I, Richard Plantagenet: Book Two: Loyaulte Me Lie

by J. P. Reedman

  Tyrrell still looked glum; the felt of his hat was now in bits. “What more do you have to say, Sir James? Out with it, man.”

  “There is unrest, talk of rebellion. Kent is ready to burst into action; it simmers like a pot.…”

  “I know this,” I said smugly. “I am the King. My sources have kept me informed. I have stockpiled arms since learning of the rebels at Maxey.”

  “Your Grace…” Tyrrell licked his lips, “unrest is not the worst of it; for aye, Kent has ever been restive since the dawn of time. What concerns me is rumours—London buzzes with them, vile rumours. I fear they may have spread even further beyond. They are the kind of rumours that could bring your Highness harm.”

  “Rumours? What about?” I frowned. Creeping doubt gnawed at me; I folded my arms over my chest.

  “Men in the taverns and, indeed, men in the street talk…oh, how they talk.” Scowling, he shuffled from one foot to another in discomfort. “They speak of how Lord Edward and his brother have vanished from view. Some of these wicked miscreants have said…said…poisonous lies. Your Grace, they whisper that you have put the Lords Bastard to death.”

  The implications of his words washed over me and I stood in shocked silence. The fairness of the day melted away. The birdsong seemed to hush, the wind to rise. The saints and gargoyles glared down from the massive façade of the nearby St Peter’s.

  Then I took a deep breath, struggling for composure. “I suppose it was only a matter of time before evil-thinking men flapped their tongues. No matter. When I have retrieved Edward from Buckingham, I will make one solitary public show of him, then send him even farther away than his brother. How does Italy sound to you, Sir James? Since his Uncle Anthony boasted of the classical learning he gave the boy.”

  “Italy might indeed be suitable,” mumbled Sir James. “They say the weather is nice there.”

  “So, it is settled. Write, James, to your house at Gipping and tell your lady-wife what must be done…in the most discreet terms. I shall send to London and Brackenbury. Dickon shall be at your manor within the next few weeks, God willing. I will write now to John Howard and see that he returns to London forthwith to keep down any threats from the Kentishmen.”

  My tooth was giving me pain. In the Bishop’s Palace in the City of Lincoln, I sat with a heated cloth pressed to my swollen face while the Dean, George Fitzhugh, jigged about in the background, seemingly more distressed than I was, while we waited for the best surgeon in the city to attend me.

  George was not only Dean of Lincoln cathedral, but also a distant relative; Warwick’s sister was his mother. He had intended to show me the glories of Lincoln Cathedral, where some of my ancestors on my mother’s side lay buried, but I think he was now imagining I would remember him for the pain I suffered in his house rather than for his hospitality.

  “I hope it was not the very sweet sugary subtlety served a last night’s feast, your Grace,” he moaned, so plaintive and pained you would have thought he was the sufferer, not I.

  “No, no, the aching started on the journey from York,” I snapped testily, as another throb of hot pain ran through my jaw. “Now where is that bloody surgeon?”

  A little man in a brown robe scuttled into the chamber, lugging a satchel full of implements and followed by a pair of youthful apprentices. Warily I eyed him; he appeared clean at least, his nails filed and his beard trimmed…Not that I expected any less from a servant of my cousin.

  He dropped his bag on the floor and rummaged in it, pulling out a huge pair of metal pincers that looked like some ancient torture device, perhaps the one used to extract the martyred Saint Apollonia’s teeth from her saintly gums. At least the implement looked spotlessly clean and wasn’t spattered with the blood of others.

  “Get it over with,” I said, opening my mouth and pointing to the aching tooth, which was on the bottom of my jaw, towards the back. It was not the first tooth I’d had extracted, but the other two were long ago, and I’d long since forgotten the incessant pain of tooth-rot. It could make a man mad.

  “Your Grace, one moment; you need something to dull the pain of the wrenching,” said the barber surgeon. “I have one ready for you—made with the juice of the poppy.”

  The surgeon flicked his hand at his apprentices and one darted forward holding a chalice. “Taste it first,” I told him.

  He did without hesitation, as I watched his face. He was fine. No poison.

  Taking the chalice from him, I drank the bitter-tasting contents in one long draught, waited for the effects to start. Soon unnatural warmth encompassed my limbs; my head felt light, giddy.

