I, Richard Plantagenet: Book Two: Loyaulte Me Lie

by J. P. Reedman

  “Perhaps Dame Grey bewitched him. They say her dam was a sorceress. I could well believe it was true. She always seemed to me a pompous witch.” It was Harry Stafford who spoke. I had no idea if he jested or was serious.

  I hardly knew what to hope; what would the procedure be if Edward’s children were barred from succession? Would it be politic to reverse Clarence’s attainder, make his son Warwick heir? But Warwick was a mild, none too worldly child, even younger than young Edward, and already some men chanted the words from Ecclesiastes in the streets: “Woe to thee, O Land, when thy king is a child!”

  If Edward and his brother could not inherit and Warwick was not acceptable…I froze and suddenly the heat of the day turned to ice.

  Buckingham looked at me and smiled, his teeth seemed to shine out like beacons in the gloom. The storm was beating around the house, wind screaming down the chimneys. “If Edward’s children are declared bastards…Well, a great shock it would be, but not a complete disaster for the country. There are others of royal lineage in England besides hapless children.”

  Silence fell; the wind suddenly dropped with a moan. Everyone in the room was staring at me, as if in sudden expectation. “I wish to say no more!” I cried almost desperately. “We will wait and only confer on this matter when it been thoroughly examined by men of law and religion. Later, do you understand?”

  Mercifully, the conversation turned. Hastings, now it was about Will Hastings.

  “He is no friend to you, Richard, if he ever was,” Buckingham informed me. “He would fancy himself Lord Protector. Catesby here can confirm it.”

  The lawyer was nodding. “He is now your rival, Your Grace. His meetings with Lord Stanley, Bishop Morton and others have taken a new turn. They visit each other’s houses, in secret. Or so they think.” He smiled a long, sleepy-looking smile that made him look rather feline. Well, they called him ‘The Cat’ for good reason, for he seemed to have the ability to walk amongst the great meekly and quietly, putting his nose in where it was scarcely noticed until he pounced upon some chance word or slipped secret.

  “Jane Shore is involved in their treasonous business,” Catesby continued.

  “My brother’s harlot!”

  “Aye. The harlot.” Buckingham spoke sneeringly. “Straight out of Dorset’s bed into Hastings’ though I have no doubt the King had already shared her with his friends—he found such bawdiness amusing and she had no objection. She has been running messages between Hastings and his faction and the Queen in sanctuary.”

  “Will Hastings despises the Woodvilles!” I snapped, unwilling to believe. “How can he turn to them now and seek to oust me as protector, when it was he who told me of their plots when Edward died?”

  Harry shrugged. “Does any man need a reason, other than seeking his own furtherance?”

  I was silent. Hastings may have expected many rich rewards to end up in his hands. Instead, I had rewarded Harry Buckingham, who had aided me in Northampton. As for uniting with the Woodvilles, I supposed a sudden about-face should not shock me; one had only to look back at the actions of Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick. When he and Ned quarrelled, Warwick turned his coat and went straight to his old enemy, Marguerite of Anjou, promising to reclaim England for Lancaster. Why would I think Hastings would be cut of different cloth?

  Quiet rage burned inside me, mingling with a surge of fear. I thought I had stabilized the country by removing the Woodville threat but now another threat had arisen. Hastings. Hastings, who had loved my brother but led him into sin, ruining his health with wild drinking and whoring and gluttonous feasts.

  He had to be stopped. William Hastings had to be removed from any power and this new treachery nipped in the bud. In my mind, terrible scenarios played out…he would kill me if he could, and put up the young, possibly bastard, boy on the throne as a puppet-king. He would be Lord Protector, in a new alliance with the Woodvilles. He would kill Buckingham. He would thrust Anne into a convent or marry her to some toadying Woodville. And my son, what would happen to my boy…

  It had to be stopped!

  “Enough!” I suddenly shouted to my friends. I pressed my damp palms to my sweating forehead. “I have had enough of this talk! I must think on all I have learned this day…alone!”

