I, Richard Plantagenet: Book Two: Loyaulte Me Lie

by J. P. Reedman

  Wandering past the Chantry and down a deserted track, I could see the dark bulks of ships moored in the harbour. The wind, rising again, howled in the ships’ riggings, a lonely sound that set my teeth on edge. There was no moon, and where the mist began to tear apart, black, choppy waves slapped the harbour bar.

  The quay was quiet compared to the town; everyone, save a few sailors guarding the boats against theft, had gone to celebrate in the taverns of East and West streets. To celebrate the arrival of the King…the strange King they didn’t like much down this way, but whom they had to fete, because he was victorious against the Duke of Buckingham.

  I walked out along the quay, wrapping my cloak around me against the chill. Water hissed on the gravelly sand and the slow thud of waves became as a drumbeat. Gazing into the fog, I wondered where Henry Tydder and my enemies dwelt this night. Were they hovering in boats just beyond the barricade of the fog, waiting to mount another attack? Henry’s true intent had been revealed at last…no more tales of just wanting his ancestral lands, of wishing to marry some nice noblewoman and settle down. Edward had suspected, I had suspected—now our fears had been proven. Tydder would return, seeking the crown, seeking my death.

  A faint noise behind me made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. Footsteps. Light, swift, purposeful.

  Reaching to my belt, I drew my dagger and whirled on my heel as the newcomer drew near. Deadly, cold, the knife blade flashed in the muted light.

  “Francis!” I stopped my arm in mid-swing. The dagger fell from my fingers and clattered on the wave-washed stones of the quay, gleaming with fish-scales and crystallized salt. Bending to pick it up, I slammed it into its sheath. “Christ on the Cross, man, you should never approach me from behind like that! I might have killed you!”

  “I had to come, your Grace.” Frank’s voice was grave. “I saw you leave the priory. I feared for your safety.”

  “What did you fear? That I might throw myself into this brackish sea?” Picking up a flat stone, I flung it at the water; it skipped three times then sank.

  “No, I feared you might be recognised. There are sympathisers of our enemies here, to be sure. The west is unfriendly, restive even now.”

  “And you think I cannot take care of myself.”

  Frank shrugged. “One against many…”

  “When do you suppose Tydder will return?” I turned away from him, to stare into the fog once again. It blinded me, just as it hid him.

  He shook his head. “Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never. He is untried. This was a failure for him. Perhaps his supporters will disperse.”

  “It won’t be as simple as that, alas.” I glowered. “Many of our foes have fled to him in Brittany. They will bring him the skills he needs. They will support him because they have none other to support! And he has put himself forth as the saviour of England, a shining angel and scion of Arthur, who will defeat the tyrant who murdered his brother’s progeny.” I sighed, my shoulders slumping. “Frank, James Tyrrell has found Edward and the other lad who was mistaken for Richard of York.”

  Frank’s lips drew tight; his hands clenched at his sides. “And…”

  “They were in one of Buckingham’s most remote, desolate manors. Virtually a ruin. Most of the servants had been dismissed before the boys were carried there. Only a few elderly retainers remained, one blind, one simple, one mumbling in his dotage. The boys were placed in a deep cellar, almost an oubliette; it seems…” I paused, choking with the ghastliness of what I must tell, “It seems Harry Stafford was not even man enough to finish the deed swiftly. He left them there, to starve to death in the stinking dark.”

  “Jesu,” Frank hung his head, and crossed himself. “Even a swift knife would have been kinder. God have mercy on their souls.”

  “And I will take the blame.” I hung my head; damp coils of my hair whipped my cheeks. The spray from the waves, driven by the wind, wet my cheeks, giving semblance of tears. But I would not weep. I was to blame. I should have never let the children out of my sight; I should have never trusted Henry Stafford.

  “Richard, why do you not proclaim the truth?” Frank cried suddenly, passionately, grasping me by the arms. I had never seen him look so fervent, so desperate. “When we reach Exeter, declaim Buckingham, tell the world of his crime! You should have done it in Salisbury, when he was on the scaffold; aye, you did not know young Edward’s fate then but the suspicion was there. “

  “The moment has passed.”

