I, Richard Plantagenet: Book Two: Loyaulte Me Lie

by J. P. Reedman

  I wanted Edward Plantagenet, my son, to remain hidden, and at peace, near his home at Middleham, until I came to fetch him to lie in a mausoleum where I myself would lie one day until the End of Days.

  Anne and I decided to leave Middleham a short time after the hasty burial of little Ned. Feverishly I dealt with disputes and necessary household business, sent missives to my ministers in London—and settled the numerous accounts made in Edward’s name. With heavy heart, I arranged a pension for his old wet-nurse Isabel Burgh, and made provisions for Agnes Cooper, Jane Collins and Anne Idley, mistress of the nursery, who had used her deceased husband Peter’s book, Instructions to His Son, to teach Ned manners and wisdom.

  Anne Idley and Isabel Burgh had been with the household right from Edward’s birth, and I felt great tenderness towards the pair of them. Once I had even assisted Mistress Idley when Peter Idley’s children from his first marriage withheld monies due to her, for I thought their stance unfair and she was a dutiful woman who deserved better. I always stood up for those who supported me, be they knight or serving woman.

  “Oh your Grace,” Anne Idley went on her knees, weak and trembling, and kissed my ring, “if only I could have done more, I would have died for him, you know. My poor little Lord…” She sobbed hoarsely.

  “Hush, Mistress Idley, it was God’s will,” I told her in a quiet voice. “Do not fret, I know you did all that you can, and I hold no one at Middleham accountable for the Prince’s demise. Pray for his soul, Anne; that is all that I ask of you.”

  “Will you return to Middleham soon, your Grace?” she asked anxiously, her rheumy eyes scanning my face. “We know you have great business in London to attend you now that you are king, but we are still your most loyal folk from before and miss your presence sorely…”

  “I do not know, Mistress,” I murmured. “As in all things, it is in God’s hands.”

  But as our cavalcade rode out of the gatehouse, baggage trains groaning, heading north in the direction of Durham, I suddenly drew rein on my horse and sat gazing back at my castle, resting in the cup of the vale with the old earthen fort behind it and the trees dark on the rise like a row of marching soldiers.

  Where once on a long-gone, magical evening I had seen it wrapped in twilight’s fairy glamour, like an elf-touched vision of Camelot—now, beneath a sullen and weeping sky, it merely looked grey and cheerless and unwelcoming, a dead place, a tomb ringed by towers of adamant, where hope would never come again.

  A place where my heart had once been and where, at the last, I had entombed it in loss and despair.

  I turned my face away, stared out at the road ahead, winding into the rain-misted distance. My path lay elsewhere. In that dark and dismal moment, I knew within my heart of hearts I would never return to Middleham as living man.

  We halted at Barnard castle for several nights and when the party pressed on, Anne remained at the fortress to rest and to oversee the needs of the household. I continued through the bleak countryside to Durham where I spent a few days in contemplative prayer in the shrine of Saint Cuthbert, feeling my thin knees meld into the warped floor where so many generations of men, both high and low, had knelt in worship.

  Durham had always been amongst my favourite places and Cuthbert a favourite saint, so I was pleased on this occasion to bestow upon the cathedral my parliamentary robe. Bishop John Shirwood, with whom I was on good terms, was in Rome and hence could not be there to accept it himself, but word of my gift would be sent abroad. The robe was a fine one, wrought from deep blue velvet, broidered with snarling golden lions and with white sunbursts stitched round the hem. It would be a useful present, not to be kept in a chest as some relic, but perhaps cut up to make draperies for Cuthbert’s shrine or to fashion a cope for the bishop to wear.

  In the nearby castle, I dined in private with Francis who had accompanied me to Durham. I told him about the robe.

  He eyed me with perplexity. “But Dickon, you will need a robe when Parliament next opens.”

  I nodded. “Yes, I will have another made. An even finer one.”

  He frowned. “You have heard the Treasurer’s reports, I have no doubt.”

  “Yes,” I said with an odd cheerfulness. “I am running out of money. Thank you, Edward Woodville, where ever you be; I wish I had smitten off your treacherous head with my sword instead of knighting you in Scotland.”