  Frustrated, I stormed from the room, pushing my companions aside, even Frank, who strove to talk to me, calm me. Buckingham alone followed me to the door, gazing at me with that unnerving, confident smile playing on his lips. “Make the right decision, Richard. I know you will. I know…”

  The next day I summoned Richard Ratcliffe to my chamber at Crosby Hall, handed him two rolled parchments “You will take two messages of great import,” I told him. “One is bound for York, the other goes to Lord Neville of Raby. Ride like the wind, my friend. One day your loyalty may well be rewarded.”

  Ratcliffe bowed, took the letters, tucked them into a leather pouch at his side and left the room.

  I watched him from the window as he galloped out through the gate and down the bustling London street.

  Both letters contained an urgent plea for aid. In them was written, in my own hand:

  We heartily pray you come unto us to London in all diligence, with as many as you can make defensibly arrayed, to assist us against the Queen, her blood adherents and affinity, who daily intend to murder and utterly destroy us and our cousin the Duke of Buckingham, and the old royal blood of this realm…

  Two council meetings were set for Friday, June 13, a day of ill omen from time immemorial. John Russell would head one meeting pertaining to the Coronation. The other, to be held at the Tower, would have both my friends—and my enemies—present. John Howard and Harry on my side; Hastings, Morton, Stanley, Rotherham on the other.

  Unnerving news arrived from the spies that buzzed like bees in the taprooms and around the doors of great men’s homes; this meeting would be the time Hastings tried to strike at Buckingham, his supporters and me carrying concealed weapons into the council chamber against the dictates of the law.

  Feeling decidedly unwell, I made my way across London to the Tower. The thought of confrontation did not normally dismay me, but today tightness gripped my chest, a sense of not being able to draw full breath. My left arm tingled and my shoulder felt sore, almost immovable. Other than some aches from the crook in my back, I seldom suffered physical ailments, but today my guts roiled and ominous sensations assailed me. I thought of the rumours of Elizabeth Woodville and her dead mother Jacquetta whistling down evil like the heathenish water-spirit they claimed as a forebear. Could Elizabeth, in her chosen sanctuary, be casting spells to blight my strength? But, such thoughts were madness surely, and was it not said that we Plantagenets were also born of the Devil’s Brood?

  I tried to concentrate on other than my physical complaints, to make clear in my mind what would happen once the council meeting had begun. I had brought a small entourage of armed men with me, ostensibly for protection from the viler elements of the London streets. They would wait in the halls beyond the council chamber, while I attended the meeting, unarmed, as was the law. Under my garments, I wore a tight brigandine sewn with thick iron plates, and hoped it would be enough should the worst come to worst.

  If I decided trouble was imminent, I would give a signal to my men to be ready near the chamber door.

  A simple gesture none would suspect.

  Strawberries.

  Most innocently, I had sent Bishop Morton a note requesting him to bring a parcel of strawberries from his garden, since I heard he had many growing there, ripe and succulent, waiting to be consumed.

  A perfect treat for a hot summer’s day full of lengthy discussions on high matters.

  Or…a perfect ploy that would allow me to activate my men should I need them.

  I wondered if my foes realised the symbolism of the fruit I had requested Morton bring. The Burgundians considered strawberries the fruit of traitors, since poisonous adders often lurked beneath the leaves growing at their base, waiting
to strike unwary souls deceived by an innocuous appearance.

  I thought that legend most apt today, with Lord Hastings the serpent in the leaves.

  If the conspirators made no move against me and the meeting proceeded without incident, I would do or say nothing. I would need to catch my foes another time. However, if I called out urgently for Morton’s basket of strawberries…that was the signal for my men to gather outside the council chamber door with their weapons ready, waiting for further instruction.

  Late, I entered the great council chamber. I had kept all the councillors waiting nearly an hour. The summer’s heat had descended and beads of sweat were jewelling the foreheads of both Hastings and Stanley. Rotherham looked merely worried, while Bishop Morton sat wearing a calm little smile on his plump face, an aging cherub seemingly unaffected by either the long wait for the Lord Protector or the heat of the day.

