high matters are the business of men. Your Grace.”

  Edward’s mouth closed with a stunned snap.

  “Come, Highness.” I tried to be conciliatory. “We must return to Northampton and wait to hear if London is safe for you to enter. I beg forgiveness that our meeting has not been on more pleasant terms. I have your best interests at heart. Surely you, in turn, want to honour your father’s wishes regarding me?”

  I could tell he wanted anything but, though he was afraid to say it now…which was good. Aye, he sorely needed to be removed from the Woodville influence, which appeared to have spoiled him utterly. So much for the fabled child prodigy of Ludlow.

  “Can I see my uncle Anthony?” he asked querulously. He sounded less petulant and imperious now; more frightened.

  “Perhaps, your Grace,” I murmured, hating myself for the outright lie. I would not let the King near any Woodville supporter again. “I do promise though, that you will have those boots you wanted. A gift from me, your uncle of Gloucester. And anything else you might like to make your stay in Northampton comfortable.”

  “I will agree to go there then” he said sulkily. “But you better make sure I get my boots! The best boots in all of Northampton! The best, do you hear?”

  “I hear, your Grace. I hear.”

  Over the next few days, I endeavoured to get Edward to warm to me. It was a difficult task. He sulked, pouted, stomped his feet and even, once or twice, bawled like a babe and went flailing around the room. Gradually, my patience wore thin after every attempt was met with a rude rebuff. He would have to get used to me, as I was the Lord Protector by his father’s own decree. Aye, it was a sad day for us all when Ned died, but I had lost my father at a you
nger age than Edward and I had borne it with far more courage. I wished Will Hastings would soon send me news from London so that I could move off with the boy. Hastily I scribbled a message and sent it to London saying that the King was safely in my care, that Rivers, Grey and Vaughan were arrested for their plots against my person and against the stability of the realm, and that, God willing, I would soon be bringing Edward V to his coronation.

  At dinner back in the Bantam Cock, I tried yet again to engage young Edward in the erudite conversation he was supposedly known for. Once again, the response was disappointing.

  “I want my Uncle Anthony here. It is not fair he’s in prison. Not fair!” He poked miserably with his knife at the beef on his trencher, and then suddenly stabbed it with the tip, his chinless face all screwed up in rage. I eyed him in bemusement, imagining that he was fantasising about stabbing me rather than the meat.

  “Don’t worry about Lord Anthony, your Grace” I told him, disarming him of that knife and pushing a tray of sweetmeats in his direction. “I will have food sent from my very table, to bring cheer to Earl Rivers.”

  And I was true to my word on that matter, but Rivers, holed up in the prison of the old castle of Northampton, returned a reply through my messenger, “Please give my portion to the Lord Richard Grey. He is not used to hardship and will be in need of it more.”

  I honoured his request; it was not my concern if Anthony wanted to play the part of martyr and starve himself. As for Grey, I wondered how this Woodville youth, son of the Queen’s first marriage to the Lancastrian Sir John Grey, could be embroiled in deceptions and treachery yet still expect the treatment of a cosseted prince. Had he not thought of the consequences of his actions? Jesu, he was eighteen, not eight.

  At last, word arrived from Will Hastings regarding events in London. His letter made disturbing reading indeed. He confirmed Buckingham’s news that Edward Woodville had sailed with the fleet—and much of the treasury—while that bastard Thomas Grey had hauled the rest from the Tower and bundled it into sanctuary at Westminster, knocking down a wall to fit it all in. The Queen and her brother Lionel, bishop of Salisbury (a rogue in churchman’s robes), fled into sanctuary with him, dragging along Edward’s children, save for the babe, Bridget, who was sick and smelly and had been abandoned in the royal Wardrobe. The Archbishop of York, Thomas Rotherham, had rushed to the Queen’s side, crying that he would never have it again so good were the Woodvilles ousted from power, and committed the unlawful and unprecedented act of delivering the Great Seal into her hands. What he expected the Dowager Queen to do with it, I had no idea; the man seemed mad in his fear of loss of position and patronage.