  “No, I do not believe that! There is still time. Still time! But if you don’t do it soon, you are right, people will be less likely to believe your words. It must be said while the memory of Buckingham’s treachery is still fresh!”

  “They won’t believe me, no matter what I say, Francis,” I said sadly. “They would merely see me as the culprit trying to blame my own sins on a dead man. And am I not culpable? I should have seen what Harry was, should never have allowed him to be Constable, with access to the Tower.”

  “What’s done is done,” murmured Francis. His hands fell from me, hung limp. I had never seen him look so desolate.

  “Indeed.” I folded my arms, continued to stare into the churning mist. “And I must live with that knowledge for the rest of my days, and bear that burden upon my back like a millstone.”

  We marched into Exeter, unopposed by any rebels. Three had been taken prisoner when we ran them to ground in the village of Torrington, and these ill-doers were slated for execution in the market place before the masses. One of them was Thomas St Leger, the second husband of my sister Anne. I had not known Anne well, since she was much older than I, but she was unlucky in her first marriage to Henry Holland. An ardent Lancastrian, he fought against our father at Wakefield—against his own father-by-marriage, who died cruelly that day. Unrepentant, Holland later fought against Edward at Towton. Eventually Anne divorced him…and found new ‘love’ with Thomas St Ledger. He was the man of her choice and she would have no other. Alas, she died giving birth to their daughter, Anne, in 1476, and since then St Ledger had thrown in his lot with the Woodvilles, hoping that young Anne would marry one of the children of Thomas Grey.

  When he was taken trying to escape across the common at Torrington, Thomas St Leger, grovelled and pleaded with me, falling to his knees in the churned up mud. He had once been handsome, I had heard, enough to captivate a daughter of York and make her act with defiance to her family, but now I saw but a podgy man in middle years, with a doubled chin and raw, ruddy complexion.

  “Your Grace, forgive me, have mercy!” he sobbed. Rain beat off the parting in his hair, funnelled down the lines at the side of his nose, dripped from that fat chin. “I have been led astray by those who were wicked and untrue. Spare me your wrath! I am your brother by marriage, who loved your sister greatly.”

  Staring down at his grovelling form, my eyes narrowed. If he was such good friends with the lecher Thomas Grey, I doubted memories of my long dead sister Anne kept him in constancy and purity. “Anne of York, my sister, is long dead,” I told him coldly. “You will join her soon. You have betrayed her memory and the House of York with your actions. Jesu, you false bastard, toadying to Buckingham and the Woodvilles and to the exile Henry Tydder! How dare you…and how dare you beg for your life in such circumstances.”

  He let out a howl, almost like a whipped dog, and threw his hands over his face. “Your Grace, please do not kill me! I am a wealthy man, I have many rich friends. I will give you all my wealth without question…just let me live. Let me live!”

  My heart grew even harder at the pathetic spectacle he was making of himself, quivering and wailing in the dirt after he had cast the die long ago, when he conspired with Grey, Stafford and the other traitors. “I do not want your money, Thomas St Ledger,” I hissed. “I only ever wanted your loyalty. You betrayed me. You will be punished.”

  Sobbing and struggling, he was dragged from my presence.

  Now we were together in the Market Square, I seated beside John Atwill, May
or of Exeter, and St Ledger on the scaffold with two of his fellows, and the axe fell three times, to the rapturous bellows of the crowd. Later, after a short trip to the Guildhall where the Mayor handed me with a purse, I went to visit nearby Rougemont castle, built high on a slope overlooking the ancient city. Fair to behold, its red stone towers blushed against the winter sky, but said in haste its name was vaguely displeasing—it reminded me too much of Richmond, the improperly acquired title of Henry Tydder, bestowed on him by…his mother.

  Francis walked with me as I entered the castle’s Great Hall. Fires burned in multiple hearths, making the stonework glow even redder. I looked around, feeling, as it were, old ghosts—the Mayor told me Rougemont was built on the foundations of a mighty Roman fortress. Normally, such history might intrigue…but not today.

  “Dickon, are you well?” Frank asked in a whisper, making sure none could hear his enquiry. “Just before the traitors’ execution, you looked strange. Almost feverish. I thought I saw the same about you when we stopped in Bridport, although I held my tongue. Have you seen a physician?”

