I, Richard Plantagenet: Book Two: Loyaulte Me Lie

by J. P. Reedman

  Morton was arrested; he stood like some angelic statue, unmoved by the violence, still smiling his beatific, secret little smile. Rotherham cowered, hands knotted, but submitted to arrest without argument or plea. Oliver King, the young King’s secretary, yielded too, his face the colour of curdled milk as his hands were bound behind his back.

  “Take Lord Stanley as well,” I ordered, prodding the inert form of Thomas Stanley with the pointed toe of my poulaine. “Lock them all up in the prison quarters of the Tower. All except the traitor William Hastings.”

  My men dragged Thomas Stanley up off the floor, during which he still pretended to be senseless. Hefting his not inconsiderable bulk between them, they carried his slumped form out of view.

  “Now for you…” Eyes crackling fury, I approached William Hastings, hauled from the flagstones with bloodied lip and held fast between two brawny armoured men. “I charge you with high Treason. You have conspired against the Lord Protector of the Realm and the Duke of Buckingham. You have brought weaponry into the council chamber, against our laws. You have withheld the truth about King Edward’s first marriage and would have seen a bastard on the throne!”

  “I want a proper trial, before my peers!” Hastings snarled.

  “You get nothing!” I smote him across the face with my hand. “Do you forget I that am still High Constable of England? I can accuse, try and convict you here and now before the Constable’s Court, and send you to your rightful punishment! And that is what I shall do.”

  I assembled my court quickly as I was wont to do after battles. Lord Howard sat with Buckingham and me. It did not take long to read out all the charges against Hastings. Bringing weapons to the council chamber. Assaulting the Lord Protector. Treating with the Dowager Queen behind the Lord Protector’s back. Hiding valuable information pertaining to the inheritance of the crown of England… High Treason.

  “You are guilty on all charges, my lord Hastings,” I declared with solemnity. “The punishment is death by beheading, as befits your station.”

  I turned to the usher, a silent witness, shivering in fear as he clung to the door ring. “You, man, make yourself useful. Call for a priest. The Lord Chamberlain will be shriven, and then within the hour he will be executed upon Tower Green.”

  Hastings, who had faced me with boldness and affront until the very moment of his sentencing, went ashen and swayed on his feet. “You…I am to be…What? …Christ, no, you cannot mean… Richard, I beg you, in the name of all that is decent and holy, grant me right of appeal! This is monstrous!”

  “Take him away!” I refused to meet his tormented eyes. I took up his fallen dagger, slammed it into the table. I did not want anyone to see my trembling hands. “See that it is done without delay.”

  “Your Grace, we have no time to make a scaffold,” someone said.

  “No matter. Any block of wood will do. Now take this traitor from my sight!”

  From the window, I watched, silent, motionless. The block of wood, taken from a building site against the Tower wall. William Hastings kneeling, resigned now. The flash of the axe in the late afternoon sun, cold steel, silver fire.

  Jets of red, a gory fountain, watering the Tower lawn.

  I returned to Crosby Hall. Anne was not there to greet me. “Where is my Lady the Duchess?” I asked crossly.

  “She is indisposed, your Grace,” answered one whey-faced servant in a nasal whine. He and others were hovering in hall, heads down as if fearful to look at me. Jesu!

  Flinging my cloak to the servant, who fumbled fearfully and nearly dropped it, I marched to Anne’s chambers and thrust open the door without announcement. Anne’s ladies were swirling around her like bright, giddy butterflies as she sat in the window seat, clad in a night-shift and overgown, her hair hanging down and her face pallid, the eyes red rimmed and puffy. Tears.

  “Leave us,” I ordered the women and they fled in a flurry of skirts, expressions panic-stricken.

  Once gone, I stood staring at my distressed wife and she at me.

  Then she began to weep anew, little sobs she tried vainly to contain. “Oh Richard, I heard the news! What is to become of us in these evil times? And Hastings….you headed Hastings!”

  “He would have killed me, Anne. He turned traitor.”

  “I know! But it is so hard to believe after all these years. And he loved Edward…”

  “Too much,” I said with bitterness. I fell into the window seat beside Anne, cradled my aching head in my hands. “He tried to protect him and hide the truth.”

