I, Richard Plantagenet: Book Two: Loyaulte Me Lie

by J. P. Reedman

  Hastings went on to tell that Rotherham repented of his rash deed soon enough, and shamefacedly recovered the Seal from Elizabeth Woodville and returned it to safety. So at least that was one less worry to trouble my mind.

  Gathering my retinue, I began the journey to London, with plans to reach the city walls in two days time. I had no wish to bring my prisoners in the train, fearing their supporters might try to free them; Buckingham and I did not have enough men to endure sustained armed conflict. We had been fortunate in Stony Stratford that the Anthony’s leaderless men returned to the Marches without giving battle. I decided the best course would be to send the arrested men to my strongholds in the north, Pontefract, Sheriff Hutton and Middleham, while their fates were being decided.

  The company spent the next night at St Albans, in a guesthouse belonging to the abbey. Still trying to sooth the young King, I took him on a swift, private visit to the shrine of the martyr Alban, whom the Romans had beheaded for his faith. Alban’s was a wondrous tale—although a pagan, he had taken pity on a priest being hunted by soldiers and hidden him. The priest told him of the goodness of Christ and Alban had converted to the Faith. However, the Romans managed to track down their quarry; Alban, a soldier, fought them with valour while the priest fled but he was subdued and condemned in the holy man’s place. As the Romans led him to his place of execution, the river parted before his feet and a spring burst from the ground to quench his thirst. When the executioner struck off Alban’s head, God punished the man wielding the sword by making his eyes drop out…

  However, it seemed the King was not interested in hagiography. He fidgeted and sighed, rolled his eyes when he thought the abbot could not see. Afterwards, I took him back to our lodgings where, after eating a hearty meal in his honour, Buckingham and I endeavoured once again to entertain him and win his affection, or at least show him that we were not his enemies.

  The evening ended with Edward practicing his signature as King upon a parchment. EDWARD QUINTUS, he wrote in a heavy, belaboured hand, his face twisted with concentration as he wielded the quill. Once he was done, I wrote my own motto, Loyaultie Me Lie, below his signature, and my name, Richard Gloucester.

  “Harry, do you wish to join your name to this?” I glanced over at Buckingham who, having finished a glazed meat pie, was tucking into a fancy shaped like the Tower. One turret tumbled beneath his knife.

  He glanced up, annoyance darkening his features for a moment before he masked it with a blazing smile. Throwing down his cutlery with a clatter, he swept towards us in his saffron houpelland, his hair blowing out in a burnished cloud. Taking the quill from my hand, he wrote in a lazy sprawl at the bottom of the page, ‘Souvente me Souvene’ followed by ‘Harry Buckingham.’

  Remember me often…I do not think anyone who met Harry could ever truly forget him. He resembled…George. Whether this was a good or bad thing, I did not quite know. But Buckingham, unlike my brother, may have had some cause for dissatisfaction—he was clearly tired beyond endurance of dealing with his Woodville kin-by-marriage, tired of being ignored. He was the only high ranked peer who had no official position in Edward’s government, and it rankled. I wondered why Ned had seen fit to insult him in such a way.

  My thoughts were disturbed by the young King. “Uncle Buckingham has eaten the best part of the cake!” he shrilled in a voice far too childish for a lad of his age. “I want to go to bed now, Uncle Richard, but I won’t sleep for hours because I am used to my most true uncle Lord Anthony telling me tales of his jousting exploits!”

  “Well, that would put anyone to sleep,” muttered Buckingham.

  “I will send Dr Argentine up with a brew to make you sleep,” I said to Edward, rather coolly. I beckoned to the King’s personal physician who was wandering in and out of the room, looking fretful, as if he needed a calming potion himself.

  The child…I mean, the King…stuck his tongue out at me. “I don’t want that! I’m the King! Medicines taste nasty. I wanted that cake!”