  “I am well enough, Frank,” I said, “but I…” I touched my chest, “I feel dead here, as if ice has entered my heart, my soul. Betrayal, all my life…betrayal. I wanted the best for England, and it has come to rebellion and endless bloodshed.”

  “Things will change,” said Frank with zeal.

  I smiled wanly. “They will…but I too am changing. At one time I might have spared St Leger, imprisoned him a while and placed him under attainder. I spared worse, such as Morton! But now, there is hardness, an unforgiving spirit growing in me. I will not be made a fool of again, as Buckingham made a fool of me. Do you understand, Francis? I could feel no sympathy for St Leger, even as he died in terror; all I could think of was how I wished Thomas Grey were with him, and Cheyney and the other traitors who are winging their way to that wretch Tydder. Some of them were even bishops, Frank—men of God, for pity’s sake!”

  “One of those bishops was a Woodville,” said Frank dryly. “Did you expect more from him? But take heart, Richard, there may have been many traitors in the west, but the truehearted authorities and good folk of Exeter love you. See how they came to greet you, and how the Mayor gave you a purse containing two hundred gold nobles! They have put us up in the Bishop’s Palace, and provide for us at their own cost.”

  “The Bishops palace, with a missing Bishop.” My lips quirked in grim humour.

  “The Bishop was a Courtney, his brothers were also rebels. Again, I say it to you, Richard—could you expect more?”

  “No. I suppose not, Frank. Ah, how stretched I suddenly feel. And old. And it will be Christmas soon.”

  Francis nodded. “Birth of our Lord Jesus Christ, and a time to celebrate. And then winter will be over and the sun will return with all strength.”

  “The Sunne will return,” I breathed, to myself, nodding. “We will head to London soon, Frank, and I will hold the most splendid festivities. Bloody Henry Tydder’s threats will not mar the Christmas celebrations. Buckingham’s rebellion is over; he gambled high and lost…lost utterly. I must look past this latest treachery and get on with ruling England, and put so many wrongs to right. In January, I shall hold my first parliament.

  I took a deep breath. Outside the castle of Rougemont, rain was sluicing down, mingling with traces of snow. I felt cold, dismal, and I dearly wanted to see my wife. “Disband my army. Let most of these men go home to their loved ones. I want to do the same.”

  The returning victor, I travelled back toward London. Briefly, I halted at Salisbury once again, where I visited the House of the Greyfriars near the cathedral. I asked the brothers where they had deposited the corpse of Harry Stafford, and they showed me the older chest-tomb of some remote Stafford ancestor, marked out by a coat of arms carved amidst eroded weepers. The monks had shoved Harry inside the chest; he fit well enough in the cramped space with his severed head between his knees. The lid had been damaged when the monks pried it open for the new interment, so I sent for a stonemason to replace it with a new one of Purbeck marble. That was the last thing Buckingham, that untrue creature, would ever get from me….

  My business in Salisbury complete, my entourage then moved on to Sarum on the town’s outskirts, where some administration still took place within the crumbling ruins of the old castle. Once I had dealt with minor business there, I hastened towards Winchester, following the old Roman road through Ford and past Clarendon Palace which, like Sarum, was slowly falling into dilapidation. The last works there taken place at the height of Harry Six’s long reign, and it was there his madness first took hold of him.

  I did halt briefly, just to look at this palace raised by my Plantagenet ancestors, but the broken crimson roof tiles, the empty treasury, the overgrown grounds, struck me with a sense of desolation—here, I sensed the passage of time, the loss that came eventually to all men, no matter how great their works.

  In silence, I walked through the empty, echoing Antioch Chamber and the King’s chapel with its circular tiles in rich gold and emerald green, then through the deserted Queen’s chapel with its ghost-white marble altar, and the Queen’s apartments, lit only by light streaking through delicate grisaille glass. Outside the wind rushed through the dark trees of a surrounding forest; feeling ill at ease, I did not linger, but pressed onward, leaving the abandoned palace behind me.