  Frank burst out laughing. “Maybe you will get your chance. When…if…Tudor invades.”

  I sipped at my wine, sweet with spices. “As for the money, I will find a way. My court must not look poor and impoverished, Frank. That is essential. If I were to be seen in dour clothes and with frugal meals upon the table, it would not go well for me. I know there are a hundred rumourmongers out at court eager to discredit me with any kind of stupid gossip. I would be called the ‘king of misery’ or some such slur; they would say I only came out at night like a bat and drank the blood of babes…”

  I shut my mouth at that point, saw Francis’s face redden. Though the rumours about the princes had abated slightly, the fact of their disappearance always hovered in the background, waiting to burst to the fore with little encouragement. Did the great of the land truly care what became of two boys of dubious legitimacy, be they of royal blood or no? Of course not. But they certainly cared about feathering their own nests, and about old loyalties and family ties, and many were still tied to the House of Lancaster, for all that they had sworn fealty to my brother while he lived. Now, they thought, was their opportunity to oust York again and the disappearance of Ned’s sons would be their excuse.

  While there was breath in my body, it would not happen.

  We journeyed on from Durham to Scarborough with its stark, high keep dominating a high cliff that faced the raging North Sea. A Roman lighthouse once stood at the farthest end of the outer ward; I had modern beacons set there ready for lighting should the Scots invade, for as usual, there was political tumult in Scotland and more bloody incursions over the Border. Henry Percy had repelled these raids, but I knew I had to push forward toward Scotland again, to impress upon them that my earlier campaigns were not to be forgotten or scorned; that Berwick was eternally England’s and that alliances must be made in good faith to ensure peace reigned.

  In Scarborough harbour, where gulls wheeled and screamed and fishing boats bobbed, I oversaw the arming of a great fleet, which would be ready to sail at short notice. There were dozens of ships like floating fortresses, with towered fore and aftcastles and guns bristling from the lower gun-ports, and many less impressive but hardier Ballingers, which could hold about fifty soldiers ready for swift disembarkation. If it came to it, I would sail with the fleet myself to show the Scots that Richard of Gloucester, who had bloodlessly taken Edinburgh, was equally determined and warlike as King.

  Not just ships held my interest in Scarborough. If I was preparing war, I had to make the town safe in the event of retaliatory attacks. A bulwark was constructed along the harbour front, and the crumbling defences strengthened or replaced, complete with pointed turrets where archers could be stationed. Newborough dyke was refortified and its gate, which faced onto the road to York, heavily rebuilt. I ordered repairs to gaps and cracks in the castle’s curtain walls—and more besides, for the place was old and antiquated, draughty and damp from constant batterings of storms and sea-spume.

  If I had to spend much time in Scarborough, I would want Anne to come to me and I would not subject her to such an unhealthy environment in her present frail state. Even I found the roar of the sea and the chill of the wind too much on those heights; so as my masons worked day and night, bringing in cartfuls of stone from local quarries, I dwelt at the seafront townhouse of a merchant named Thomas Sage, and sent orders to the castle masons for better lighting and more luxurious chambers, for proper privies with wooden seats, not some open chute that plummeted down the cliffside, taking away the waste but blasting one’s arse and the entire room with frigid northern winds!

  Onc
e the shipwrights and masons were embroiled in their tasks and labouring manfully under the keen eyes of my servants, I took horse and rode south again, to Sheriff Hutton, York and hence to Pontefract where I was expecting ambassadors from Brittany.

  We needed to have a little chat about a certain Henry Tydder …

  High on its rock, Pontefract shimmered in a heat haze. The cold spring, with its awful legacy of death had ended, but the summer was nigh as uncomfortable—sweltering hot, with little breeze and clouds of black flies that bit and irritated. Beneath my long, heavy robe, my skin crawled and I had to refrain from scratching. How I wished I could hurl off this heavy garb and walk about in my shirt like some peasant, but that could never be; it would be seen as shocking, and there was the deformity of my shoulder to consider. Nonetheless, I was so uncomfortable it was as if I wore a hair shirt beneath my garments.