  He stormed up the inn’s stairs as the servants from his personal household fell about him, bowing and curtseying. Dr Argentine, muttering, “My goodness, my poor little lord, my poor young King…” thumped after him, nearly tripping on his long robes.

  “He’s an unlovable little swi…child, isn’t he?” said Harry in a low tone, lips scarcely moving.

  “Aye,” I replied, equally discreet. “Not much of Edward in him that I can see. But he may change, when away from his dam and her damnable relatives.”

  “You have your work cut out for your Gloucester, that’s all I can say,” murmured Harry. “If he does not warm to you, think how difficult your position as Lord Protector will be. Hmm…Lord Protectors are notorious for having rather short lives.”

  I scowled, bit my lip. Harry turned to me, that big open smile upon his features once more, his gaze locking with mine with a fervent intensity. “But fear not, Richard. I am here with you, behind you. I will advise you and stand for your cause in the days to come.”

  “My thanks, Harry,” I said, and of a sudden whim drew him to me in a quick, thankful embrace. A man needed allies in these uncertain times.

  “You know…” his breath blew hot against my ear, “the Coronation will have to be postponed.”

  The new King’s cavalcade reached London to the accompaniment of booming bells and crowds that milled in the weak sunshine. Clad in sky-blue, his spotty face scrubbed until it shone, young Edward laughed and smiled, loving the attention and waving to his subjects. Buckingham and I, deciding that mourning garments were right and respectful, looked drab and dismal beside the new King, the brightly robed Mayor and Aldermen, and the violet-clad burgesses.

  With us, we dragged the four cartloads of armour and weaponry that Buckingham had found near Northampton and in Stony Stratford. A crier ran alongside each of them, pointing out the Woodville arms to the throng whilst declaring in a loud voice, “Lo, people of London! See the arms gathered by Anthony Woodville to use treacherously against the Duke of Gloucester!”

  I could hear angry murmuring as the news of the treachery spread about, and hoped it was because the Londoners were vexed to hear of Anthony’s ploy, and not that they were angry that he had failed. These men in the south were something of a mystery to me.

  At Saint Paul’s Cathedral, the King dismounted and went to his lodgings with the Bishop of London. I breathed a huge sigh of relief to see him depart, his blond head bobbing animatedly as he harangued the Bishop about his wants and needs.

  Weary, I made my own excuses to get away and hurried off to Crosby Hall, to rest for a small while until the frenzy of activity and my duties overtook me once again.

  I was quite pleased to busy myself with paperwork and other such business and avoid, for a few days at least, the glowers and pouts of the young King. My late brother’s council had sworn an oath to Edward V, and I had been duly confirmed as Lord Protector of England—a great weight off my shoulders, as even a King’s will was often not followed to the letter. In my official capacity, I was given the rights to order and forbid in every matter of import, almost as if I were King myself. It was not a power to be abused, and I swore to my council that I would seek their learned advice in all matters of importance.

  In my first job as Lord Protector, I decided to replace Thomas Rotherham after his debacle with the Great Seal. Personally upbraiding the man, I stripped him of his positions and sent him away in disgrace, though I did not remove him from the council altogether. In his place John Russell was chosen as Chancellor; pious and intelligent, Russell had a cool head and was no Woodville lover like his predecessor.

  I was not sure what to do with young Edward, however. He was still dwelling in the Bishop of London’s Palace and, I heard through my spies, driving the Bishop mad with his constant demands. He wanted horses and his pet dog, and his favourite toys, and he didn’t like the food. He missed his friends from the Marches, and he wanted to see his brother, who was still in Sanctuary with his mother. Oh
yes, and he wanted to see Elizabeth too, and sister Bessy, because Bessy could sing well and he liked singing, having heard bards from Wales while dwelling at Ludlow.

  I sat with the council in the dark-panelled council chamber, stretching my legs under the table as best I could without entangling them with someone else’s. I was uncomfortable, peevish. It had grown hot over the last few days; the window hung open but no breeze wafted in to cool us. It was as if London, nay, all England, held its breath while we worked on tidying up the old King’s affairs to make way for the new boy-king.

