As the second course was brought out, suddenly the doors of the Hall banged open and a swift and skirling wind darted in, straight off the waves of the Thames. Some ladies shrieked as their tall headgear was knocked askew; an air of anticipation hung over the gathered throng.
Hoofbeats sounded, and in through the doors galloped Sir Roger Dimmock, the King’s Champion, wearing white armour that glowed in the flickering torchlight and gave him an otherworldly air. His steed was coloured mist grey and caparisoned in crimson and white; the beast threw its head and reared on its hind legs in front of the dais before settling down beneath its rider’s skilled touch.
Dimmock glanced around him and then uttered the traditional Challenge, his resonant voice rolling around the Hall: “If there is any whosoever would say King Richard is not lawfully King, I bid him speak so that I may battle him upon the utterance.”
Silence.
Blissful silence.
Then the cry went up, a single voice from many throats, ringing up to the rafters where my standard swayed in the breeze: “King Richard!”
A covered cup was carried out to the Champion. Raising the cover, he drank a single long draught, before dashing the rest of the wine to the floor. He then rode from the hall carrying the bejewelled cup as payment for his duties.
The banquet continued. My head began to feel muzzy as the light turned red in the windows and then the sky turned black, sprinkled with stars. I leaned back in my high seat, resting one tip of a pointy shoe on the back of one of the two faithful squires still lying prostrate at my feet. The poor boy looked almost too fearful to breathe.
While we were served hippocras and wafers, Frank Lovell came up to me. Drink and even more drink had made us less informal after the strict formality of the earlier events, and besides, the banquet was nearly over.
I clasped Frank’s hand, pulled his head down near to mine. “My friend, I am glad you and Rob are with me on this day of all days. You have served me well and I trust you always will.”
“Forever. To death and beyond,” said Francis with passion and I could see tears standing in his eyes.
A sudden cold chill ran through me, despite the heaviness of my robes and the warmth of the summer’s night.
“I, too!” Rob chimed in. His face was flushed; drink had heightened his colour. “But, by God, did you see Buckingham’s face during the Coronation?”
“No!” I said, and noticed that Francis was glaring at Rob and shaking his head. “No, I have no idea what you refer to, Rob.”
Rob had either not noticed Francis’s gestures or was deliberately ignoring them. “I know not what was up with Harry Stafford. There, he was, holding your train and all, highest of the high…but when the crown was set upon your head, Richard, he glanced away and grimaced. He looked as thought he might be ill.”
“Maybe he was ill, a sudden malady born of the heat,” I muttered. I did not, would not accept what my friend was implying. He and Francis both had no love for Harry. Was it jealousy, a new companion thrown in among the old? Or…or… I would not have it! Harry had fought for my throne, as surely as I had; why would he resent me at our moment of triumph?
Rob continued with his gossip about Buckingham, “I noticed Stafford’s wife is not here. I heard rumours that he forbade her to come. How he hates the Woodvilles and the bride foisted on him! I wonder if he will seek a divorce now that they have fallen from power.”
“I think what the Duke does is no concern of yours, Rob,” I said sternly, and Rob swiftly sobered, bowed and left the dais. I eyed Buckingham, eagerly talking to other peers, a goblet in his hand, and his beautiful robes with their cartwheels shimmering in the failing light. Whatever had ailed him earlier, he seemed his usual assured, talkative self now.
It was time to go. I motioned to the pages and they sprang up from the floor, tunics crumpled from lying flat on the ground. Anne rose, and accompanied by the blaring of trumpets, we swept from the hall into the humid darkness.
Our first night as an anointed King and Queen.
A few days later, the one prisoner still incarcerated for Hastings’ plot was brought forth from Ludgate to do penance. Jane Shore. The Bishop’s Court had ruled upon her case and found her guilty of harlotry.
Flanked by soldiers, she was escorted to Paul’s Cross and stripped of all but her flimsy underdress. With her shame clearly on display, she was given a taper to carry in her hand and forced to walk throughout London.