  “And what will happen if it is accepted by the Thee Estates that Edward did wed Eleanor Talbot in secret? What then? What will happen to Edward’s children…all bastards! Will Warwick be acclaimed King, my sister’s boy? He is not fit, Richard and he is even younger than Edward. Richard, if neither can rule, then it falls to…”

  “Do not say it, Anne!” I shouted, leaping up so abruptly I knocked over a candelabrum, sent the candles rolling on the tiles, their flames extinguished. “Nothing is certain yet! Nothing!”

  I stormed away from her and fled to my own personal chambers. There, in the dark, I fell to my knees and prayed to God for forgiveness and guidance, and a weakness overcame me and I wept…for Hastings, who had brought joy to Ned, who had been loyal in a shared past, but then had destroyed that loyalty in one foolish round of plotting with the Woodvilles.

  His betrayal cut me like a wound. His death, at my hands, cut me even deeper. Deserved it, yes, but Christ, a part of me did regret it. I swore his body would be taken to St George’s Chapel, to lie near to Edward in glory, as Ned had wished in his will. Hastings would not be attainted, so no unnecessary suffering would be visited on his widow Catherine. She would be taken under my protection, along with Hastings’ young son and his daughter’s husband, the youthful Earl of Shrewsbury, who was in the family’s wardship.

  I swore to myself I would try to make good the necessary evil of his death, but I suspected that in the days to come even more harsh justice must be dispensed in the defence of the realm.

  With heavy heart, I sent out couriers to all the remaining councillors, bidding them gather. All questions about the legality of Edward’s marriage must be answered in full and hard decisions made. There was no choice but to postpone Edward V’s coronation. Again.

  On the sixteenth of June, after yet another fraught and contentious meeting at the Tower, a contingent of barges sailed up the river Thames and docked near Westminster. Buckingham, John Howard and I sailed on one barge; armed soldiers milled on the others, a combination of my men and Buckingham’s. Harry’s forces were now quite substantial, having been swollen by defecting soldiers who had once served William Hastings; allegiances were bought easily enough when one had the wealth to pay.

  We were on our way to deal with Elizabeth Woodville. Although I could not and would not drag the woman shrieking from sanctuary, I did not intend to allow her to continue with her defiance much longer. I was going to insist she release unto my care the young Duke of York, little Dickon. The King, ever an unhappy and dissatisfied boy, was constantly haranguing all he came into contact with about how he was ill-treated and bored and had no playmates his own age—ignoring the fact he practiced archery daily on the lawn, teased the animals in the menagerie at will (he liked to goad the bears with sticks) and played at chess and cards and any other pastimes he desired till long past his proper bedtime.

  So it was decided he would have his brother, the Duke, as his companion, if there were any way possible to get him away from his mother. We also needed the child for the coronation; it was his duty to process from the Tower with his elder brother on the day, for until Edward had sons of his own, Dickon would be accounted the King’s heir presumptive. Only a few objected to the idea of prising him out of sanctuary; but quite how we were to manage such an act was as yet unknown.

  Buckingham and I retired to the Star Chamber while John Howard, accompanied by Thomas Bourchier, the Archbishop of Canterbury, hastened to We
stminster sanctuary, followed by armed soldiers who formed an impassable barricade around it.

  Archbishop Bourchier was one of those who had disagreed about approaching Elizabeth Woodville to obtain the little Duke of York. He was fearful she would be intimidated into acting, and that he wanted no part of such business, but Buckingham, ever eloquent, had argued, “What harm is there in taking the boy? He is under evil influence! Due to his young age and naivety, surely he is judged as a prisoner of his scheming mother? Would he not be in better state with his brother the King and his two uncles?”

  Grudgingly, Bourchier agreed, which pleased me; he was the highest churchman at court and she might listen to him.

  An hour, maybe more, passed. Sitting in silence in the Star Chamber, I waited for news, drumming my fingers nervously on my knee. Buckingham, striding about in his vivid robes, eventually left my side and hurried toward the Great Hall. “I will find out what has transpired. I cannot abide this waiting.”