  I was not in the best of moods; for days I had been trying to deal with the particulars of Edward’s will but my efforts were in vain. It could not be finalised while the Queen lurked in sanctuary. In the end, the Archbishop of Canterbury took control of all my dead brother’s remaining goods, what little there was after Elizabeth and Thomas Grey’s flight and the defection of the Queen’s brother Edward Woodville. These remnants were promptly sold to all and sundry in order to pay the costs of Ned’s funeral…which I had not even been invited to.

  “So,” I folded my hands on the table,” where shall we lodge our Sovereign Lord? The Bishop’s Palace is clearly not suitable for an active youth such as he, and I am led to believe the King is not happy with the arrangement.”

  “Westminster?” someone far down the table suggested, somewhat timorously.

  I raised an eyebrow. “Near to where the Dowager Queen keeps up her silly pretence of being abused and oppressed? No, I think not! Her sympathizers might well try to spirit him away and then we would have him locked up with her, and a problem that could only end in conflict.”

  “How about the Priory of Saint John?” asked John Howard. “A few more amenities there. Not near the Queen.”

  “But still with many of the same deficiencies as the Bishop’s Palace. The King’s residence while he awaits his coronation needs to be a secure place but with the trappings fitting for the ruler of England.”

  Buckingham glanced up. He had been leaning forward onto the table, chin resting on hands, informal and almost lackadaisical amidst the attentive, serious-faced men of the council.

  “Why has no one thought of it before?” He pulled himself upright, shook back his burnished gold curls. “The most obvious place of all, where other Kings have awaited their coronations. The safest place in all of London, in all England. A royal palace and yet a great stronghold. We should send his Grace King Edward V to the Tower of London.”

  I thought for a moment, and then passed my hand over my sweating brow. “A splendid idea, Buckingham. He would have had to be transferred there the night before the ceremony anyway. In the Tower he can have all his needs catered for, yet he will be safe from all harm. It will be done. I am sure our young sovereign will enjoy visiting the animals in the King’s menagerie…”

  I wondered how, in reverse, the royal lions might equally enjoy the new King of England should he stick an imperious hand into their cages, then pushed such a wicked, disloyal and downright ridiculous thought to the back of my mind. My royal nephew would change, he would mature; I would guide him instead of Rivers and he would become a York and not a Woodville.

  The council dragged on, men droning about trivialities, mostly relating to their own troubles in the aftermath of my brother’s demise. Even though the problem of the new King’s lodgings was decided, my temper grew frayed as one councillor started moaning, “My wife served the Queen. What’s going to happen about her expenses now?”

  “Can we not debate more serious matters?” I asked sharply, rapping the table like some stern tutor in a school. “What about Rivers, Grey and Vaughan, the men who conspired to kill me? A little more important that your wife’s expenses or the cost of cloth in London, I should think.” I took a deep breath, folded my arms. “The three of them—they should all be charged with high treason and face the penalty!”

  Silence fell. I knew what I asked would not be popular but no other course seemed possible. If Elizabeth had come from sanctuary, contrite, and Edward Woodville had brought the fleet home and craved a pardon, the Queen’s brother, son, and retainer might have been spared any great punishment. But Elizabeth would not treat with us, despite a delegation sent to persuade her of the folly of her ways, and Edward was sailing about in the Channel engaging in piracy, whilst no doubt squandering what remained of the royal treasury.

  Anthony Woodville had planned to kill me, and the other two were complicit. If they were freed without punishment, my life would never again be safe. They would have the young King’s ear and rule England through him, while I was sidelined—or worse.

  Buckingham was right behind me, in agreement of my proposal. “They must be executed,” he thundered, his voice imperious and as cutting as the axe blade he clearly hoped would fall on the neck of his brother-in-law.