The mob crowded in, curious, eager to ogle the fair body that had entrapped my brother the King. Although I had not decreed her penance—that was the providence of the Church—I half hoped the cityfolk would scorn her as the harlot she was, mistress not just of their late King, but Dorset and Hastings and God knew who else.
According to my spies, they did not, much to my chagrin. Most of the watchers were men and as they leered at whatever flesh was revealed (not as much as they had hoped) they praised her beauty, more desirous of that wanton body than caring for the state of Mistress Shore’s stained soul. I was thunderstruck—the people of London actually felt sorry for the bawd.
She was returned to Ludgate later that day, her feet blistered and her skin sunburnt, and I resolved she could stay in prison a bit longer while I decided what would be the best fate for such a fallen women. I’d confiscated the houses and jewels Ned and her other lovers had given her, so she would have no home. Perhaps she had kin, or could go to a convent—though I doubt they would want to take on such a handful.
And, in truth, for all the sad faces she reportedly pulled as she walked her path of shame, my watchers said she did not entirely scorn the attention she received, and swayed her hips and flashed her eyes whenever she passed a likely young merchant. Once a harlot, ever a harlot, it seemed to me.
I retired to Greenwich Palace shortly thereafter, seeking some peace after the frenzied activity of the Coronation. A time when Anne and I could gather our strengths before beginning a royal progress across England. Such a progress was not just desirable but necessary; I had to show myself to the people, to allow them to know me, hopefully to love and respect me. I was not fool enough to deny strange and unsavoury rumours about my accession floated hither and thither across the land like rank marsh gas.
Greenwich was a fair place. The Palace stood near the river, but here the banks grew green, having fewer wharves and less trade than in London. Two wings had the building, wrought of brick and timber, and rather new—less than fifty years old. I thought Anne might enjoy the Palace, for the Queen's quarters included a sunlit parlour and a gallery that gave views of the gardens, where hedges enclosed beds of sweet smelling herbs and flowers. Personally I was eager to go to the moated tower on the hill, the hunting lodge with overlooked the deer park. I was not a diligent hunter, preferring the pleasure of hawks, but I sought some activity to relax me, and it had been long since I had ridden out to chase the deer.
Naturally, business had to be attended to as well—informing other royalty across Europe that I was now King was paramount. Buckingham got his Bohun lands, although this bestowment could not be ratified fully until Parliament sat. I hoped Harry was satisfied and not over-impatient in the matter. As a token of my love and friendship, I also granted him the roles of Constable and Great Chamberlain. And Francis, dearest Frank Lovell—how could I forget my oldest friend?—he was made Chief Butler and Lord Chamberlain. John Howard was rewarded too; he loved ships; therefore, he would take my former role as Admiral of England.
After a few days’ respite the royal party left Greenwich, and from there journeyed to our royal castle of Windsor. A strange sadness gripped my heart as I saw its massive grey-white bastions rising against a cloudless July sky. Ned was buried there, in the chapel that he had built, still lying incomplete, and this was the first time I had chance to pray for his soul beside his coffin. A dark mood descended on me as I thought of it; I had loved him…but yet I had disinherited his children, made them bastards. Yet it was his own folly, damn him! Never abl
e to control his lusts, no matter how they might bring him low.
Once settled in the castle’s royal apartments, on my own I sought St George’s chapel to pray for Ned and likewise for Lord Hastings, who was buried nearby to comply with my brother’s final wishes. Truth be told, oftimes I felt regret over the execution of Hastings, though I dared admit to no one that perhaps I had acted somewhat rashly that fateful Friday at the Tower. Others in the conspiracy had been merely imprisoned; some, like Stanley, had been given the benefit of the doubt regarding their involvement. I grieved that Hastings had sought to deceive and to betray, when he could have lived on, a loyal supporter of the House of York, and been a stalwart advisor to me.
It was on a balmy summer’s evening in Windsor that Harry Buckingham, came striding up before my high seat in the hall, unannounced, having pushed through the doors whilst ignoring the ushers and heralds. It was a bit presumptuous, even for my Lord High Constable, and I raised my brows slightly at him.