  The barber surgeon lifted his tool of torture. His second apprentice, holding a bowl to catch my blood and a wad of cloth to stem the flow, positioned himself next my head. I opened my mouth again. “Do it…now!” I ordered.

  The pincers went in; I felt them grab, twist, and crunch. I gripped the arms of that chair on which I sat. Jesu, Jesu, I was a soldier, I had been wounded in battle, I had taken many bruises…but bad teeth were amongst the worst afflictions known to man!

  The surgeon pressed down, still twisting his devilish implement. The tooth broke away, and then it clinked into the bowl held out by the first servant, all bloody and cracked. The hole it left started to bleed copiously, and the surgeon snatched the cloth wad from the second servant and pressed it firmly into my abused mouth.

  “Bite down on it, if you would, your Grace.”

  “How long?” I asked, voice muffled by the wedge of cloth. “I need to attend to matters with the Dean.”

  “It might do to rest for an hour or two,” answered the surgeon. “To ensure the bleeding stops.”

  “Ridiculous…I cannot waste so much time!” I mumbled through the cloth. I could taste the iron tang of blood in my mouth.

  “It will be quite all right if you cannot accompany me into the cathedral, your Grace!” said George Fitzhugh in consternation. “You mustn’t strain your royal person. Another time perhaps.”

  “A few more moments to regain my equilibrium, that is all I need. Do not fuss about me! I am not some weak old man, anymore than my brother, the late king, was!”

  “No, of course not, your Grace.” Fitzhugh looked a tad grey and sweaty; I think the sight of my royal blood had unnerved him. Evidently Warwick’s fierceness had not come down through his sister’s line; this slim, worried-looked man seemed well-suited only for the Church.

  I crooked a finger, summoning my squires, who were waiting for my commands at the back of the Dean’s chamber. “My cloak, my boots. The afflicted tooth is gone, I am feeling less pained already. I will ready myself and go to the cathedral with the good Dean.”

  The Cathedral of the Blessed Virgin Mary faced out across a cobblestoned square towards the walls of Lincoln castle, where my entourage had halted for the duration of my stay. A cluster of timber-framed houses and ancient stone dwellings reputed to have once belonged to Jews backed off the square, running toward an ancient Roman gateway on one side and down a perilously steep hill on the other. Late daylight brushed crimson over the topmost tower of St Mary’s, rumoured to be the tallest structure in all the world; the spire seemed to be bleeding light all down its saint-laden front.

  Entering that House of God, the Bishop led me through the nave to where my own kinswomen, Joan Countess of Westmorland and Katherine Swynford, lay at rest. Candles burned near their tombs, glimmering in great stone basins near their feet; subtle flames cast a warm glow onto moon-pale stone.

  Seeking the chantry founded by Katherine and her husband John of Gaunt, I said prayers for their souls and for those of all my departed kin, then let the eager Dean show me the other holy sights of St Mary’s—the shrines of Little St Hugh, murdered and cast down a well, and St Hugh of Lincoln, who stood fast for the common man, of which I approved (although I was shocked by the Dean’s story that St Hugh had once bitten into the armbone of St Mary Magdalen while venerating it at Fecamp, in an attempt to steal it!)

  Passi
ng on from St Hugh’s shrine, I halted beneath one vast supporting pillar and, glancing upwards, suddenly saw an ugly stone face with a row of razor teeth grinning back at me. An imp leered down at me, incongruous in the holiness of that place. It stood on one cloven hoof, as if it hopped in unholy dance upon its stone plinth.

  “What is that, Fitzhugh?” I pointed up at the uncouth effigy.

  “Our Imp,” smiled the Dean. “It is said he and a companion flew out of Hell to goad and perplex men, and grew so bold that they tripped up a bishop and smashed the church pulpit. An angel then soared out of the shadows to confront them, and one imp hurled rocks at him while the other cowered in the pulpit’s wreckage. The angel turned the rock-throwing imp to stone, and there he remains to this very day.”

  “A child’s story,” I shook my head. “What happened to the imp who escaped?”

  The Dean spread out his arms. “He is everywhere, is he not, your Grace? Mischievous and malicious, bringing sin and misfortune upon us all.”