  He returned a short while later, smiling a triumphant smile. He was not alone.

  Young Dickon walked beside his maternal uncle, gazing curiously at me as I sat in my high seat.

  “Greetings, Your Grace.” I extended my hand to the child. He was fair and handsome, much more beautiful, I thought, than his brother. He had Ned’s straight nose, rosebud mouth and full, fair face as opposed to young Edward’s wide forehead and weak chin; his hair was curling and spun gold, not so brassy of hue.

  “I remember you from my wedding, Uncle Gloucester!” he said, which surprised me, for he had been but a tiny child then. “Are you going to take me to my brother the King?”

  “Yes,” I promised. “His Highness is eager to see you again.”

  “What of my mother?” Dickon’s blue eyes darkened. “Why can’t she come?”

  I sighed. “We can only pray, your Grace, that she soon sees the error of her ways and removes herself from sanctuary. You do know, Dickon, that I would never harm her or your sisters.”

  He nodded solemnly. “I believe you, Uncle Lord Protector.”

  “Good! Now go, your brother the King is waiting. Archbishop Bourchier will escort you to the Tower. I will attend you and the King later, after other pressing matters are attended to here.”

  The small Duke of York left the Star Chamber, guided by the Archbishop and a retinue of councillors.

  Once they were out of earshot, Buckingham slammed the great doors and leaned on them, and began to laugh.

  I stared at my cousin; had the summer’s heat made him mad? A gem-like bead of sweat quivered on his upper lip—on Harry, of all men, usually so confident and collected. “What is it, Harry? Why are you laughing?”

  He shook his head, dusky gold curls tumbling round his face. “By God, Richard, That was too easy. All too easy. We now have a mighty powerful bargaining tool…We have the presumed heirs to the throne in our keeping.”

  “They may not be the true heirs,” I reminded him.

  “No,” he grinned, “and that would make them inconvenient bastards.”

  Midsummer was nigh upon England, only a few days hence—originally the time of the Coronation, which was now postponed until November. Despite the disappointment and uncertainty, the people would still make merry on St John’s Night, when fires blazed on every hill, and villagers leapt through the flames before scattering the embers on the fields to make them fertile. Legend spoke of the Midsummer fernseed that rendered a man invisible, and superstitious crones whispered that when one fell asleep on St John’s Eve, the soul might leave the body and wander abroad. For the unlucky, it might never return.

  And so the souls of Anthony Rivers, Richard Grey, and Thomas Vaughan were to be liberated from their earthly husks, though not through any magical means. Now firmly installed as Lord Protector and with the council having been purged of dissenting Woodville supporters, I had made my decision. All three were to be executed June 25th at Pontefract Castle for their plots against the Lord Protector at Northampton. The Earl of Northumberland would try them, although no verdict but guilty could exist. Richard Ratcliffe would oversee the act itself.

  If Elizabeth Woodville had yielded and come out of sanctuary, pleaded for their lives, asked for pardon and promised to retire gracefully into obscurity with all her family, I might have been moved to be merciful, even though they had plotted against me. However, her arrogance and stubbornness had not abated, and hence she had doomed her kin. A stern lesson would be taught to the Woodville family, one they would never dare forget.

  On a happier note, I recovered the little earl of Warwick, George’s boy, from one of Dorset’s rural manors. Thomas Grey had bought the boy’s wardship in 1480, doubtless hoping to marry him to one of his numerous daughters. Those who found him while totting up the Marquis’ seized assets informed me he was in a rather piteous state, clothed decently enough but crying and afraid, and seeming much younger than his age. He had always been a sensitive creature whose capacities were not great; he stuttered and stammered and had problems learning his letters. Concerned, I had him sent in a chariot to Anne, who took him under her wing at once. Although placed under his father’s attainder, he still was a person of importance, as attainders could be overturned in need. However, with his unfortunate deficiencies, it was doubtful his star would rise too high, even if the attainder were reversed.

  Harry Stafford was in my presence constantly throughout this troubling time. Banquets were thrown and we feasted at my mother’s abode of Baynard Castle, where I had moved from Crosby Hall, believing a castle would be safer and more fitting for the Lord Protector of England.