  Trying to ignore the tightness of my chest and the ache in my arm and shoulder, I approached the council table and forced a smile. “Apologies for my lateness, I overslept this morn. Ah, Bishop Morton, did you bring the strawberries I asked you for? I have been looking forward to them.” Pray he brought them or I could be undone…

  “How could I forget your humble request, my Lord?” said the Bishop, and he brought forth a gilded box filled with strawberries beneath a layer of protective silver tissue.

  “Thank you, Bishop—very nice. I will have them later when our work here is done.” Taking the box from him, I passed it to a page and it was duly carried out of the council chamber and away into the Tower to await my possible summons. An usher shut the great ironbound door of the council chamber with a clang that echoed up to the roof-beams and down the serpentine hallways.

  I stood at the head of the table, my forced smile fading from my face. “My lords.” My voice was low but sharp. “Evil news has reached my ears. You must all hear of it before we continue with our meeting. It has come to my attention that the Queen and her adherents plot against my life and that of my cousin, the Duke of Buckingham.” I nodded towards Harry, sitting near my right hand side, his visage grown stone still, hard.

  “Surely n…not, your Grace,” gasped Rotherham, his very demeanour pointing towards his guilt. “Just one of many foul rumours running abroad.”

  “Is it?” I said, and I stalked around the table, my black velvet robes swinging. “Not according to my agents…whom I trust.” I stared into Rotherham’s rheumy grey eyes until he glanced away, shamed. I wanted to make certain he knew I did not trust him.

  Countenance still sweet, flushed with robust health, Bishop Morton rose and approached me. His hand was out, his tones soothing, lulling. I imagined it was how the serpent spoke to Eve when she fell from grace in the Garden. “Be at peace, my Lord, and sit. Here we are all your friends. If there are enemies out there plotting, we know not of it. We will rally round you.”

  “I had the harlot Jane Shore arrested this morning,” I spat harshly.

  Hastings lurched in his seat, his eyes bulging from their sockets; Lord Stanley cast him a stern look and put a restraining hand on his arm. I felt a certain satisfaction seeing Hastings’ reaction. I’d had my men pluck the wench from the street just as she was leaving the old lecher’s abode after yet another night rolling in the old lecher’s bed.

  A terrible laugh tore from my constricted chest. “Jane Shore is complicit in this treachery, passing messages to and fro the wife of the very man she once swived. Though loyalty and constancy is not hers; I fear there is no highborn man of Edward’s court who has not enjoyed her.”

  Deathly silence fell over the room. I could hear a bee buzzing furiously, caught in a shutter, unable to make its way to freedom in the sky beyond.

  Anger and frustration poured out of me. “The Woodville woman—that accursed witch! She beguiled my brother, and I fear she casts dark arts over me! Since learning of these plots, I scarce can eat or drink or sleep; my breath grows short and my arm feels weak as if with age. I would not put some foul sorcery past her!”

  “My Lord, I beg you…” Rotherham again.

  “These are grave allegations,” said Morton, dryly.

  “Oh and there are more to come,” I continued, and I smiled again, but this time it was the smile of the wolf, my lips drawn back against my teeth.

  “This is madness,” Hastings huffed. “We did not come here to listen to mad allegations! If you are unwell, Richard, you should retire to Crosby house and call your doctors. We can continue our discussions well enough without you.”

  “I am sure that is exactly what you want, is it not?” I was standing beside him, breathing down his grizzled neck. “The Lord Protector of England out of earshot?”

  “What are you implying? I have known you for years. I was Edward’s friend.”

  “Aye. That you were. You probably knew more about him that I did, for all that he was my brother.”

  Stalking away from him, I sank back into my chair at the head of the table. My breathing was still laboured but as my anger was expelled, my strength had miraculously begun to return. My arm felt looser, my legs less unsteady. The knot in my belly and chest untied. I was ready to act and I knew I had my enemies where I wanted them.

  “What have you to say about that, Will Hastings?”

  Hastings looked thrown. “What? About Edward? Well, aye, I loved him, and knew him well as if he were my own brother.”