  We walked on and Fitzhugh pointed out to me the Cathedral’s two great Rose windows, the Bishop’s Eye and the Dean’s Eye. “Are they not fair to behold?” he sighed, awe in his voice, even though they were eminently familiar to him.

  Standing beneath the northern window I nodded, as the faded daylight needled the glass and sent scattered colours across my face, my robes. Long ago, I had read The Metrical Life of St Hugh, which spoke of the purpose of the Rose windows, one of which faced north, the other south. North represented Lucifer, the fallen angel, father of Lies, while the south represented the Holy Spirit, ever pure and clean. The Bishop’s Eye faced south in order to invite in goodness, while the Dean’s Eye faced north in order to shun evil. One took care to be saved, the other not to perish. The two Eyes, gazing eternally over Lincoln were on watch for the candelabra of Heaven, yet also for the Darkness of Oblivion…

  Outside a cloud must have obscured the sun, what was left of it, for late afternoon crept relentlessly toward eventide. The last brightness streaming through the window was abruptly cut off, as if a heavenly sword had smitten the solar disc. Thunderous purple light fell through the panes of stained glass, and then the entire cathedral went dark, save for the endlessly burning candles and the white wisps of the smoke they emitted.

  An omen?

  At that moment, a commotion and hubbub at the end of the nave caused great booms and echoes to flood through the cathedral. Turning in alarm, I saw one of the doors burst open, and a man fall in, staggering, with guards around him holding unsheathed weapons.

  I recognized him as one of my men, a spy in unmarked dress, and quickly motioned for the soldiers to put away their swords. Leaving Dean Fitzhugh gaping, I hurried in the newcomer’s direction. “Your Grace!” he gasped, leaning against a painted pillar his exhaustion obvious. “There is news from the south, urgent news!”

  Striding towards him, I was ungracious. I did not appreciate this intrusion, when surely he could have sought the castle and waited a mere hour or less for my arrival. But as I drew near and saw his frightened, corpse-pale face, heard his ragged breathing, I knew he brought dire news. Tidings that could not wait even an hour.

  “What is it? Speak!” I commanded.

  “There is rebellion in the south, in Kent and elsewhere,” he panted. “Devon rises, and Wiltshire…the Courtneys are untrue. Sir John Cheyney rides with them. Stonor, too. John Fogge, who once took your Grace’s hand and swore loyalty. Exeter, who once was wed to your Grace’s noble sister. The Marquis of Dorset —he has emerged from hiding and is one of the principle rebels.”

  Enraged, I gritted my teeth. “I wondered when that lecher would crawl from his bolt hole.”

  The man raised his head, gazed at me; he looked terrified, his teeth chattering as if the air about him was ice. “But there is more, Your Grace…. much more!”

  “Out with it then; don’t keep me waiting if it is of such import!”

  The man cringed, like a dog cowering before a cruel master. It was as if he feared I might strike out when I heard his tidings. His mouth was working, but no sound came out. Finally, after taking several gulps of air, he managed to find his tongue. “The Bishop Morton is with them, and the Countess of Richmond…”

  “Morton! But he is imprisoned at Buckingham’s castle. He cannot be with them! Have you gone mad, man?”

  “The Bishop is not there any longer, your Grace. He’s free, because, because…” Green and bilious, the man halted, spittle white on his parted lips.

  “Speak!” My own nerves began to fray; I grabbed his collar and dragged him toward me.

  “Have mercy on me, Dread Lord!” the messenger sobbed as he sank to his knees at my feet. “The leader of the rebels is Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham! First he said he was to dedicate his rebellion to restoring Edward V to the throne. Now he has declared that young Lord Edward and his brother are slain and that Henry Tudor is to join him from Brittany, to marry the Lady Elizabeth Plantagenet and assume the crown! ”

  A noise came from my throat, a cry formless, wordless; an animal sound. Anger, despair, panic, pain. And at the same time, the force of that cry dislodged the wadding in my mouth and blood gushed forth and fell over my lips, and down my robes, and on to the spotless tiles of that House of God.

  Rage coursed through me as I hurried with my bodyguard for the security of Lincoln castle. I had never felt such anger, such hatred….never, not to my enemies in the field, not toward Hastings, not towards Rivers, despite their betrayals. I wanted Harry, bright, pompous, popinjay Harry Stafford, dead—dead as the brother of mine that he resembled, faithless, fickle George.