  Casting off my mourning clothes, I rode out wearing deep royal purples, my Boar banner flying above me and Buckingham, a magnificent figure at my side in his swans and swirls and the Arms of his royal ancestor Thomas of Woodstock. (Some years ago Ned had bridled with fury when he realised Harry was using Woodstock’s arms thus, but he eventually forgave the infringement and allowed Harry to carry on.)

  Men flocked into the streets of London to see the Lord Protector with the Duke of Buckingham, the two highest lords in the land. They cheered us as kings. But I knew that rumours flew too: that Edward V would not be King much longer, that the validity of Edward’s marriage was in question. Much of the tongue-wagging was stupid and untrue; that he had wed the courtesan Elizabeth Lucy; that the young King was ill and like to die; that Clarence’s boy was set to ascend the throne. And of course, there were whispers about me, Edward IV’s brother, royal Duke, esteemed soldier, Lord of the North….

  On Sunday, June 22, Harry and I rode with a great train of lords to Paul’s Cross, which stood in the broad and bustling churchyard of St Paul’s. Here men could preach on whatever subject they deemed important and crowds would come to listen. Stone steps veered upwards to a wooden pulpit where three or four men might stand under a lead dome that protected the speakers from the elements.

  At the top of the pulpit, stood the noted theologian Friar Ralph Shaa, half brother to Edmund Shaa, the Mayor of London. As Harry and I rode towards him, he raised his arms toward heaven, as if inviting God and his Angels to witness his words, and thundered in a great voice: “The multiplied brood of the wicked shall not thrive, and bastard slips shall not take deep root, nor any fast foundation. And if they flourish in branches for a time, yet standing not fast, they shall be shaken with the wind, and through the force of winds they shall be rooted out. For the branches not being perfect, shall be broken, and their fruits shall be unprofitable, and sour to eat, and fit for nothing. For the children that are born of unlawful beds, are witnesses of wickedness against their parents in their trial!”

  The mob surrounding Paul’s Cross gasped and pressed about the base of the worn stairs, although there were few amongst them who had not guessed what his sermon was going to be about. Rumours were becoming reality.

  Then Friar Shaa pointed to me and cried in a great voice, “Behold! There before ye is a true scion of the House of York, the son of Richard Duke of York of b
lessed memory. He alone of the Duke’s sons resembles him in face and form; he alone of the Duke’s sons was born in England, a true Englishman above his brothers!”

  Tension filled the air, almost made it crackle, like air seconds before lightning sears the sky during a storm. The surge of bodies at the foot of Paul’s Cross was overwhelming, and I could feel the eager, curious eyes of men fast upon me as I sat upon my mount. I felt a trickle of sweat curl down my crooked spine, wet, hot, uncomfortable.

  “By the will of Almighty God,” Ralph Shaa cried, arms still upraised as a fortuitous beam of light shot through a cloud that had momentarily obscured the sun and lit up the top of the cross, “by His unbending will, it has been revealed that the said Richard, son of Richard of York, is in truth the only true heir to the throne of England. The children of our late sovereign Edward IV were conceived in sin, being born of a bigamous union with Elizabeth Grey and hence illegitimate. Long may the true King of England rule!”

  Silence descended; I held my breath. The crowd could turn on me; the lords in my train had come only lightly armed for fear it would look as if I coerced with force. Londoners were known for rioting and rebellion if things they heard were not to their taste.

  Then the cheering and applause began, slowly at first, then rising in intensity. A weight dropped from my shoulders; God knew I had feared the possible reception. Edward and his family were close to the Londoners while I was a stranger from the north. But it seemed that many had not favoured a child-king, or, perhaps, the idea that his Woodville family might be in a heightened position of power. Many remembered Jacquetta and Elizabeth’s shameful treatment of the former mayor Thomas Cook, whose house they had ransacked in order to carry off a particular tapestry coveted by Jacquetta. Cook was no innocent, having had connections to Lancaster, but the Woodvilles had greedily taken his plate, his cloth and his arras. Then Elizabeth, on top of it all, had tried to extract more money from him by reviving the old practice of Queen’s Gold. He ended up a ruined man.