  Winchester, however, was different. Although the town had declined since the plague of last century, the castle held its eminence: a huge fortress built over Roman ruins, with walls ten feet thick, impenetrable by ram or sapper. The Round Table of King Arthur sat in the centre of the Great Hall on twelve stout oaken legs, and as I viewed that roundel of painted wood, darkened by the smoke of many fires and polished by the touch of many hands, I swore I would endeavour to administer justice in the manner of that ancient king of great repute. Tydder might posture, claiming he was Arthur’s descendant; I would make no such ludicrous claim, but would act as Arthur might, stern as a king must be but just to the weak, the poor, and to women folk.

  There at Winchester, resting in the winter-bitten Queen’s garden under a weak and watery sun, I shrugged off the recent evils and began my chosen task of administering justice and law. Learning of a chief clerk from the office of the Privy Seal who had bribed his way into his job, I sent out orders that he be discharged from his duties and his position given to the most accomplished of the subordinate clerks, a man lauded for his experience and honesty.

  It was a small step, but it was a beginning. Always I would try to root out the corruption that seemed to permeate all levels of society from high to low…

  At the same time, I arranged for Buckingham’s wife, Catherine, to travel unmolested with her children from Vaughan’s holding at Tretower to London. She was a Woodville, Dame Grey’s own sister, but I had no quarrel with her. Buckingham had loathed her; life with Harry must have often been unpleasant indeed. I settled Harry’s debts, which were many—he had been an extravagant man. The same was done for John Cheyney’s wife Florence; having met her at Edward’s court, I knew she was a virtuous and upright woman. She should not suffer merely because her loutish giant of a husband sided with the wrong men.

  With good deed to my credit, my heart was a fraction lighter when some days later the company pushed on to London, where I entered the city at Kennington to great rejoicing. Scarlet-clad, the Mayor and Aldermen marched out to greet me; horsemen clad in violet garments formed a splendid escort. As skies dimmed and a dull haze of snow frosted the roofs of the city, I rode through the thronged streets to the Wardrobe beside Blackfriars, a victorious monarch who had defeated his foes, who had stamped out rebellion.

  The next morning I sought out Bishop Russell and placed into his hands the precious Great Seal, wrapped carefully in its ancient bag of pliant leather. The lords of the realm gathered around, watching as the formal ceremony of handing over took place. As Russell took position of it, with all due reverence, I prayed the Seal
would not need to be used again anytime soon. That peace, blessed peace, would reign through Christmas of 1483 and ever after.

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  CHAPTER SIX: THE CASTLE OF CARE

  I lay abed with Anne in Westminster palace, luxuriating in the feel of warm clean cloth beneath my back and my wife’s smooth, naked flesh pressed against mine. The fire roared, crackled, making the walls sweat beneath their fine tapestries. Winds sang outside, rattling the shutters, seeking to infiltrate my warmth, my pleasure.

  And I had found much pleasure that night. The joy of the Londoners at my arrival had served to lighten my mood, thawing that icy block that had frozen my heart after Harry Stafford’s betrayal. Joyous (and slightly inebriated) I had swept my Queen to the bedchamber and celebrated the taking of Buckingham’s head by taking my wife until we both were sated and sore.

  “How is my son?” I asked after our lovemaking was over, turning over in the bed with my arm behind my head. “Why he not here? It is nearly Christmas.”

  “When word of Buckingham’s rebellion reached me at Middleham,” Anne murmured sleepily, her eyes darkened from passion, her lips slightly swollen from hard use by my mouth, “I set guards around the castle and left at once for London on my own. I would not have dared to bring little Ned with me. What if Buckingham’s men ambushed us on the road, or there were traitors amongst those we trusted? He could have been taken prisoner and swept away to a place of unknown confinement, just like young Edward…”

  A shadow swept over her face. “Richard,” Anne whispered, “The rumours. About the boys. Are they true? What is the truth? I know this may not be the best time…”

  Coldness washed over me; it felt like freezing water had been flung over my loins. Up until now, I had only told my wife what I felt I must. “It is not the right time but as I do not know if there will ever be a ‘right time’, I will speak bluntly. Edward is dead. Starved to death in my Lord of Buckingham’s care.”