He appeared not to have noticed my bemusement. “My Lord King, can I have an audience with you, in private?”
His tone was brusque; I nodded agreement, deducing something serious was afoot, and immediately took him into my private closet. “What is it, Harry?” I sat at my desk, tight-lipped.
“Talk of plots afoot, Richard. In London.” He stalked around the room like an agitated lion in the Tower menagerie.
“Who?”
“Who do you think? Friends of the bitch in sanctuary.” His tone dripped with venom.
“My spies have said nothing of this matter!” I cried angrily
“That is because my spies are better than yours,” said Harry, with the casual arrogance he frequently projected—and got away with. Just like George had.
“I must return to London at once…”
“No, you must continue on your progress as planned, Richard; it is expected and would do your cause no good if you cancelled it. Men would see you as weak and fearful—fatal for your kingship. You must seem strong; hard, if you must be. You must reach out to the people of England. Others can be appointed to see that order is kept in London.”
“What is the aim of this plot?” I guessed that answer even before he spoke.
“There are two parts to it. First, is to remove Edward’s daughters from sanctuary under the cover of darkness and send them across the sea.”
“I will send more soldiers to ring the sanctuary. No one will get through.”
“The second is to ‘rescue’ Edward’s bastards from the Tower.”
“Then they must be withdrawn further into the fortress; more guards must be set about their quarters and about the Tower itself, both within the walls and without.” I chewed on a fingernail in sudden worry. The Tower was the mightiest stronghold in England, yet there were hundreds of residents, and one could not know the motives and affiliations of them all.
“A wise move, but who knows how diligently the Tower would be guarded without the King or his highest officers’ presence? I am going to suggest, if you will allow it, that I remain in London for a few days while you begin your progress. I will wait and watch, and act, if need be. Who can you trust, my dearest cousin, if not me, your cousin of Buckingham? I will deal with this foolish rebellion and when all is calm I will ride with all haste to join you as you head north.”
I was rather taken aback, as I had expected Harry to ride with me, taking away the gloominess of a progress in the company of the likes of Thomas Stanley. But Buckingham had shown himself adept in dealing with trouble, as in Northampton, so his words seemed wise.
“So be it, Harry. God bless you, and thanks to Him that he led you to me.”
“Yes…” Harry shuffled, slightly ill at ease, it seemed, which made me feel the same, for he always brimmed with confidence. “Richard, there is something I must say to you. Are you sure none can hear us in this place?”
“I am sure.”
“Richard, what do you intend to do about your brother’s bastards?”
“What do I….? I do not know! Keep them fast, obviously. Move them from castle to castle if I must, each with walls and bars stronger than the last. “
Harry raised a doubtful eyebrow; his lower lip curled. It was a cynical look, and in the flicker of the candles that stood round us, slightly sinister. “How long can you do that for, Richard? The elder is near enough a man. Remember what you accomplished aged but sixteen.”
“It has been done before. King John kept Eleanor, the sister of his nephew Arthur in close captivity until she eventually entered a convent.”
“She was a mere woman,” he sneered. “She would not hold a sword in her hands and stab her uncle the King if she broke free. Those two brats…they will hate you, the elder already does, and, let us not be foolish here… You have many enemies, the Woodvilles and their allies and those ever loyal to Edward no matter what folly he created!”
“What would you suggest then, Harry?” Annoyance gripped me; my throat felt tight and my limbs knotted with strain. “That I send them away, far beyond the sea? Such a possibility has been in my mind. George once thought to send his little son away and have another child take his place.”
“No. In manhood they could still return to harry you, maybe raising an army. Richard, you must find…a more permanent solution. You must cut down the root of this rotten tree that has sprung from the mighty oak of York. Do you understand me, my cousin, my King, my friend?”
I understood him very well. I sat in silence, the dark blue velvet drapes around my private closet almost the colour of mourning, the sickly-sweet smell of the tallowy candles suddenly turning my belly.