  I felt as if a knife had slashed my innards, torn my heart. I had trusted him. He had been like a brother. He had made me, thrust me towards the throne. And now he sought to unmake me, destroy me utterly… And Edward, my brother’s son, what of him? What had Harry done? Could Buckingham be lying?

  No…I knew it was true. Buckingham had ordered Edward’s death after he had taken him from the Tower. Edward, and the innocent boy Harry had thought to be Richard of York but who was only a child of similar height and complexion. He had counselled me to take that course at Windsor. Do it, Richard.

  And Henry Tydder, coming from exile to take the crown, draping himself in a cloak of myths and lies, seeking to accord himself the nobility and right of a second King Arthur! Lady Beaufort’s hand was in that, the meddling witch, and I suspected in much more besides. How I wished Duke Francis of Brittany had agreed to hand Henry over; but the Duke had tried to blackmail me instead. I could not cede to his wishes for 4000 archers sent at my own expense, no matter how I wished to lay my hands on Tydder.

  But the scrawny Welshman would never get the crown he and his vile mother yearned for—not by Buckingham’s devices at least! Harry would never truly support him. The scales had fallen from my foolish, blinded eyes; it had now become clear to me what Buckingham truly wanted.

  He wanted to be King.

  He had removed Edward and, he thought, his brother.

  He planned to make me seem the boys’ murderer and then depose me as men turned against my reign.

  He would use Tudor’s men to help his aims, then like the viper he was, he would turn on Tudor as he had turned on me.

  He would not follow a Welshman with a dubious claim and see him wear England’s crown. Harry Stafford had the same claim as Tudor through the Beaufort line, but he also had a true legitimate line to Thomas of Woodstock. He even used his arms unquartered.

  If he had his way, Harry Duke of Buckingham would have my head on a stake and Henry Tydder’s next to it…and he would be the undisputed King of England.

  Hurriedly, I dictated letters to my followers in all parts of the kingdom, bidding them prepare for war. A meeting was set for Leicester no later than the 21st of October and there we would prepare to subdue the Duke of Buckingham.

  Once those letters were dispatched with the swiftest couriers I could find, I wrote to Chancellor Russell requesting
the Great Seal. Word had come that Russell was ill and unlikely to bring it himself, so he would have to send it to me by trusted messenger instead. Snatching the pen from my Secretary Kendall’s hand, I wrote furiously beneath his neat lettering.

  Emotion overwhelmed me, and the nib of the quill pen dug into the paper and ink sprayed everywhere about the page in mad disarray: Here, loved by God, all is well and truly determined to resist the malice of him that had best cause to be true, the Duke of Buckingham, the most untrue creature living…

  Several days later, I had moved with my entourage to Grantham where I lodged in the Angel Inn. There, the Great Seal was delivered to my hands in the King’s Chamber of the hospice, before a gaggle of Bishops, Henry Percy Earl of Northumberland, Walter Herbert Earl of Huntingdon, and the ever-present Thomas Stanley, who, prudently, said nothing and kept well out of my way. I wished Frank was with me, or Rob, but they had returned to their own lands after the celebrations in York, along with many of my supporters. I had made Frank aware of my dire situation, however, and he was gathering his own forces at Banbury, ready to march to a rendezvous in Leicester.

  Stony-faced, I sat at my desk in the Angel and sealed the death warrant for my false friend, Harry Stafford. The hot red wax congealed like blood, and it was blood and vengeance I now desired. Vengeance for Buckingham’s betrayal, and for the dead boy, wherever he was. I admit I loved young Edward not, nor him me, but it was not for the mere Duke of Buckingham to raise hand against him. Blood would be paid for with blood.

  I marched on from Grantham to Leicester where the bulk of my forces were gathering. Glad tidings came that John Howard had driven John Fogge and other rebels from the gates of London, and they were now hiding in Guildford, awaiting further news from Buckingham. At Leicester Castle I made further proclamations against the traitors Dorset, Cheyney and others who had risen at the orders of Henry Stafford and Bishop Morton, and rained insults on the lecher Thomas Grey, whom I had always loathed—