  “You procured women for him, didn’t you? Everyone knows about Will Hastings, how you and the King drank and wenched together! Night after night after night of sotted, carnal sin! You were privy to all Edward’s secrets, were you not? You knew he had married Elizabeth Woodville in secret at Grafton Regis…and you fucking well knew about Eleanor Talbot too!”

  Hastings was half up on his feet now, leaning on the table, with his eyes blazing hot fury and I thought, no, I saw, the glint of a blade beneath the swirl of his long councillor’s robes. “I know nothing of the Talbot woman. I believe the story of the marriage to be false, concocted by evil men who wish to see an unlawful King upon the throne!”

  “My lords, my lords!” Morton stepped in between me and the seething Hastings, whose indignation sounded all too much like guilty protestations to my ears. “This is not fitting. Perhaps we should adjourn till cooler heads prevail.”

  He cocked a pale hand at Hastings. “My Lord Hastings, will you not embrace the Lord Protector and be friends again? It is the right thing to do…”

  I moved back, putting the solid block of the oak table firmly between us, not wanting Hastings and his hidden weapon anywhere near me.

  Morton glanced at me and I could tell he knew that I had guessed he planned for Hastings to stab me. His fat little bearded face puckered, as if he was enjoying this deadly game.

  If the Bishop could play-act the calm courtier, so could I. Shrugging, I feigned defeat. “Maybe you are right, Bishop Morton, we should adjourn all proceedings for now.” I glanced towards the ironbound door, the pale usher who was in my employ. “We will break for a little while. You, usher, get my page to bring me my strawberries. Did you hear me, boy? Strawberries!”

  There was some scuffling in the hallway and the strawberries were duly bought in their silver box. My confidence soared, knowing my soldiers were now gathered nearby, awaiting for a signal to burst in. Out of the corner of my eyes, I could see a faint smirk curving Buckingham’s lips.

  I offered the fruits to Morton, smiling in a benign manner. “I insist you have the first choice, since you so kindly grew and provided them.” Before sampling any myself, I wanted to make certain they had not been tainted with poison.

  Guardedly the former Parson of Blokesworth took a strawberry and bit into it. Red liquid speckled his fat chin and little tufted beard. Satisfied, I passed the box around the chamber; the strawberries were accepted and eaten with suspicious and confused looks.

  I saved the last for myself, ate it, and threw the core upon the floor before Hastings’ seat. “Fine strawberries…but lege
nd says that serpents hide beneath their leaves. Do treacherous serpents dwell in Bishop Morton’s garden, my lord Chamberlain?”

  “You have gone mad!” Hastings roared. “Maybe you are bewitched!”

  “What is the penalty for treason, Will Hastings?” I shouted back, throwing the box that had held the strawberries to the floor. “What do you think it should it be?”

  “I am not the one who plans to commit treason! I am no fool; I can see what is growing in your black heart! Even since you allied yourself with that primping fool Buckingham, you have become like him! What are you, a pair of sodomites, planning to steal the crown together?”

  Buckingham cried out in rage and sprang up. “I will seek satisfaction for that slur!”

  In that instant, a knife blade flashed in Will Hastings’ hand. He made a lunge for me but I spun around on my heel and caught his wrist, smashing it down on the table and bending it backward with all my force until he howled. In his day, Hastings was a formidable warrior, but age had caught up with him, slowing his movements. The dagger clattered from his numb fingers, spun glittering across the table. “He draws blade against the Lord Protector! This is high treason. Arrest him!”

  The chamber door was yanked open, and the usher’s arms flailed like a windmill as he yelled, “Treason, treason!” at the top of his lungs. Arms clashed and clanked in the corridor beyond and men wearing the badge of the White Boar flooded in, swords drawn.

  Thomas Stanley tried to lumber past me, perhaps angling for a kidney-level blow with a hidden weapon, although I could see no blade; if he had one, he had wisely kept it well concealed in his robes. I could take no risk. Thrusting Hastings onto his face on the flagstones, I smote Stanley on the temple with my fist, the impact of knuckles against bone feeling highly satisfying. One of my rings cut him and he fell with a groan beneath the table, where he remained, blood trickling from his wound. He pretended to be unconscious but I could see his dull wet eyes watching me through cracks in the heavy lids.