“It would be best for the entire Kingdom, Richard. A matter of state. It would stop rebellion, stop fighting. Let us make no mistake; civil war could break out again if enough fools still support the bastard boy-king. Do you want that? No, you must be strong, be cruel for the ultimate weal of all. Do the deed. Chroniclers say the great Charlemagne did it and his name is still spoken with praise. That is the advice I give to you, as your most loyal kinsman, advisor and friend.”
“Harry…” My voice shook, although I tried to steady it. “We will not speak of this again.” And then, as a paroxysm of anger shook me. “How dare you come here, like this, and speak these words to me!”
Buckingham fell to his knees before me, unmindful of his rich garments. His head was bowed in contrition; he bent so low to the floor I thought he might start kissing my boots in apology. “My Lord King, Your Grace…I have caused offence. Forgive me. I think only of you and of England. I have erred in speaking so freely. It was wrong. I should have held my tongue. I spoke like a madman—such evil! But such talk was born of my love and affection for you, and for the security of your throne and the realm.”
“Enough, Harry,” I snapped. “Get up…and go…go back to London, and put down this plotting, if it is not merely idle talk. Then join me on my progress as we had originally planned. I will expect you no later than the beginning of August.”
Buckingham rose, his motions slightly awkward, a flush on his cheeks; for the first time in our short acquaintance, he seemed discomfited. “I will go, and do my duty as Lord High Constable. But before I leave, it is important I know what you do wish to do about the royal bastards. Aye, security may be increased at the Tower, but if one attack takes place, others will doubtless follow. Every malcontent in England and beyond knows where the bastards are lodged. Eventually one will succeed in his endeavours to reach them. Give me orders as to what must be done and I will obey them.”
“As I said, increase the security around the Tower,” I murmured, feeling uneasy. Harry was right in what he said; the Tower would become a place besieged, with Woodville supporters making constant attempts to free the boys. Eventually, they would get lucky. Edward’s sons could not stay there forever. They must be sent away into remote, hidden locations that none would suspect, until the events of the last few months dwindled in men’s thoughts. Until I had established myself in men’s hea
rts and minds, and the memory of a young king who was never anointed, never crowned, faded from their minds as summer faded to autumn, unremarked and unmourned. “When I return to London, I will see they are secreted away.”
“I think you should allow me do it…now,” said Buckingham. A fervent glitter darkened his eyes; his mouth was unusually tight and solemn. “On my return to London. I will see that they are moved beyond taken the reach of wicked men. I promise you that, Richard. You know I would do anything for the furtherance of your cause, Richard. Do you trust me?”
I sighed. “Of course, I trust you, Harry. But deal with the insurrection first—if it happens. Keep me informed. As I have told you, I will deal with the lords bastard when I have finished my progress. It will be but a few months. Now, go, as I asked you. It is hot. I am weary. I have a much to do on the morrow. Leave us.”
Buckingham made a small, rather curt bow, and stalked out of the closet without another word. Watching his retreating back, cushioned by the layers of his emerald-green, pearl-encrusted doublet, I suddenly felt chilled to the bone, despite the heat I had only just complained about. What had he just advised me to do? What did he see me as: King of England or King Herod?
A throbbing headache gripped my temples. I tried to steady myself with a cup of wine but could not finish it. I was sick in the privy, with my Esquires of the Body rushing around as if I were about to expire. I pushed them away, wanting no one near.
I sought refuge in the chapel of St George, on my knees near the place where my brother Ned slept the unbroken sleep of eternity. Near William Hastings, who lay with his head separated from his shoulders.
The cold of the flagstones burned into my limbs but I scarcely felt the pain of it.
The town of Reading with its monastic house was my first stop on my royal progress. The huge Abbey dominated the town; the burial place of King Henry, first of that name, and of Constance of York, kinswoman to me and also to Anne. The abbey was extremely wealthy, due to past royal patronage, and held many relics, over two hundred of them, including the Hand of Blessed St James.
I, Richard Plantagenet: Book Two: Loyaulte Me Lie Page 12