  Hastings was jumping up and down almost gleefully in his seat, his hatred of the Woodvilles evident. He could not forget his fights over women and rank with Thomas Grey (who had fled, first to the Westminster sanctuary then God knows where) nor how Anthony Woodville had caused him to fall from grace with Edward for a time. “The Lord Protector is right! These men bore arms against him and tried to wrest the King away unlawfully. They must be charged with treason.”

  The Lords Spiritual were less enthusiastic about any punishments, however. “But your Grace, reprehensible as their actions may have been, can it be called treason? You were not yet acclaimed Lord Protector, not till you reached London.”

  “I am still High Constable of England, and they stood in the way of my duties. I could have had them tried before the Constable’s court then and there, had I seen fit,” I pointed out.

  There was much muttering, beard stroking and shaking of heads. Then one of the Lords Spiritual stepped forward. John Morton, Bishop of Ely. He was here only because I could not dismiss all of my brother’s old council without complaint. Morton was a former supporter of Marguerite of Anjou and Harry Six. Sly as the eels that slithered in the fens round his diocese at Ely, he had cast aside his old loyalties when it became obvious that the House of Lancaster was finished. Then he licked diligently at Edward’s boots until he was accepted into the Yorkist fold—mainly for his keen intellect, but also so that Ned could keep a wary eye on his doings.

  Morton was a man of middling height with a haze of thinning grey hair and a short curling beard that surrounded a puckered face the consistency of soft dough. Wreathed in loose folds of flesh, his eyes were mild and vaguely sorrowful, as if their bearer was filled with pity for the wicked world. He resembled a kindly saint, but I had heard tales of deviousness, of avarice and double-dealing, of lies breathed through silver—a calculating ruthlessness beneath the saintly exterior. Did I say he had once been for Lancaster? Perhaps better to say that Morton was for whoever could pay his bills.

  The Bishop cleared his throat, wringing his hands like some maiden before saying, in his meek, mild, ever-so-reasonable voice, “Lord Protector, we admit there does seem to be some evidence of a plot against you, but Anthony Rivers is held in high regard and many are unwilling to believe that the Earl behaved in such a treacherous manner. It is said that many men think the weapons displayed as proof of intent of warfare were in fact those our late King had ready for the Scottish campaigns.”

  A muscle jumped angrily in my cheek. Rage surged through me and I struck the table with my fist as I had seen Edward do when he was furious. “Nonsense! Arrant nonsense! Why would bundles of weapons and armour be lying about like so much rubbish after all these months? Why would it be tucked away outside of London? The goddamned Scots were hardly going to attack the walls of London, you fools!”

  Silence fell over the chamber. Rarely had I ever showed such unrestrained anger in public before. With an effort, I bridled my rage, inclining my head in apology. “Forgive me, I spoke too harshly. I will bow to whatever my council decrees in this matter.”

  More muttering. I waited as they conferred, whispered. The decision came swiftly,
its results not unexpected. The Lords Spiritual decided that the accused plotters were to be kept in prison for the time being, but that was all.

  There was no point in disputing it. Rivers was locked behind the adamant walls of Pontefract and that was good enough for now. Other urgent business pressed, with that other Woodville, Edward, out at sea with the treasury in tow. Intelligence had reached me that he was hovering off the east coat of Kent, near Goodwin Sands. A naval battle with Woodville might prove a fruitless loss of men and resources, so I had other plans to defray his threat—send out ships to intimidate, but at the same time send forth word that pardons would be granted to all sailors who abandoned their master’s unlawful cause. An added incentive to leave the fold would be the hefty price I planned to put on the heads of Edward Woodville and the Marquis of Dorset, who I suspected might be holed up with him. For many men, the lure of money far surpassed any idea of loyalty…

  “I want a fleet to set out to disperse Edward Woodville’s,” I told the council. “Its swift dispersal is paramount to the safety of the realm.”

  This time the mutterings were all of agreement.