  A hair shirt… Chewing my lip, I glanced out one of the windows towards the chapel of St Clement. That was where Anthony Woodville lay, headless, with his nephew Richard Grey and Thomas Vaughan their follower. Woodville had worn a hair shirt on the day of his execution; it had been transported, somewhat mysteriously, to the Shrine of Our Lady in Doncaster, where it was hung up like some kind of saint’s object for people to marvel at.

  A sign of his Godliness, his admirers claimed. A sign of his guilt, more like. If I were found dead with such a shirt upon my meagre and twisted frame, would they accord me the saintliness of Rivers? I doubted it very much.

  Scowling, I gave one final scratch beneath my arm. A page had come to announce that the Bretons were in the Great Hall, waiting for my presence. Gathering my kingly dignity, I emerged from my chambers and entered the hall, which had been swept clean and filled with herbs that would hopefully drive away some of the summer bugs. So far, it was not working.

  I sat upon my chair of estate, a canopy of cloth of gold stretching over me. A trumpet blared, its flat notes echoing down the corridors of the great castle and aggravating the slight headache beginning to form behind my eyes.

  There was a rustle of fabric, a tramp of well-shod feet, and the Breton delegation entered the Hall. Their leader, Pierre Landois, approached my seat and bowed deeply. Although his name was very French, he had the look of a Breton about him, which was very like the look of many Welshmen—stocky and broad chested and with curling dark brown hair, and shrewd eyes in a broad, sun-licked face. Although a man of high rank in his native land, it was rumoured that he was much despised at home.

  “Greetings, my lord Pierre.” I fixed him with a languid gaze, trying to get the measure of him. Bretons could be nigh as crafty as the Welsh, I had heard. “I trust his Grace, Duke Francis is well?”

  Pierre Landois licked his rather full red lips. “Alas, Highness, no, he is not. He has suffered from great illness, rendering him nigh incapable…”

  “Truly?” My brows rose. “So tell me more, if you will. What is it? An ague?”

  Pierre looked even more uncomfortable. “He, ah…he does not know himself, your Grace. Not for most of his waking hours.”

  “Oh! Mad like old Harry Six then!” I said more gleefully than was perhaps polite. In fact, I was being downright rude, but I was angry that Duke Francis had sheltered Tydder for so long. “He is not related to him, is he? Old Harry seems to have inherited his madness from his grandfather Charles, who believed he was made of glass and would shatter if touched! A lot of that sort of affliction over your side of the Channel, it seems. Do you agree, my lord?”

  Landois looked sour. He could do naught but agree for fear of causing offence and he knew it. “Yes, your Grace,” he muttered flatly. I glanced over; saw Frank Lovell standing to the right of my chair of estate, trying to contain his amusement.

  “And speaking of France and the French, you are best placed to tell me what’s going on, since Brittany is no friend of France. So, now that the Spider’s gone, they have a boy-king on the throne.”

  “Aye, Charles VIII, your Grace.”

  “Child kings…never good for the country.”

  “No, my lord King. Much fighting is going on in the French court. The boy-king’s sister, Anne, Lady of Beaujeu, is regent but her position is not secure. The Houses of Bourbon and Orleans are at odds and it is not impossible the child may be toppled from his throne and another claim it.”

  “Interesting, Landois.” Mind working feverishly, I stroked my chin. “This strife within France could be beneficial to us. However, I have met this princess, Anne of Beaujeu, and although our meeting was brief, she seemed a woman of steely resolve, even in youth. I fear she will cling grimly to her position and defend her brother’s throne to the death. When we were introduced, long ago at Amiens, I could see within her eyes that she would always be an enemy of England.”

  “I believe you are correct, your Grace,” agreed Landois. “She is as wily as her father but less inclined to play his games. She does not spin a web; she pounces instead. The French believe that because you were opposed to the Treaty of Picquigny, you want to play the part of a new Henry V and invade them…”

  “An intriguing prospect!” I said, nodding. “The idea has a certain appeal.”

  He shuffled his feet and looked almost hopeful. The Bretons would support such a move, which would remove pressure from their borders—but they were probably unwilling to help with arms and soldiers.

  “Let us not talk anymore about the French!” I said, when nothing was forthcoming about our countries joining forces for an invasion of France. “They bring more trouble to you than to me, truth be told…but what brings trouble to me is one Henry Tydder or Tudor, who has long been enjoying the hospitality of Duke Francis of Brittany, along with his uncle, Jasper Tudor, and a mob of declared rebels.”

  Pierre Landois cleared his throat. “With respect, your Grace, this is hardly a new thing. Your esteemed brother, King Edward…”

  “I know I know!” I snapped. “But when my brother ruled, it seemed Duke Francis kept a good eye on Tydder and kept him in his place. Now the arrogant little turd threatens to invade England, has even had his followers kneel and swear fealty to him in Vannes Cathedral, as if he were already King!”

  “What would you have us do, Highness?” Landois held out his hands imploringly.

  “Watch him and do not allow him to carry out treasonous activities against me!” I barked. Landois jumped. “If you cannot seize him and hand him over to me, then at least watch him as was done in my brother’s day!”

  Pierre Landois took a deep breath. “Brittany is in hard times, your Grace, what with Duke Francis ailing, but I will speak with the Duke and with other advisors. I am certain something can be arranged. However…” he licked his thick, salt-cracked lips once more, “we would need something from you too, Dread Lord. In return.”

  “I thought you might say that.” My laugh was cynical. “Listen, come close, and hear what I have to offer.”

  Landois drew closer to my high seat, looking distinctly nervous. “We will become allies, Pierre; I will have a peace treaty written up, lasting until next April, providing all are happy with the agreement and none of its strictures have been breached. No more piracy, no raiding, no more fighting out at sea like last winter. We lost too many ships and good men and so did you. As an addition to these terms, and in return for the containment of Henry Tydder, I will also agree to send you a thousand archers to help Brittany fight the French. How does that sound, Landois? A thousand stout English archers to fight your cause. You know they’re good.”

  The man’s dark face brightened. “You are most generous, your Grace. For such magnanimity and generosity, and for continuance of such, I am certain…I might even be able to obtain Henry Tudor for you.”

  “Excellent!” I folded my hands on my lap.

  Lord God, please let me get hold of that pretender who needles me at a time when I need no more aggravation!

  I have never been a fate-blessed man, my victories in life hard bought…but it would seem my rival Henry Tydder was
born beneath a lucky star. No sooner had Landois returned to Brittany, intent on bringing my foe to heel, than Tydder got wind of his plans. Bishop Morton, hiding in exile in Burgundy and as wily as Satan, managed to find out about the plot and sent his minion Urswick to warn the pretender of impending arrest. Jasper Tydder was the first to dash for freedom, slipping over the borders of Anjou after pretending he was merely on his way to speak with Duke Francis. Henry separated from his uncle and hid in the woods like some craven, dressed in a servant’s garb (it would not have surprised me had he dressed as a girl!), until he saw an opening to dash for Anjou too.

  “I am cursed!” I shouted, kicking the leg of a chair within my chamber in York castle. It hurt my foot more than in hurt the chair.

  Francis looked at me helplessly. “We will get him yet, Dickon. Fear not.”

  “The threat of invasion, the threat to my crown; it could have all be sorted in an instant had Landois just been quicker. Bah, and of course the French are fawning over the Pretender! Do you know what they say, Frank…do you know?”

  “What?” his fair brows lifted. “What do they say?”

  “That he is a true Lancastrian heir! That he is a hitherto unknown son of old Harry Six!”

  Francis spluttered on the wine he had just imbibed. Droplets speckled his fine crimson doublet. “What? They are saying that the mad old man who thought the Holy Ghost brought his one son was joined in lustful congress with Margaret Beaufort? What a hideous image that brings to the mind! Surely you jest!”

  “I do not. They cry it in the streets or so my spies say.”

  “And Henry allows it, goes along with it? He lets them say he is a bastard, albeit a royal Lancastrian bastard? He permits them to slander his sainted mother?”